Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

don’t tell me right now, I’m going to fuck you a few times, then cut your throat. There won’t be a second chance, so you’d better get it right the first time. Go.”
    “All right,” she said. “All I have is a new phone number. He called only a few minutes ago.” She gave him the number.
    “Where does he live?”
    “He told me that when he left Shutters he was going to find a place in Santa Monica. The last time I talked to him, he said he had found a place, but he wouldn’t tell me where. He’s very cautious.”
    “I told you there wouldn’t be a second chance,” he said, pressing the sharp blade to her face.
    “I swear to you, that’s all he would tell me. He wants me to come to L.A. on Friday, but we’ll meet at a restaurant, the way we did last time, then go to his place. He’ll call me en route with the name of the restaurant.”
    He squeezed her throat. “There’s something else. Tell me.”
    “That’s all I know, I swear it.”
    “When do you leave on Friday?”
    “At four.”
    “Pick me up in front of the hotel. I’ll ride down to L.A. with you.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    “Don’t bother going to Genaro,” he said. “Genaro sent me. You’re being watched. Fuck with us, and you’re a dead girl. Do you understand?”
    She nodded.
    He got up, walked to the door, and left the room, without another word.
    Charmaine opened the bedside drawer and removed a .25 caliber pistol that she was licensed to carry in Nevada. She ran to the door, opened it, and looked up and down the hall. He was gone. She closed the door and found her throwaway cell phone but stopped before making the call. If the man hadn’t been lying, her room might be bugged; her car, too. There might even be a camera.
    She took a few deep breaths, dried her hair, got dressed, and went to work, as usual. All evening she gave a performance, one that said everything was normal. She smiled at Genaro when she saw him on the floor, and he smiled back.
    She had to hang on until Friday, she thought; she had to keep it together. If they were watching, she would betray nothing. But on Friday, she would be wearing that red scarf.

Teddy was working on a Winchester 73 when his boss, Jim Garver, came into the workroom, pulled up two chairs, sat down in one and offered Teddy the other.
    “I’m impressed with your work,” Jim said. “How’d you like to come to work full-time here?”
    “I don’t know, Jim, I’ve just retired from thirty years in my own business, and I’m having a good time. I’m happy to help you out from time to time, but I don’t want to commit to a full-time job.”
    “Here’s my problem,” Jim said. “I’ve got more than two thousand weapons here, and a lot of them are old and in the same shape as the Winchesters. What I’d like to do is to overhaul every single one of them, and I think you’re the man to do that.”
    “Tell you what, Jim, when I finish the Winchesters I’ll draw up a plan in writing for overhauling your stock, and I’ll make a start on it, but part-time. You start looking for a good gunsmith, and I’ll help you evaluate applicants by working side by side with them until you find the right guy. But—and I know this is a big but—I’ll set my own hours and work at my own pace, and you can pay me by the hour—fifty dollars per—instead of by the weapon.”
    “You’ve got yourself a deal,” Jim said, offering his hand. “I’ll get you some new credentials that will make it easier for you to move around the lot. I’ll throw in free meals at the commissary, too.”
    Teddy shook his hand.
    •   •   •
    Mike Freeman was having lunch in the commissary with Peter Barrington, having completed a private tour of Centurion Studios, which he had greatly enjoyed. They were finishing their lunch when a man came into the commissary and was waved over by Peter.
    “Billy,” Peter said, “we’re leaving shortly, but if you’d like to sit down, you can keep our table.”
    “Thank you, Peter,” Teddy said, and sat down. A waitress brought a menu and he ordered the daily special.
    “I’m sorry,” Peter said, “I didn’t introduce Mike Freeman. Mike, this is Billy Barnett.”
    The two men shook hands.
    “Mike is a friend of my father’s,” Peter explained. He put his napkin down. “Mike, will you excuse me? I’ve got to be back at the bungalow for a meeting. You finish your lunch.”
    “Thank you, Peter,” Mike said. He stood and shook the younger