Very Bad Men by Harry Dolan Page B

knock the iron out of Lark’s hand and then had come up with a steak knife, and after that there had been broken furniture and the lamp and the cord. A close thing right down to the end.
    Lark sipped his Coke and held the glass against his cheek. The air in the Eightball Saloon was warm and the smoke stung his eyes.
    Sutton Bell came up to the bar for another round of longnecks, and Lark turned away reflexively. He had ditched his safari hat and sunglasses in favor of a baseball cap from a shop on Liberty Street. But he had taken off the cap in order to cool his brow, and without it he felt exposed. He told himself he shouldn’t worry. Sutton Bell wasn’t going to be around to identify him.
    Lark had no tire iron tonight, but he had what he needed in the pockets of his cargo pants. A sap made from a woolen sock and a bag of marbles. A six-inch chef’s knife in a cardboard sleeve. They would do the job.
    He wiped his forearm across his brow and it came away slick with sweat. He picked up his cap from the bar and put it on, pulling the bill low on his forehead. He wished Bell would leave—soon, and alone.
    Sometime later there was a loud crack of billiard balls—Lark felt it in the space behind his eyes—and a cheer went up. One of Bell’s friends had sunk the eight ball on the break.
    The woman in the silk blouse rose from her place at the bar and walked past Lark, heading for a dim hallway in the back. The restrooms were there, and a door that opened into an alley. A minute later, Sutton Bell said his good-byes, over protests from his friends, and followed the same route. Lark wondered if the two of them had prearranged their exit, if the woman was waiting for Bell even now in the alley.
    He slid off his stool and walked down the hallway, hit the metal bar on the exit door with his hip. Outside, the clean air braced him. The door closed, dulling the rhythm of the music within. He saw Bell framed at the end of the alley, saw the top of Bell’s head as the man looked up at the sky.
    Lark took the knife from one of the deep pockets on the legs of his pants and slipped it into his back pocket, within easy reach. He did the same with his homemade sap.
    In the lot behind the bar, Bell’s steps were light and careless. Lark followed him. He knew where they were going. Bell’s car wasn’t parked in the lot; it was on the street two blocks away. Lark’s Chevy was on the same street.
    By the time Sutton Bell reached the sidewalk, he was whistling. Lark recognized the tune: the harmonica lead-in to “All Along the Watchtower.”
    They came to the end of a block and Bell crossed, tennis shoes scuffing over the surface of the street. Lark picked up his pace and began to close the distance between them. Cars passed, heading east into downtown. Leaves rustled in the night wind.
    When only ten feet remained between them, the whistling cut off suddenly and Bell turned, walking backward for a few steps. He stopped beneath a maple tree.
    â€œI don’t have what you need, my friend.”
    His voice was pleasant. It drew Lark up short.
    â€œWhat do you think I need?” he asked warily.
    â€œSmack, coke, whatever it is, I don’t have it.” Bell showed his empty hands. “I’m not holding. And I don’t have any money either. So there’s nothing I can do for you.”
    Lark narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want your money.”
    â€œThat’s good, because I don’t have any. I’ll give you some advice though. Go home and get some rest.”
    Taking a step forward, Lark could feel the weight of the sap in his pocket.
    â€œThat’s your advice?”
    Bell’s nod was almost imperceptible. “I saw you in the bar. You looked like hell. You don’t look any better out here. I think you’re running a fever.”
    â€œIt’s a hot night.”
    â€œIt’s not the heat that’s making you sweat, my friend.