Part 2 (2/2)

”I'll . . . kill . . . you . . . Mike . . . Valenti,” he whispered, very clearly.

Valenti regarded him thoughtfully for a second or two, then glanced down at his watch. ”Afraid I can't stay and chat, Manny. Duty calls. Say h.e.l.lo to Pedro and Luis for me.” He turned and walked away.

”I'll have you killed, Valenti!” Ramirez shouted after him. ”You'll be dead by tomorrow night, I promise you that!”

The tall man walked slowly across the clearing and into the trees. Behind him, Manny Ramirez moaned and cursed and screamed his name. The shouts followed him almost all the way to his car.

Six hours later the tall man sat at his desk in the study of his home in a quiet suburb north of the city. On the right half of his desk were his stockinged feet; on the left was a stack of paperwork he had shoved over to make room for them. On his mind were the events of the afternoon. All in all, he thought, it had been a productive day.

Just after leaving his noisy meeting with Manny Ramirez he had driven for ten minutes along the winding forest road before stopping near a thicket of spruce and pine near the very top of the mountain. Shorty was there, packing up his rifle and scope and grinning like a kid who's just been down the longest slide at the Water Park. They had talked a bit, the bald marksman had accepted a thick envelope for his services, and they had parted. The tall man had then driven downtown to his office to make a few vitally important phone calls, and now -- at just past seven o'clock in the evening -- he was leaning back in his swivel chair, looking out between the V of his propped-up feet at the gathering twilight outside the window of his study.

The tap of footsteps in the hallway roused him from his thoughts. He turned toward the sound as his wife peeked in through the study door, then pushed it open and walked over to lean against his desk. He looked up at her and smiled. Her hair glowed like spun gold in the light from the desk lamp.

”You must've had a good day,” she said. ”You look . . . satisfied, somehow.”

He regarded her in silence for a moment. ”They picked up Eddie Del Vecchio this afternoon. He's going to prison.”

She stood there looking at him, stunned. ”That's fantastic,” she said finally.

”It's a start,” he agreed.

She came around the desk and sat down on the arm of his chair, her blue eyes studying his face. He reached up and draped an arm around her waist.

”Jack Warrington,” she said with a smile, ”you are going to be the best police commissioner this town has ever had. Only a month on the job, and . . . How many now? First Charlie Zizack, and now Del Vecchio . . .” She paused, then said jokingly: ”At this rate maybe somebody'll shoot Mike Valenti, and people could actually feel safe on the streets again.”

Commissioner Warrington looked up into her face, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight.

”Who knows?” he said. ”Anything's possible . . .”

THE END.

John M. Floyd is a former Air Force captain, recently retired from IBM Corporation. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in more than eighty publications, including The Strand, Writer's Digest, Woman's World, Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. One of his stories was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize. John M. Floyd's novel-length fiction is being represented by the Sternig & Byrne Literary Agency.

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