A Game of Authors Read Online Free Page B

they don’t think the same way?”
    “What can they do if I’m not under the . . .”
    “‘What can they do?’ he says.” Medina put a hand on Garson’s arm. “They can poke a gun through that hole up there and put a nice new bullet in you.”
    “I don’t think so,” said Garson. “That wouldn’t look like an accident.”
    “But you would be just as dead!”
    “I’m an American citizen!” barked Garson. “They can’t go around popping off an American citizen without a big stink!”
    “You know, Mr. Garson, I’ve run into this strange attitude before. It gets hundreds of American citizens killed every year.”
    “Besides, I’ve got a gun now,” muttered Garson.
    “American citizen with a gun,” said Medina. “The world’s most dangerous game!”
    Garson fought down laughter that he knew would have sounded almost hysterical. “They wouldn’t have rigged an accident if they just wanted me dead.”
    “You can’t be sure,” said Medina.
    “This Antone Luac wants his privacy pretty badly,” said Garson. “I wonder why.”
    “Wouldn’t it be a good idea for you just to forget all about this and go home?” asked Medina. “After all, if . . .”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well . . . one story can’t be worth all of . . .”
    “The hell it isn’t!”
    Garson thought about dropping the story, about leaving this threatening atmosphere of mystery. Nothing had ever sounded so appealing to him. But the anger pulsed in the back of his mind. He felt the weight of the pistol in hand. And something more: the thing he called “story fever.” It filled him with an absolute hunger to unravel this mystery.
    “Hell no, I’m not going home!” he said.
    “It’s your funeral,” said Medina.
    There was a tone like regret in Medina’s voice. It sent a shudder of fear through Garson, but he suppressed the feeling.
    I’m staying , he thought.
    After Medina and Villazana had gone, Garson waited in darkness while someone climbed to the roof, nailed canvas across the shattered skylight. Then he moved his own bed to a corner across the room.
    Now that he was alone, questions came crowding into Garson’s mind.
    What was Medina doing around here so late at night? He was too available. And why did my comment about the killer of his brother surprise him?
    And Garson remembered Eduardo Gomez.
    Good God! Gomez was coming back tonight! What if he saw all the commotion and got frightened off?
    And another, more chilling thought: What if the people who dropped the concrete saw Gomez visit me today? If they’d try to kill me, would they hesitate over killing a Mexican?
    Again Garson experienced a sense of tragic premonition about Gomez. And he recalled the line from Gomez’s letter:
    “He kill mi.”
    Why would Luac kill to maintain his privacy? Garson asked himself. Why?
    Garson had the sensation that his tight little Stanley-and-Livingstone-plus-female story was getting away from him.
    Before the sleep of exhaustion overcame Garson that night, he recalled Villazana’s statement about the trucks that visited the Hacienda Cual. What’s in those trucks?
    He slipped into a dream of an endless line of trucks driven by repetitive Choco Medinas. And as each truck passed, the dream Medina looked at Garson with a feeling of deep regret—and shot at him with the big revolver.  
    ***

Chapter 3

    Choco Medina awakened Garson at seven the next morning, rapping lightly on the door. “You in there?”
    Garson came instantly awake, his first feeling one of surprise that he had actually slept. He could feel the hard lump of the revolver under his pillow. It brought back the full memory of the previous night.
    Could it really have been an accident? he wondered.
    Again the rapping sounded on his door.
    “Hssst! Are you all right?”
    Garson recognized Medina’s gravelly voice, said, “Yes. I’m just getting up.”
    “They start serving breakfast out here in fifteen minutes.”
    “Be right with you.”
    Garson went