Shotgun Charlie by Ralph Compton

banging his drum about forever. But he was in for a surprise.
    â€œIt occurs to the council,” the big blowhard had said when he’d walked in, “that you might want to begin, um, enjoying your life more than you have these past few years. It occurs to the council that you—”
    And that was when Wickham had stopped them, slammed his silver-knobbed walking stick on the council’s new, long, polished mahogany meeting table.
    â€œApparently,” Wickham had said, eyeing each of the grubbing bastards individually, “the town of Bakersfield and its ‘leaders’ have grown right comfortable in the role of moneymaking business community. Any of you soft-handed women-boys give a lick of a thought as to why this town’s come to be regarded as such a friendly place for business people to come to? Hmm? Don’t think for a second I don’t know what you’re up to. Better yet, don’t even think.”
    Well, that had riled them up in good shape. They’d begun to gargle and gabble like a flock of outraged hens. Wickham had taken one last look at them all—he’d been right; chubby-faced fools, the lot of them—then snatched his walking stick off the table, noting with no small degree of pleasure that he’d rammed a solid gouge half a bullet long in their fine new piece of furniture—and headed for the door. They’d tried to stop him, the more spineless of them even having hurled out weak begging sounds. But it was McCafferty who’d finally paused Wickham, his hand on the brass doorknob.
    â€œDon’t you dare turn your back on me when I am talking to you! You are an employee of this town, of us, of me, you . . . old man!”
    That had done it. Dodd Wickham spun back around, pointed the business end of his custom walking stick—the weighted silver handle—straight at the pig of a man, at his fat face with its deep-set piggy eyes that stared at him in fear and rage all at once.
    â€œYou little whelp. I was a grown man laying low vile vermin when you were still soiling your short pants and suckling on a sugar teat! You ever speak to me that way again and you’ll wish you’d grown up different. And as for the question of my employment, now that I finally see without varnish what we’re dealing with here, I’d say I’m about finished with you and yours. And about time too.”
    And that time he had stalked out, not slamming the door as he’d intended, but letting them all wince in anticipation of it.

Chapter 10
    By the time Grady Haskell arrived in Bakersfield, it was nearly dark. He followed the main course down into town, a long affair brimming with pretty women, dapper-dressed men, cursed children, and horses, carts, wagons, buggies, and the odd stray cur threading through the people and horses’ legs.
    â€œHey, fella.” Grady beckoned to a passing fellow in a suit. The man stopped and regarded him. “Your town got a bank?”
    â€œYou are not from here, I take it.” The man looked Grady up and down as if assessing the purchase of a hunting dog and finding it lacked any redeeming qualities.
    Before the man walked out of hearing range, Grady said, “And thank the Good Lord above for that!” Instead of taking offense to the dandy’s comment, Grady found it amusing. Maybe it was the town, being in such a fine place full of promise. Maybe it was because he still had enough money in his coin purse for a room in a decent hotel, with plenty enough left over for drinks and food and a poke or two with a choice dove.
    Yes, sir, Grady felt certain this would be the town where all his dreams might well come true. Only thing he needed was a gang of dull-witted helpers who would do his bidding when they got out and away, all of them thinking happy thoughts about what all they were going to do with their money. Why, Grady would help them make that decision—by plugging them in the