Everybody Had A Gun Read Online Free PDF Page A

uncomplimentary names I tried to figure out what was going on and where I stood. I'd screwed up for sure in letting the girl out of my sight. As soon as she piped, "They want to kill us," I should have tied that in tight with the shots tossed at me earlier and latched onto her good.
    And right then, a little late, I got a cold crinkling along my scalp. She hadn't said they wanted to kill me, but us. She was included in the deal they'd cooked up for us. Whoever they were. And whoever she was.
    And now I knew what had been bothering me after she'd squeezed out of the office. It had been a little scraping in my subconscious trying to make me add the obvious two and two together: The girl had been scared to death of Ozzie when she'd seen him sprawled on the floor, and if she was scared of him, it followed that she'd undoubtedly be equally scared of Ozzie's partner—if he'd had one.
    And, almost surely, he'd had one. Ozzie wouldn't have tried pulling a job, particularly a job like this one, alone. He'd have had help, a partner at least. Somebody to wait in the building, or out on the street, or in a car. Christ! There must have been a car. If Ozzie had figured on taking me for a trip, he sure as hell wouldn't have planned to walk. There'd have been a car waiting for us, and there'd have been somebody to drive it while Ozzie kept his.45 tucked into my side or pointed at me through his coat. It was elementary, completely clear, and obvious. Now.
    I groaned, picked up the bag, yanked the mouth of it open, and dumped the stuff it contained onto the seat. While I went through the stuff I wondered how I'd got so stupid in thirty years. A lot of this morning's stupidity might be traced to my constitution. I'm so healthy it's disgusting, but it takes me a while to wake up. I creep around mornings in an ugly world till I have a couple of mouthfuls of food and plenty of coffee. Not much food, because food is not appealing when I first wake up, but plenty of coffee. This Monday morning I'd groped my way out of my Hollywood apartment and come straight downtown, had my toast and a cup of coffee while I skimmed the paper, then, still a little bleary-eyed, I'd started for the office. Too many things had happened too fast for me since then. I'd been a step behind all the way. Well, I was awake now, but where did I go from here?
    There was the usual junk in the purse: lipstick, comb, compact, and so on. But there was a check made out to Iris Gordon, signed by Martin Sader. Well, well. Identification and social-security cards also bore the name of Iris Gordon. A driver's license told me Iris was five feet, five inches tall, weighed a pleasant 127, was twenty-five years old, and single. Well. Single like me. And even her fingerprint was pretty. The identification card also gave me her address: the Caldwell Apartments, Apartment 7, on De Longpre Avenue in Hollywood.
    I leaned back and took stock of what I knew and, more, what I had to find out before this Monday got much older. That is, if I wanted to get much older. Obviously somebody wanted me killed and had missed one chance at me this morning; Ozzie, whom I was going to see more of later, had a hand in some unpleasant designs on me; and the redhead, Iris, who obviously had some connection with Ozzie's boss, had been trying to warn me of something before she'd taken off—or been taken off. So now, out of all the people in Los Angeles I knew of two who might explain why bullets were flying past me: Ozzie York and Iris Gordon. Ozzie didn't feel like talking while Iris had been dying to, and I didn't have either of them.
    I threw my cigarette away, got out of the car, found a pay phone, and called police headquarters. I learned that Ozzie wasn't even saying hello, but I passed word on through Sergeant Russo that I had an idea Ozzie might know plenty about the bullet holes in Pete's window. I went back to the Cadillac, knowing that the police would keep after Ozzie and my play was to keep after