Fat Free And Fatal. G. A. McKevett

concern for her old friend. This sort of thing was nerve-wracking on anyone, let alone an octogenarian who had lost his wife only a year ago and had survived a triple bypass just last winter.

      “That’s me.” R.L. glanced over at Savannah, then toward the front door and the back of the store. “Let’s do some business. And don’t take all day about it either, old man. I got places to go, things to do.”

      Saul bristled at the “old man” comment, pulled himself a couple of inches taller, and stuck out his chin. “Not so fast, young man. Saul takes his time and conducts his business in proper fashion. Let me see what you have to sell and, if you wish to do business with me, remember to address me in a respectful tone of voice.”

      R.L. gave a little snort, then dug into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a couple of fine watches and dumped them onto the glass countertop as though they were nothing but a couple of carnival trinkets. “There,” he said. “I told you they were expensive stuff. New. Never even worn. So don’t go trying to cheat me. I want full price for these.”

      Saul pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, then took his time unfolding them and slipping them on. As he studied the pieces carefully, turning each one over and over in his expert hands, he said, “I’m sure you came by these fine pieces in a perfectly legal way. Eh, my impudent fellow?”

      R.L. started to answer, then paused, mentally snagged on the word impudent. Then, unable to decide if he’d been insulted or not, he said, “Sure. Like I told you, legal all the way. Christmas presents I just never got around to returning.”

      Saul cleared his throat, looked up from the watches, and gave Savannah a big, toothsome smile. Suddenly, he looked years younger and decades stronger. “These watches,” he announced in a loud, clear voice, “are exactly as we thought. We can conclude our business now if you like.”

      At his words, Savannah reached under her jacket and pulled her Beretta from its holster. She pointed the barrel at a spot a couple of inches below R.L.’s Mohawk. “Freeze,” she told him. “Don’t you even twitch, son, or you’ll have a whole new hairdo with a permanent part.”

      Half a second later, Dirk came around the corner, his revolver drawn. When he saw the suspect, he smiled as brightly as Saul. “Well, hello again,” he said. “I remember you, you worthless pile of dog crap. I busted you about two years ago for robbing a church’s poor box. Remember me?”

      As Dirk and R.L. reminisced about days of yore, Savannah was moving around the counter, intending to position herself between their suspect and the doorway. But she was watching him, his every movement…most importantly, his eyes. And she knew the instant he made the decision.

      “No!” she shouted as he spun on his heel and headed for the doorway. “Don’t you run, you little—”

      She banged her hip hard on the corner of the glass cabinet as she rounded it, but she hardly felt the pain because of the jolt of adrenaline that had hit her bloodstream. She headed for the door, about six steps behind their now-on-the-run thief.

      R.L. and his ugly leather vest shot out the door with Savannah on his heels and Dirk behind her. He took off down the sidewalk, running with the grace of a recently decapitated chicken, knocking his fellow pedestrians aside and a kid off his bicycle.

      But what he lacked in beauty, he made up in determination.

      The guy was pretty fast.

      Too fast for Savannah’s liking.

      After only a couple of blocks, she could hear Dirk huffing and puffing behind her. An excellent runner with longer legs than hers, he normally overtook and passed her when they were in a footrace. But this time it was she who was in the lead when their quarry changed routes and headed down a side street toward the old mission.

      A tourist attraction as well as a functioning church, the mission had a wide, shallow pool, decoratively situated in a courtyard at the entrance to the property. Inlaid with cobalt blue and yellow tiles, the pool provided some cool, refreshing wading for the town’s children on hot summer days.

      And, it seemed, for the occasional thief on the lam.

      Rather than try to fight his way through a crowd of tourists who were taking pictures of the ancient adobe building and its picturesque surroundings, R.L. decided to take a shortcut through the fountain.

      Splashing water like a Labrador retriever puppy gamboling at the beach, he galloped through it and was out the other side in less than five seconds.

      Savannah didn’t take the time or energy to even consider her new suede loafers. She plunged right in, making just as big a splash…much to the chagrin of the tourists within splash range.

      She didn’t take time to hate him either as she felt the cold water soak her new linen slacks up to the knee. She could always hate him at her leisure.

      Once she had her hands on him.

      He reached the other side of the plaza and its surrounding wall, where he hesitated a couple of seconds before deciding to turn right and head for the old graveyard near the back of the mission.

      Those two seconds were all Savannah needed to close most of the distance between them.

      And when he paused another half second before jumping up onto the wrought-iron fence that bordered the cemetery, that was all she needed.

      She tackled him, grabbed one handful of leather vest and another handful of Mohawk, and yanked him down off the fence. A moment later, R.L. was face first on the grass and Savannah’s right knee was firmly planted on the small of his back.

      He let out a yelp as she tightened her grip on his hair.

      “Make me run,” she said, putting her full weight on him. “Make me have to hotfoot all over God’s creation just to lay hands on you, will you? You’re gonna pay for that!”

      She glanced down at her soaked loafers. Now that her suspect had been apprehended she could afford to be fashion conscious again. “You’re gonna pay for my shoes, too,” she told him, “if I have to take it out of your mangy hide!”

      At the sound of pounding footsteps behind her, she turned and saw Dirk racing up to them. At least, he was attempting to race. His face was red and his eyes slightly bugged as he huffed and puffed his way along.

      When he finally reached them, he bent double, holding his stomach, fighting for breath.

      “You okay there, buddy?” she asked him.

      “Yeah, sure…no sweat.”

      But he was sweating. Profusely.

      For a moment, Savannah forgot the struggling, groaning guy beneath her and did a mental checklist of heart attack symptoms.

      “You feel any chest pain?” she asked him, fighting down a surge of panic. Visions of doughnuts and too many beers while watching football games danced in her head, not to mention a chain of cigarettes reaching back for years and years and years. “Any sort of pressure? Pain in your arm or—”

      “No,” he said, still gasping, still bent double. “I’m not having a friggin’ heart attack. I just can’t catch my breath.”

      He reached into his bomber jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and tossed them to her.

      She quickly manacled R.L., then stood and pulled him to his feet. She gave him a shove in Dirk’s direction. “There you go,” she told him, “one bad guy—signed, sealed, delivered. He’s yours.”

      “Thanks.” Dirk grabbed R.L.’s arm and began to drag him back down the path they had just run. “I owe you one, Van.”

      “Another one,” she corrected him, following close behind. “Another one in a long, long, long line of IOU’s.”

      “Yeah, but that was the first time you’ve ever had to catch a bad guy for me,” he admitted. The look on his face was one of utter devastation and deep humiliation.