Joe and Callie. Joe's gaze was steady as he returned the man's stare. Go ahead, Joe's eyes dared, make your move.
Finally Arno let go of the phone and moved his band to his inside coat pocket. "No," he said, "I don't think that will be necessary. But the question is, now that I have you, what do I do with you?"
Now who's bluffing, Joe wondered. Does he have a gun? Joe's whole body went tense, ready to leap across the desk and crash into the promoter at the first glimpse of a concealed weapon.
"I guess you could just shoot us." Joe smiled, raising the stakes. "But that would be too messy, wouldn't it? Too many loose ends. Too many questions."
"What are you talking about?" Arno replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I don't suppose either of you has a light? No, you wouldn't. Nobody does anymore. This is the only place I can smoke without being nagged." He gave them a foul look.
"But we weren't talking about my bad habits, were we? We were talking about murder, I believe. And you were just about to tell me why I would want to shoot you."
"You probably wouldn't," Joe said. "Shooting isn't your style. Accidents are more convenient, aren't they?"
"Ah, that's it," Arno said, laughing. "You and your girlfriend are slinking around playing junior detective. You think Angus McCoy was the victim of foul play, and I'm the closest thing you have to a suspect. You came here looking for evidence and tore the place apart when you couldn't find anything."
"I told you we didn't ransack your office," Joe snapped. "And I think I have a pretty good idea why you would like to see McCoy dead." Joe was tightly gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. He leaned over to look directly into Arno's face—and accidentally pushed one of the ' file folders onto the floor.
It landed with a soft plop, and Joe glanced down at the noise. Nice move, Joe, he said to himself. Brilliant timing.
The label on the file read "McCoy, Angus."
A hand reached down and picked up the folder. "Find any worthwhile reading in here?" Arno asked, opening the file and sorting through the contents.
"We weren't looking for anything," Callie insisted. "We were just — "
"I know, I know," Arno interrupted. "You were just passing by." He took a key ring out of his coat pocket and unlocked the top desk drawer. He casually pulled out a gun and leveled it at Callie. "And I'm sure you're both quite anxious to leave. But would you mind if I search you before you go? Something seems to be missing, and I don't like it when people walk off with my property."
Joe mentally kicked himself. He had let Arno's quick routine lull him into letting down his guard. CalIie opened her purse slowly. "There's no 1 for that, Mr. Arno," she said, removing the crumpled insurance policy. "I think this is what u're looking for." The promoter reached for the document with his free hand, but Callie let go of the paper just before he grasped it, and it fluttered to the floor. Arno stooped down to pick it up, and his aim wavered slightly.
Joe moved like lightning. Still clutching the side of the desk, he heaved it up and over on top of Arno. Then he slammed all his weight into it, Pinning the man down.
"Oof!" the promoter grunted as the weapon flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. "Grab the gun!" Joe shouted to Callie. "Ugh," Callie replied, carefully lifting the automatic pistol. "I hate these things." She looked at Joe. "Now what?" "I'll hold him while you call the police," Joe said.
"Great idea," Callie said. "Where's the phone?"
"Down here," a muffled voice came from underneath the overturned desk. "I'd make the call myself if the thing were still working. I guess it wasn't designed to have large pieces of furniture dropped on it. Come to think of it," Arno said, "neither was I. How about letting me out from under here? I think we can clear up this whole misunderstanding."
"Only after you hand me that insurance policy," Joe demanded.
Arno stuck out his
Finally Arno let go of the phone and moved his band to his inside coat pocket. "No," he said, "I don't think that will be necessary. But the question is, now that I have you, what do I do with you?"
Now who's bluffing, Joe wondered. Does he have a gun? Joe's whole body went tense, ready to leap across the desk and crash into the promoter at the first glimpse of a concealed weapon.
"I guess you could just shoot us." Joe smiled, raising the stakes. "But that would be too messy, wouldn't it? Too many loose ends. Too many questions."
"What are you talking about?" Arno replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I don't suppose either of you has a light? No, you wouldn't. Nobody does anymore. This is the only place I can smoke without being nagged." He gave them a foul look.
"But we weren't talking about my bad habits, were we? We were talking about murder, I believe. And you were just about to tell me why I would want to shoot you."
"You probably wouldn't," Joe said. "Shooting isn't your style. Accidents are more convenient, aren't they?"
"Ah, that's it," Arno said, laughing. "You and your girlfriend are slinking around playing junior detective. You think Angus McCoy was the victim of foul play, and I'm the closest thing you have to a suspect. You came here looking for evidence and tore the place apart when you couldn't find anything."
"I told you we didn't ransack your office," Joe snapped. "And I think I have a pretty good idea why you would like to see McCoy dead." Joe was tightly gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. He leaned over to look directly into Arno's face—and accidentally pushed one of the ' file folders onto the floor.
It landed with a soft plop, and Joe glanced down at the noise. Nice move, Joe, he said to himself. Brilliant timing.
The label on the file read "McCoy, Angus."
A hand reached down and picked up the folder. "Find any worthwhile reading in here?" Arno asked, opening the file and sorting through the contents.
"We weren't looking for anything," Callie insisted. "We were just — "
"I know, I know," Arno interrupted. "You were just passing by." He took a key ring out of his coat pocket and unlocked the top desk drawer. He casually pulled out a gun and leveled it at Callie. "And I'm sure you're both quite anxious to leave. But would you mind if I search you before you go? Something seems to be missing, and I don't like it when people walk off with my property."
Joe mentally kicked himself. He had let Arno's quick routine lull him into letting down his guard. CalIie opened her purse slowly. "There's no 1 for that, Mr. Arno," she said, removing the crumpled insurance policy. "I think this is what u're looking for." The promoter reached for the document with his free hand, but Callie let go of the paper just before he grasped it, and it fluttered to the floor. Arno stooped down to pick it up, and his aim wavered slightly.
Joe moved like lightning. Still clutching the side of the desk, he heaved it up and over on top of Arno. Then he slammed all his weight into it, Pinning the man down.
"Oof!" the promoter grunted as the weapon flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. "Grab the gun!" Joe shouted to Callie. "Ugh," Callie replied, carefully lifting the automatic pistol. "I hate these things." She looked at Joe. "Now what?" "I'll hold him while you call the police," Joe said.
"Great idea," Callie said. "Where's the phone?"
"Down here," a muffled voice came from underneath the overturned desk. "I'd make the call myself if the thing were still working. I guess it wasn't designed to have large pieces of furniture dropped on it. Come to think of it," Arno said, "neither was I. How about letting me out from under here? I think we can clear up this whole misunderstanding."
"Only after you hand me that insurance policy," Joe demanded.
Arno stuck out his
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