The Shoulders of Giants Read Online Free PDF Page A

that I’d got the right car, since mine didn’t usually have two guys leaning on the hood. Somehow I knew they weren’t just resting there and the bulk of the Glock 17 in the shoulder rig under my left arm gave me enough of a boost to speak first.
    “Can I help you gentlemen?”
    They both stood. One was about my height and skinny, but with something in his eyes I didn’t like. He looked fast and dangerous without moving at all. The other guy was several inches taller than me and mostly muscle. They both wore suits and I looked for the bulges of guns under their arms but the suits were well tailored and it was hard to tell.
    “Jake Abraham?” It was Muscles who spoke. I tensed. How to play this? I wasn’t looking for a fight, but I had the sense I wasn’t going to get much choice in the matter. I tried to recall every Steven Seagal film I’d ever seen, just in case.
    “And you are…?” I said, smiling and holding my hand out to shake. I thought it was better than ‘Who wants to know?’ but they didn’t seem to agree. Skinny moved like a flash of light, his hand coming from somewhere inside his jacket and flicking open a switchblade as he swung. It opened up the back of my right hand and somehow I managed to keep it together enough to bring my left hand down on the bony part of his wrist. He dropped the knife and my hand went to my Glock. I managed to pull it free of its holster, but before I could do anything else Muscles threw a measured right jab that caught me square on the nose and dropped me to the floor. My gun joined the switchblade in the gutter and my eyes filled with water. I was busy recognizing the fact that I was not Steven Seagal when one of them kicked me in the solar plexus. My vision was coming back and I saw his foot go back for another try. I rolled away from the kick, catching it hard on my hip and found myself face to barrel with Muscles’ Beretta. I stopped moving and paid attention. They didn’t say anything, but I think that was what they wanted.
    “I told Cicero, now I’m telling you”, said Muscles, through his teeth. “The Patterson situation is not your concern. Leave it alone. ”
    I was about to nod when Muscles lifted his gun and brought the butt down on my temple. I guess they left after that, because when I came round they were gone. My gun and Skinny’s knife were still in the gutter, so I picked them both up and limped to my car.
     

*****
     
    I got home from the hospital and turned on Monday Night Football just in time to see Clinton Portis somersault into the endzone. The Redskins were up by eleven with twelve minutes to go in the fourth quarter. The Eagles never recovered. My hand wasn’t hurting, mostly because they’d numbed it up to put the stitches in. My nose throbbed, though, and the cut by my left eye had bled all over my shirt. It hadn’t hurt as much as I’d thought it would to get hit, but I still wouldn’t recommend it.
    I read a lot of crime fiction. The shelves that line one wall of my apartment carry a few text books from my University days, some psych, some criminal science, but most of the space is taken up by mysteries, police procedurals and detective novels – from Conan Doyle to Chandler, Ed McBain to Sara Paretsky. And of course, Robert B. Parker. Spenser was my hero.
    If there was one thing I’d learned from reading all these books, it was this: when a gumshoe is threatened with violence if he doesn’t leave a case alone, he’s onto something. I took out my notebook and went over everything I’d learned. It didn’t take long. I don’t know what Muscles and his friend thought I knew, but I was pretty sure they were overestimating me. So now I had a choice to make. Abandon my first case in fear of my life, or keep stirring the pot and see who else I could piss off. I figured I’d sleep on it and decide in the morning.
    Just before six a.m., I was rudely awakened by the phone. I had fallen asleep on the couch, the television still