Riders on the Storm by Ed Gorman

Counselor? ‘Sumptuous.’ I learned that byreading a lot of your friend Thibodeau’s books. That surprise you, that bad-ass Teddy Byrnes is a reader? Well I am. I even read Hemingway sometimes. I think you could use that in my defense. That I read a lot. That I’m not this terrible hood people need to be afraid of.” Byrnes was telling the truth. High IQ and a big reader.
    â€œBut I forgot what I was talking about. ‘Sumptuous.’ I see something sumptuous right now.” He shifted his gaze to Jamie. She was breathing nervously and staring straight ahead. His legend could do that to you. “I’ve been to every law firm in town but none of them has got a little gal like you do, Counselor.”
    The “Counselor” reference had triggered a memory I could not bring into focus. And then it was there. Robert Mitchum in
Cape Fear
, based on one of my favorite novels by John D. MacDonald, whom I’d been reading since sixth grade. Throughout the movie Mitchum mockingly refers to attorney Gregory Peck as “Counselor.”
    Teddy Byrnes was a movie fan.
    Then he did it. Advanced quickly on Jamie. He put his hands on her shoulders and was trying to spin her around in her desk chair so she’d face him fully. She screamed.
    I didn’t think. I acted.
    He was taller, thicker, stronger but I hit him in the side of the face anyway. And in the haze of those few seconds he landed at least six or seven punches on my head and chest and stomach, Jamie screaming all the time.
    As he charged out of the office he said: “We’ll meet again, you little asshole.”
    Now, sitting with Kenny….
    â€œTeddy Byrnes,” I said.
    â€œGuess he’s meaner than ever.”
    â€œThat’s hard to imagine. How he could be meaner.”
    â€œI’d be damned careful of him, Sam. Just stick to Lon Anders.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “That sounds like a very good idea. Just sticking to Lon Anders.”
    My bones still remembered the impact of Byrnes’s fists.

7
    T HE R EXALL D RUGSTORE WAS NOTABLE IN MY LIFE FOR A NUMBER of reasons. It was where their metal paperback rack provided a good share of my reading material, which ran to crime fiction of the Gold Medal Books variety. I’d grown up on writers such as Peter Rabe, Charles Williams, Vin Packer and Richard Prather. Not to mention Mickey Spillane. The sandwiches were very good, the coffee was strong and hot, and one of the sweetest, prettiest girls in the entire valley had worked there since we’d graduated from high school. No college for Mary. She had to work to support her father, who was struggling with cancer.
    She was always too modest to admit it but people liked to tell her that she looked very much like the actress Jean Simmons, that kind of gentle but riveting beauty. And she did even in the yellow uniform she wore every day.
    A man in a suit sitting a couple of stools from me said, “Mary, hon, keep the radio on, will you? I want to hear the senator’s press conference.”
    Knowing my political tastes, she glanced at me and said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Costello. It doesn’t start for another ten minutes yet.”
    She brought me coffee black and a small glazed donut. What she didn’t bring me was her usual smile and I didn’t blame her.
    â€œHi, Sam. How’ve you been?”
    â€œPretty good until last night.”
    â€œPoor Will and Karen.”
    At that Mr. Costello, who owned the haberdashery, snapped, “How about poor Steve Donovan?”
    â€œYou’re right, Mr. Costello. Of course, poor Steve Donovan. It’s just that I don’t believe that Will could kill anybody. Sam and I grew up with him.”
    â€œI know,” Mr. Costello snapped, “in the Hills.”
    We were both surprised by his anger. Red tinted Mary’s lovely face. I said, “Yeah, everybody who grew up in the Hills is a born killer.”
    â€œI