What the Dead Men Say Read Online Free PDF Page B

and looked at Kittredge out of his poorshanty hurt and his poorshanty pain and said, “Onliest reason I did it was ’cause Griff told me to.”
        “Griff told you to come here?”
        “That’s exactly what he told me.”
        “I don’t believe it.”
        “You go ask him.”
        “You know what my missus still thinks of the likes of you.”
        “Well, maybe I don’t think a whole hell of a lot more of her, truth be told. You ever think of that? She gets flies on her shit the same way I do.”
        Kittredge looked back at the door, through the glass to where Mae had her head down eating. She never gained weight; there was a rawness to her skinniness. He looked back at Carlyle. “You don’t use language like that in this house.” Carlyle smirked. That was how Kittredge always thought of Carlyle-that poorshanty smirk over a dirty joke or a jibe that hurt somebody’s feelings. “You know better than to push it with me, Carlyle. Least you should.”
        “Griff wants to see us. Tonight.”
        “Why?”
        “West end of the Second Avenue bridge. Nine o’clock.”
        “You heard what I asked. Why?”
        Carlyle shook his head. The smirk reappeared. He liked to smirk when he told you something that was going to scare you. He said, “That little girl’s father came to town this afternoon.”
        “You’re crazy, Carlyle. How could he track us down?”
        “I don’t know how he done it; but he done it. He’s here and he’s got a Winchester and he means to kill us.” Carlyle ran a trembling hand over his sweaty head. “He was waitin’ for me when I left Griff’s.”
        “He tell you he means to kill us?”
        “Pretty much.”
        “Pretty much doesn’t mean that’s what he’s got in mind.”
        Carlyle shrugged. “You wasn’t there. You didn’t see his eyes, Kittredge.”
        “Your food’s getting cold, dear,” Mae called from the table.
        Carlyle smirked. “Must be nice havin’ a little lady call you ‘dear’ like that all the time.”
        “I’m not going to believe any of this till it’s proven to me,” Kittredge said.
        “You better be there tonight or Griff’s gonna be mad.”
        “I didn’t know that Griff had become my boss.”
        “You better,” Carlyle said, sounding like a little kid. “You better.” Then he turned and started away, into a path made golden by the fading rays of sunlight. When he was nothing more than a silhouette of flame, he turned back to Kittredge and said, “You shoulda seen his eyes, Kittredge. You shoulda seen ’em.”
        Then he was gone.
        

CHAPTER THREE
        

1
        
        When Uncle Septemus came back into the hotel room, he took off his hat, vest, and coat, set the Winchester against the bureau, and came over and lay down on the bed across from James.
        James was reading a yellowback about cowboys and Indians. The hero was a man named Chesmore who, it seemed, changed disguises every few pages.
        From his carpetbag on the floor next to the bed, Uncle Septemus took a pint bottle of rye, swigged some, then put his head down and closed his eyes. He left the bottle, corked, lying on his considerable belly.
        “You trying to take a nap, Uncle Septemus?”
        Uncle Septemus opened one brown eye and looked at James. “Guess I was till you asked me if I was.”
        “A man came.”
        “A man?”
        “A lawman.”
        “A lawman?”
        “The sheriff.”
        Uncle Septemus propped himself up uncomfortably, still giving James the benefit of only one eye. “He say what he wanted?”
        “Said he wanted to talk to you.”
        “He say about what?”
        James was careful not to say “No sir” and sound too deferential. “Nope.”
        Uncle Septemus closed his eye, lay back down flat, uncorked the