Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden Read Online Free PDF Page B

can be a damned iffy sucker, given how crazy some women can get as the years chip away at them. Good many females get crazier than Thurmond Gaston ever thought about being.
    Much to my delight, Martha Frances has proven a god-send. She’s perky, good-looking as hell, and sports a hazel-eyed gaze that has the power to make a man want to slap his grandma—if the old gal was still alive, that is. She still has her own hair, or most of it, and is about as well-built as any seventy-year-old woman I’ve ever seen. Gal’s stacked up like a brick Montgomery Ward reading room.
    Sitting there by myself, as usual, when Martha Frances strolled up one night. Primly took the seat next to mine. Dipped a dainty, scarlet-nailed, diamond-laden bunch of fingers into the paper bag of popped corn sitting in my lap. For a second there, felt like a lightning bolt shot up my britches leg, then burned a hole the size of a barrel lid through the seat of my cotton drawers. Rest of the night, I had this buzzing sensation in my ears, kind of like being shot at by a whole gang of Indian Nation brigands out to kill me deader than Hell in a Baptist preacher’s front parlor.
    Then, she rubbed a shoulder against mine, turned, and whispered into my ear. Could feel the heat and warmth of her when she said, “Mind if I sit with you, good-looking?”
    Now, I tried my level best to sound suave, sophisticated, and debonair, when I said, “Why, no, darlin’. Right pleased to have the company.” Hell, I might be older than Methuselah’s great-grandpappy, but my mama didn’t raise any blithering idiots.
    Lightning struck again when Martha Frances got tired of the popped corn and kind of leisurely slid her hand up my leg. Sweet hoobie joobus. Pretty sure if I had reached out and touched ole Elton’s kafluttering movie machine, I’d of blown out every circuit breaker in the building.
    After the show she slipped into my room—a direct violation of one of Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank’s most stringent rules. Spent the night together. Of course, given how old we both are, not much of anything happened. But it felt right nice to have someone share my bed again, for a change.
    Truth is, about the only thing we did was lay there in the dark and talk. Talked almost all night. Told that woman things I never thought I’d ever admit to anyone. Felt right good to unburden myself, you want to know the truth. And after that first night of sneaking around, we did the same thing every chance we got, and by God, I don’t regret a minute of it.
    We’ve gone and kept such close company seems as how most people here at Rolling Hills have pretty much decided we’re some kind of an item or other. And, hell, must confess that I’ve taken to accompanying her out on bingo nights, too, and any other place I can think to meet her. And most days, the pair of us, along with General Black Jack Pershing, hijack the best corner out on the sunporch so we can sit together, talk, remember our pasts, and relax.
    Big ole cat even likes the woman. And that’s quite a considerable accomplishment for an independent soul like Black Jack. ’Cause up till now I’ve not found anybody else other than me that he’ll even tolerate. Well, he liked Carlton J. Cecil okay I suppose, but as you’re well aware, that redheaded scamp passed away nigh on a year ago.
    Hate to even think about it, but I miss the hell out of ole Carl, and I’m still mad at him for up and dying the way he went and done, the son of a bitch. Know I told him more times than I can count that I just might kill him myself, but I never meant it. Not a single word.
    Given my blood-saturated past, have to say as how everything went along so swimmingly after I met Martha it’s a wonder the law hasn’t arrested me for having way more fun than a body ought to be allowed, while still wearing his underpants. Leastways up till last night, that