Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) by Steve Ulfelder

guy who looked like an ex-boxer had stepped from the club. He was now wearing, but hadn’t zipped, a black Windbreaker.
    He stared at my truck.
    He made eye contact with me and mouthed my license number twice.
    He stepped to the driver’s-side rear corner of Teddy’s Geländewagen. There was nothing but thirty yards of empty street between us and him.
    He set hands on hips, pushing the Windbreaker back a few inches.
    He had a goddamn cannon tucked in his waistband.
    â€œJesus Christ,” Randall said. “Desert Eagle, maybe the .50-caliber model. I’m surprised his pants stay up.”
    I drove away, right past the man.
    He tracked us with his eyes. When we eased by, he wasn’t more than ten feet from Randall’s window.
    â€œâ€˜They pull me back in,’” Randall said a few seconds later.
    â€œShut up.”
    We were quiet after that.
    *   *   *
    When he answered the door of the apartment I’d set him up in, Gus was surprised. He looked at his watch. Then I thought he looked over my shoulder. “Done for the day?”
    â€œI’ve been to Marlborough and Springfield,” I said. “Need to talk with you.” I stepped in, told Gus to swap his pajama pants for jeans.
    Then I told him about the day.
    When I finished, he shook his head. “So you walked into a wise-guy bar and wrote a note asking to see the man in charge of cocaine sales?”
    I shrugged.
    He rubbed his temples. The move annoyed me—it was like he was a teacher and I was a student being a giant pain in his ass.
    â€œYou’re fantastic to let me stay here,” he said. “And all the world knows you’ll give any Barnburner the shirt off your back. Subtlety, however, is not your strong suit.”
    â€œWe’re assuming somebody tried to kill you,” I said. “I am, anyway. If you’re looking for subtle help, you’re out of luck.”
    â€œDamn straight.”
    I wanted to shake the little bastard. Why the hell was I helping him? What the hell wasn’t he telling me?
    You know the answer to the first question.
    I took my time. Breathed myself calm. “You named two possibilities,” I finally said. “Andrade and Teddy Pundo. I checked them both out. Andrade didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure Pundo didn’t either.”
    â€œConway, he’s a drug dealer . He’s a gangster . His father was bull shitting you.”
    â€œNope. Charlie Pundo didn’t know Teddy was dealing until I told him so, and he didn’t know anything about Almost Home. And if Teddy was badass enough to be blowing people down with a shotgun, you can bet his dad’d know. So we’re back where we were before: who else has something against you?”
    â€œI’ll say again that maybe whoever killed Brian Weller was trying to kill Brian Weller.”
    â€œNope. We read up on him. He was a damn choirboy, and you know it.”
    Gus folded his arms. “Be that as it may, why is this your mission in life all of a sudden? Why am I your big fucking project?”
    â€œThe Barnburners asked me to keep an eye on you. I’m doing that.”
    â€œIs that all? Really? How old did you say your son is?”
    I said nothing.
    â€œHis name’s Roy, I believe you said.”
    Charlene says I’m transparent. I hate being transparent.
    I wanted to tell Gus about Roy. I wanted to ask Gus about his father, to see what their relationship looked like from his vantage point.
    I wanted to ask him if Roy would come back to me.
    â€œYou ever ride a dirt bike?” I said. “I know a great spot.”
    *   *   *
    He could ride, all right. I watched him clear a hill twenty-five yards ahead of me. He tabletopped his jump, laying the little 125cc Yamaha sideways in midair, then snapping it wheels down just in time to land.
    We’d been riding the power lines near Route 495 for a good forty minutes. I