Tom-Tom Carey saw the gun go up. The swarthy man fired twice. Jack Counihan was dead at my feet.
Mickey Linehan fired once. Carey was down on the floor, bleeding from the temple.
I stepped over Jack’s body, went into the room, knelt beside the swarthy man. He squirmed, tried to say something, died before he could get it out. I waited until my face was straight before I stood up.
Big Flora was studying me with narrowed gray eyes. I stared back at her.
“I don’t get it all yet,” she said slowly, “but if you—”
“Where’s Angel Grace?” I interrupted.
“Tied to the kitchen table,” she informed me, and went on with her thinking aloud. “You’ve dealt a hand that—”
“Yeah,” I said sourly, “I’m another Papadopoulos.”
Her big body suddenly quivered. Pain clouded her handsome brutal face. Two tears came out of her lower eyelids.
I’m damned if she hadn’t loved the old scoundrel!