Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

looking at some papers, his legs crossed and bouncing lightly to Frank Sinatra playing on the record player behind him. He stared at Goat over his glasses.
    “You come to kill me?” Cassidy finally asked in his baritone voice, almost a bearlike rumble.
    Before Goat could answer, he heard the click of a hammer and felt a gun barrel pushing into the back of his head. “Careful how you answer,” the man behind him said. The man’s hand ran over Goat’s body until he found the Colt, which he pulled free.
    Cassidy kept his eyes trained on Goat. “You here to kill me?”
    Hoping his voice wasn’t cracking, Goat said, “If you murdered my friends, then I am going to kill you dead.”
    “That’s a powerful statement for a man in your predicament,” Cassidy said. Casually, he reached behind him and turned off the stereo; the record slid to a stop. Turning his attention to the man behind Goat, Cassidy said, “Give me the iron.”
    The man handed the Colt to Cassidy. Nodding toward the pistol in his hand, Cassidy said, “You don’t have any play left. Now, you listen — I had nothing to do with those four men’s deaths.”
    “Why should I believe you?” Goat asked.
    “I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not,” Cassidy said. “I’m telling you the facts. And you best worry if you’re going to walk out of here or get carried out.”
    “One more buried up here won’t make a difference,” the man behind Goat said, emphasizing his words with a push of the muzzle into Goat’s neck.
    Goat nodded once. “I don’t know if I believe you. But let me tell you one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You kill me, and I promise you hell’s coming.” Goat opened his hand to show a small whistle in his palm.
    “What the hell’s that?” Goat’s captor piped up from behind him.
    “In Vietnam, the Cong used whistles since their radios were so poor. It got to be when you heard one of these, you knew Charlie was coming.”
    “What’s that mean?” Cassidy asked cautiously.
    “That means John Lee Pettimore is somewhere close.” Goat heard the man behind him take a breath. Most people knew of crazy Johnny Lee. “If I don’t blow this whistle, he’ll be coming to kill every son of a bitch in here.”
    Cassidy looked at Goat for a moment.
    The man behind Goat said, “He’s bluffing.”
    Cassidy looked past Goat and the man behind him and said, “I don’t think so.” Slowly, he set the revolver on the coffee table. “He’s not bluffing.”
    “No, he’s not, son,” Johnny Lee said. Goat glanced over his shoulder. Standing in the open doorway was John Lee Pettimore decked out in camos and black face paint, a large Bren machine gun weighing heavy in his hands.
    “The plan was the whistle,” Goat said.
    “I don’t like waiting,” Johnny Lee said, grinning.
    Goat picked up the Colt from the table, tucked it back into his waistband, and asked Cassidy Lane, “You kill my friends?”
    “I had no reason to kill them men. Bad for business to draw attention.”
    “What about the old man not paying you to run liquor?”
    “Him running shine didn’t hurt me none,” Cassidy replied. “I liked the old man, and he brought me a case of his shine once a month. We respected each other. We had no fight.”
    “People said he wasn’t paying your tithe and you were mad.”
    Cassidy snorted.
    “What?”
    “Aaron,” the man said with a sneer. “He tells folks that.”
    “Grubbs?” Goat asked. “Why would your man say that?”
    “He doesn’t work for me anymore,” Cassidy said. “He’s going legit, running security for a mine.”
    “Which mine?” Goat asked, things already clicking into place.
    “The Blue Diamond,” Cassidy said. Goat saw his own epiphany reflected in Cassidy Lane’s face. “He’s trying to lay these murders on me. I’m going to kill him.”
    “No, you’re not,” Goat said. “I am.”
    Chapter 7
    The whole apartment on the third floor of the rooming house was lit up. Goat sat at the small kitchen table keeping company with a jelly glass of moonshine from a jar he’d found under the sink. The apartment was silent, but Goat thought echoes of the woman’s crying lingered in the air. Goat and Johnny Lee had left Kayjay Mountain driving like hell for town. Once the pieces came together, Goat saw the whole thing plainly. Just like if you stir up sand and water and then wait long enough, the particles settle and you can see right through. The picture was clear.
    The tan