The Drowning Pool Read Online Free PDF Page B

the evening.
    The air conditioning provided a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Bert chose the rear booth and slid into the gunfighter’s seat, back to the wall. Gardner, sitting opposite her, smiled at her degree of caution.
    St. Croix wasn’t stupid or reckless; Gardner found that reassuring. A heavily perfumed waitress brought them some menus then swiped their table with a few strokes of a dirty cloth.
    Gardner caught sight of himself on the mirrored ceiling. He saw his own thoughtful, calm gray eyes reflected back at him. There was nothing exceptional about the light gray summer suit that matched his eyes, or the sprinkle of gray at the temples of his dark brown hair, which made him look deceptively more like an accountant than a cop. Only the hard lines and sharp angles of his face gave him a certain air of granite strength.
    After they ordered, Gardner sat back and relaxed in the coolness. The waitress returned quickly with two frosted glasses of iced coffee. About then, Mike heard a commotion in the front of the diner and twisted around to see what was causing the disturbance. There were three boys arguing with a man he recognized as the manager. Then he saw the gun, black and shiny. Bert was fast on her feet. For such a big woman, she could move with surprising speed and agility. She zeroed in on the scene, impressive Smith & Wesson 327 TRR8 revolver drawn.
    “I’m a police officer; what’s the trouble here?”
    The manager, visibly shaken, glanced at the badge Bert flashed.
    “I told these punks never to come back here again. Every time they show up, they buy a lousy coke, then hang around and bother the customers and my waitresses. Now they come here with a gun!”
    The boys exchanged looks, the weapon holder giving the other two a cocky smile.
    “Drop the pistol, kid.” St. Croix spoke with easy authority.
    The boy ignored her and continued to point his weapon at the manager, arrogantly surveying Bert as his two friends moved slightly away.
    “What if I don’t like giving it up, bitch?” St. Croix moved toward him. “Hey, keep away, you get me pissed, something bad could happen to you!”
    Bert brought the side of her left palm down on the boy’s extended arm, the movement hard and fast. Then she followed up with one sharp kick to the knee. The arrogant expression disappeared from the boy’s face, replaced by one of agony as he fell to the floor and began moaning. Bert picked up the boy’s gun and holstered her own.
    “Damn, it’s not even real.”
    “It’s just a toy, officer. We were going to play a little joke on the prick manager is all,” one of the other two boys said nervously to Bert, his pock-marked face reminiscent of craters on the moon’s surface.
    “Assholes, you got no sense at all. I want the three of you out of here right now. I’ll keep your little toy. Don’t ever try anything like this again, and never come back here.” Her voice softly insinuated all kinds of harm.
    “My knee! I can’t walk!”
    “You’re lucky it wasn’t your groin.”
    The two boys helped their companion to his feet. He was still breathing hard and moving unsteadily but managed to leave fast enough.
    “Thanks a lot, officer,” the manager said, a grateful smile spreading across his thin lips. “Anything you want is on the house. It’s the least I can do.”
    St. Croix frowned. “I pay my own way,” she responded. “If those kids show up again, call us right off.”
    Back at the booth, she shoved the toy pistol across the table to Gardner, who examined it with interest.
    “Damn thing looks like a real Luger,” she said with contempt.
    “Sure does,” Gardner agreed, turning it over in his hand. His opinion was confirmed: St. Croix was very comfortable in situations that demanded immediate and violent action.
    “You never told me, is Bert a nickname?”
    “Short for Roberta. My mother favored that name. Had an Aunt Roberta once upon a time.”
    * * * *
     
    Bert glanced at