Sharp Shooter (35 page)

As I passed the archway that opened into the front lounge area, I couldn’t resist a peek inside.

Two men sat at the small bar. One, his sharp-looking Zegna suit not quite hiding a middle-aged paunch, was skimming a newspaper. He glanced at me then kept on with his reading.

The other was drinking from a bottle of Coke while he pored over paperwork of some kind. And, God save me, I knew him.

My mouth fell open. ‘Whitey?’

His head jerked up, a pie halfway to his mouth. ‘Sharp?’

It was a bit hard to know where to go from there.

I knew Greg Whitehead – Whitey – at school. After graduation he’d asked me out on a date and, to my utter disappointment, had turned out to be a horny toad. I’d avoided him ever since. But Whitey became a cop, and not so long ago he turned up to a crime scene I’d accidentally stumbled upon. Short story; long outcome. A photo of Whitey and me appeared in the local paper that made his jealous wife, June, furious.

Now it looked like Whitey had found another way to well and truly piss her off. And, as usual, I happened to be in the right place at the wrong time to see it.

‘It’s only ten in the morning! Can’t you keep your fly zipped until after lunch?’ The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Mr Zegna suit sank down further behind his newspaper.

‘Are you offering your services?’ Whitey fired back.

‘Not if you were the last shag on earth.’ Ignoring Audrey’s disapproving look, I flounced out the front door on enough indignation to float a hot air balloon.