No Immunity

bargain.
    If she’d had Tchernak here, there would be no problem, all right, because Tchernak would have made such a stink about entering the mortuary that she’d still be in here arguing with him.
    She glanced past Jesse out the window. No movement yet. She’d better be able to mend this fence fast. “Jesse, you’ve caught me at a bad moment. Can I buy you a drink?”
    His sallow face twisted downward. A high whine cut through his words as he muttered, “I don’t drink anymore.”
    “Oh, right.” The edge to her voice was sharp. No one was going to mistake that for charm. She didn’t have time to coddle a whiner. “So, Jesse, about the car?”
    “Ford pickup. Five hundred, but I’ve changed my mind.”
    She jammed her teeth together. It was a moment before she could trust her voice. “So you don’t need the money anymore?”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “It’s great not to have debts.”
    Jesse’s friends guffawed. Jesse glared. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean? You think I don’t pay my debts?”
    “Hell, we know you don’t!” The guys laughed louder. From the bar two couples eased closer.
    Ignoring them, Jesse glowered at Kiernan.
    “You could sell her the car and your house and you’d still be in the red, man.” A guy at the table nudged an elbow toward him, sending all the friends off on another round of guffaws.
    “Yeah, right,” Jesse growled to her. “No point. I get zilch.”
    Kiernan inhaled slowly through clenched nostrils. Connie leaned forward. Before she could speak, Kiernan said, “You get to pay off your debts, and not be known as a loser. You get integrity.” She let a moment pass before adding, “I assume that’s why you decided to sell your car.”
    “Integrity, yeah, you could use some of that, Jess.”
    Jesse flushed.
    Kiernan looked at his wavering gaze. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. And his type of whiner could sit here till dawn making up his damn mind. Across the street something was moving, she couldn’t make out what.
    Tchernak, of course... No, Tchernak would be boxed in now. There’d be no goad that a guy twice Jesse’s size could use. But she, on the other hand, had a chance. “If I were a guy, Jesse, I’d say we arm-wrestle for it.”
    “Yeah, well, if you were a guy, I’d take you on and have you flat on the table before you knew you’d lost.”
    “Hey, man, you can’t turn that down.”
    “I’ll put ten bucks on... on her.”
    Jesse’s “Oh yeah?” was almost lost in the howls of his buddies.
    “Yeah.” Kiernan sat back, brow winkled to show thought. “You serious?”
    “ ‘Course I’m serious. I mean, if you were a guy.”
    “Okay,” she said slowly. “But how about we make it more even. How’re you on sit-ups? You think you can take me? I’ve got to be straight with you, I did gymnastics when I was a kid. I’ve got good muscles.”
    His gaze dropped to her stomach. He didn’t answer. She put her wallet on the table. “Five hundred. If I lose, it’s yours. If I win, I get the car and the cash is still yours. You can’t beat that.”
    Murmurs of agreement came from the table behind. Jesse tapped his teeth together.
    She checked the window again. Definitely movement, definitely men. Still across the street.
    It was Connie who broke the deadlock. “Jesse?”
    “Yeah, okay. Where’s your money?”
    “Five says Jesse takes the little lady.”
    “Covered, man. You know what Jess had for dinner?” Neither man across the street was Fox, but they had the look of deputies. Who else could they be? Maybe Fox figured the saloon was the last place she’d go. Even so, he’d be in here to tell citizens to keep an eye out. At the rate things were going here, by the time side bets were made and drinks poured and more bets laid, the Las Vegas bus would be sitting at the curb. She lowered her voice under the growing buzz from the other table.
    She counted out the five hundred dollars. “Let me see the truck.”
    “It’s out back, around the corner.”
    “Okay—”
    The two men, definitely deputies, were crossing the street, headed for the saloon door.

CHAPTER 28

    Reston Adcock stood , staring at the receiver he had just put down. Put, not slammed, he was not a slammer. There had been plenty of times while he was working for Amoco or Texaco, Betaco, or one of the other Ocos, when his muscles had ached to slam the phone not just down but into some guy’s head. Even then, with the company snatching his ideas