A Game of Authors Read Online Free Page A

around it. The concrete was easily as long as the pillow, half as wide.
    He looked up at the skylight perhaps twenty feet above the bed. An irregular hole reached across the glass. Pieces of the frame hung down, swaying lightly.
    “That thing would’ve crushed your skull like an eggshell if you’d been in bed,” said Medina. “Where were you when it fell?”
    “Somebody awakened me by making noise on the roof,” said Garson. “Then they flashed a light onto my face. I rolled off the bed just before that thing fell.”
    Again he looked at the chunk of concrete, shuddered.
    Medina turned to Villazana, spoke in a burst of Spanish too rapid for Garson to follow. Garson caught the word for workers in Villazana’s reply.
    “He says there were workmen up on the roof today repairing the wall between this building and the next one,” said Medina. “He thinks they must have left that piece of concrete balanced on the scaffolding.”
    “Then who flashed that light on my face?” asked Garson.
    Medina looked at Garson. “Do you think this was not an accident?”
    “No.”
    “Neither do I,” said Medina. “But it would’ve looked like an accident. There’d have been no inconvenient investigation.”
    “Who’d want to do such a thing?” asked Garson.
    “Someone who doesn’t like people asking questions about the Hacienda Cual.”
    Garson studied Medina’s pockmarked face, wondered: Could he have had anything to do with this? He looked at Villazana.
    “The patron saint of this hotel, she was with you tonight, Señor ,” said Villazana. “Ahhh, those bad fellows! I will punish them tomorrow!”
    And could he have had anything to do with it? wondered Garson. Villazana did not appear particularly disturbed by the incident.
    Garson turned back to Medina, the feeling of wrongness strong in him. “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
    Medina shrugged. “It has a certain familiar pattern, but quién sabe ?”
    “Who?”
    Medina shook his head. “I dunno.” He glanced up at the skylight, and Garson noted that his hand was close to the revolver in his belt holster.
    “Someone like your Yegua ?” asked Garson. “Someone who shoots from hiding?”
    Medina’s attention snapped back to Garson. He stared into Garson’s eyes with a curious intentness.
    “That’s a connection I’d never made before,” said Medina. “But now that you mention it . . .” He reached out, snapped off the light.
    Villazana gabbled something in Spanish.
    “ Callaté! ” rumbled Medina.
    Shut up!
    “What’s wrong?” asked Garson.
    “Our friend may still be on the roof,” said Medina.
    Garson shivered. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”
    “Don’t be a dope,” said Medina. His voice sounded like a rolling of gravel in the dark. “Cops can be bought cheap down here. They carry guns that can go off by accident while you are standing unfortunately in the way!”
    A feeling of desperate anger swelled in Garson. “Do you have a spare gun, Choco?”
    Medina remained silent a moment, then Garson heard him move, saw the faint ghostly shadow of him approaching. Something cold and smooth was pushed into Garson’s hand: a revolver.
    “It’s a thirty-eight special,” said Medina. “Do you know how to use it?”
    Garson oriented the gun in his hand. “Yes.”
    “I think you’d better come home with me tonight,” said Medina.
    The anger became a feeling of stubborn determination in Garson, reinforced by the feeling of the revolver in his hand. “No!”
    “This could have been an accident,” said Medina. “But I . . .”
    “ Sí! An accident!” babbled Villazana. “The workmen! They . . .”
    “ Callaté! ” said Medina.
    Villazana fell into abrupt silence.
    “We’ll move the bed out from under the skylight and get Villazana here to put a piece of canvas over the hole,” said Garson.
    “A piece of canvas won’t stop a killer,” said Medina.
    “I don’t think they’ll try again tonight.”
    “What if