A Broth of Betrayal Read Online Free Page B

darkness but that didn’t matter. Harry would have
     known him anywhere. Leopards didn’t change their spots, and the years hadn’t changed
     this man one bit.
    “What did you want to talk to me about?”
    “Come into the office and grab a seat,” Harry answered.
    “I don’t have time for this. Get to the point,” the man spat.
    Harry turned away without responding and walked back into the office. A heavy oak
     desk and two large filing cabinets dominated the small space. A metal gooseneck lamp
     shone a harsh light over the stacks of paper and order forms. The smell of motor oil
     hung heavy in the room. Harry took a deep breath. Now that he had made his decision,
     he felt years younger. An enormous weight had lifted from his shoulders. He turned
     to his guest. “I’m not keeping it any longer.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” The man had followed him into the small room.
    “You heard me. I can’t carry it anymore. It’s ruined my life. It’s gonna hurt a lot
     of people, you most of all, but I don’t care.”
    His visitor stood silently, a slow rage building inside him. A vein in his forehead
     throbbed. “What are you thinking?” He hissed. “Don’t you know what they’ll do to you?”
    “I don’t care anymore. I told you—I made my decision. I just wanted to give you fair
     warning.” Harry sighed and turned away. There was nothing more he could say. He’d
     done his best. He was tired, so tired, but relieved he had come to this point. He
     reached across the desk to grab his keys. The blow came so quickly, he barely felt
     it. He was dead before he hit the floor.
    * * * 
    A RNIE HICKS GRABBED on to the lamppost to steady the street. It moved like an undulating river of concrete.
     He wasn’t sure where he was exactly—somewhere near the Village Green. He knew he had
     had too much to drink, but he didn’t care. Today was his birthday—August 9—and he
     deserved to celebrate. He didn’t want to think how many years had passed since he
     was born, but he was still above ground—which was more than a lot of his cronies could
     say. He giggled at the thought of his dead friends talking. “
Arnie
,” they’d say, “
can’t believe you’re still kickin’ around. Thought for sure you’d be the first to
     go.
”
    Arnie launched himself away from the lamppost and stumbled across Broadway. He tripped
     over the curb and fell facedown on grass of the Village Green. Lifting himself on
     one elbow, he rolled over and took another swig from his bottle of whiskey. Some of
     the liquid dribbled down his shirt. He coughed and sat up and began to sing off-key
     at the top of his lungs.
“She wheeled her wheelbarrow . . . through streets broad and narrow . . .”
He stopped. Couldn’t remember the rest of the words. Oh yes, it was coming back to
     him now. He took another swig, the last one. He squinted at the bottle. Empty. He
     flung it at the statue of the Revolutionary War soldier, hitting the pedestal. The
     bottle shattered loudly in the quiet night.
“. . .
 
crying cockles and mussels aliiive alive-o-o-o
.”
    A car turned the corner on the far side of the Green. The police cruiser. Arnie knew
     it well. They were looking for him. Couldn’t let him have a little fun, not even on
     this one night, could they? But this year was going to be different, he promised himself.
     They weren’t gonna catch him and lock him up where he’d wake with a colossal hangover
     in a jail cell, lying on a hard wooden bench. Oh no, not this year. This year was
     special—it was the big seven-oh. He was determined to outwit Nate Edgerton, Snowflake’s
     Chief of Police, and have a little fun.
    He crawled on all fours, giggling and hiccupping, and ducked behind the statue. Nate
     was peering out the window of the cruiser trying to spot him. Arnie slowly dragged
     himself to a kneeling position and peeked out from behind the granite pedestal. Nate’s
     cruiser continued on. Once