"Scott Wolven - The Underdogs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolven Scott)

"I want you to help me take him in," Greg said. "We've got to deliver him to the US Marshall's office in Spokane." He paused, then continued. "I need a partner on this one. And I've seen you come in and out, you're a big, strong guy. I might need some backup." He lifted his vest slightly to show me he had pistol holstered at his waist. "In case things get touchy."

If it was Ed Hurd, five thousand dollars was a lot of stops at the package store. I stood. "So what do we do, partner?" He stood and stuck out his right hand and we shook.

He went out to his ugly truck and came back in with a small, almost flat nickel-plated pistol, a Beretta. He set it on the coffee table. "Strap that on yourself someplace where you can get to it fast," he said. "He's no girl scout. I've got a decent crowbar in the front seat, but you can really hurt your hand smacking somebody around with that thing. Better to wing 'em and let 'em bleed a little."

I checked the safety on the Beretta and slipped it into the pocket of my tan work coat. I laced up my boots, put my folding knife in the right pocket of my jeans and a pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. I put my work coat on. "Let's go," I said. We climbed into Greg's ugly truck, an old four-door Toyota Land Cruiser that he'd rigged with Plexiglas separating the front from the back like a cop car and the tires kicked rocks pulling onto the highway, headed right for town.

Greg spoke as we rode toward Main Street. "Okay," he said. "Benny owns the place, the diner - he and his family came from Mexico years ago, and I've known them a long time. He knows we're coming, I called him." We ran out of farm fields and now houses passed by on the side of the road. We were in town. Greg went on. "Anyway, if you're ever short cash, you can go in and have breakfast free. He'll trust you for it as long as he knows you're working." I nodded. It was a handy bit of information to have.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem," Greg answered. He turned down a side street and pulled into a parking lot. There were a couple pickup trucks and a few cars sitting in the sun. We were at the rear entrance to the diner. Greg got out of the truck and so did I.

"I'm going in the front," Greg said. "Stand back here and count ten, then go in. He's sitting along the wall, facing the main street and he's got a ball cap on." Greg checked his pistol. "You sit in front of him, I'll sit next to him. Then we'll get him out the back door and into the truck."

"Okay," I said.

We crossed the parking lot and Greg walked around the corner. I stood next to the back door of the diner and counted to ten. Then I pushed the door open and went in. Right away I saw the man he was talking about. A Mexican - Benny, I figured - gave me a nod from the corner of the kitchen by the grill. Greg walked in the front door, walked right down the aisle and sat down next to the man in the ball cap. I walked up the aisle from the back of the diner and sat across from both of them. The man stopped eating his eggs and looked up.

"Who the hell are you?" the man we thought was Ed Hurd said to Greg. He lifted his cup and drank a mouthful of brown coffee.

"Greg Newell," Greg said. "I'm a bounty hunter and this is my partner John Thorn. And you're Ed Hurd. We're taking you up to Spokane to the Marshall's."

The man we thought was Ed Hurd started to laugh. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, chuckling. He shook his head. "My name's Bill Glass." He paused. "You've got me confused with someone else." He stared, smiling, at Greg. He drank some coffee.

"No, I don't," Greg said. "You're Ed Hurd." Greg pulled the wanted poster out of his vest. He looked at it and looked at the man who called himself Bill Glass. Then he handed the poster over to me. I looked at it, and looked at Bill Glass. He looked like he might be Ed Hurd, but I couldn't be sure. The hair wasn't right. I handed the poster back to Greg.

The man calling himself Bill Glass started to slide on the vinyl seat, as if he were going to get out of the booth. He motioned at Greg to move. "Come on, move it," he said. "I'm leaving." He had a tattoo of a parrot on his right arm.

Greg looked back quickly at Mexican Benny working in the kitchen. "The only place you're going is out that back and into my truck." Greg nodded. He looked at the back door and then at the man next to him.

"You're crazy," the man we suspected of being Ed Hurd said.

"That's right," said Greg. "I'm nuts. But I don't see you yelling for the cops to get me off you, either." The silence was hot. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen.

"That's because I'm Bill Glass, I live right up the road, and we take care of our own problems out here." The man who referred to himself as Bill Glass tightened his jaw. "Let's go out back together and see what all this dick and grinnin' is about."

"Sure," said Greg. He slid off the vinyl booth seat and stood, waiting.

"When I get you outside," the angry man who was calling himself Bill Glass said, "I'm going to run your teeth along the curb." He slid off the vinyl booth seat and stood in front of Greg. The man who called himself Bill Glass was a little smaller than Greg, but had arms almost the same size. He looked mean. Greg looked soft next to him.

Greg nodded. "Sure. You give it a go," he said.

The diner patron who called himself Bill Glass reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He put it on the table and then walked toward the back door. Greg and I followed. The diner patron who called himself Bill Glass nodded to the Mexican man - Benny, I figured - in the kitchen and went out through the back door. He started to walk across the parking lot, heading for a dark blue pickup truck.

"Hey," Greg called to him. "What about my teeth and the curb?" The man who called himself Bill Glass got into a blue pickup truck he apparently owned or at least drove and started the engine.

Greg ran after him. The truck started to move forward and Greg shot the front driver's side tire, practically blew the rim off with his big magnum revolver. Now the truck was running on the rim, and Greg blew out the back driver's side tire. The pickup truck slammed into a parked station wagon.