Jump the Gun Read Online Free Page A

this room, I just got to Las Vegas, and I started for the door. He grabbed me and conked me on the back of the head with his gun.”
    Mickey had stopped pacing. It wasn’t until then that I realized he had been rubbing his head off and on. “Oh, god. That’s…horrible…are you all right?”
    â€œYeah, I think so. I woke up with a big headache.” He rubbed his head again.
    I still had my purse with me—it’s pretty big but has a long strap that fits over my head and the opposite shoulder, and it’s a good style to have if you ever find yourself trying to run away from thugs in a casino—and I put it on the table and pulled out my bottle of aspirin. “Here, take about seventeen.”
    Mickey took the bottle and dumped four into his hand. “Thanks.” He filled a glass with water at the sink at the end of the room, tossed all four pills at once in his mouth, and swallowed them with a few gulps. I’m always impressed with no-nonsense pill takers. Me, I take my daily vitamins one at a time, with about a half glass of water for each.
    â€œDo you have a big lump?”
    â€œYes.” Mickey sat back down at the table, folded his arms on it, and put his forehead on top of his arms.
    â€œNone of this makes sense. I know you know that already, but listen: if Jake wanted me, if he was really after me, why didn’t he come up to the suite and get me, instead of taking you first and knocking you out? He could have kidnapped me easily enough without involving you at all, and, well, it just doesn’t make any sense.”
    â€œThat’s right, An-na-belle! None of this makes a-ny sense!” Mickey kept his head down.
    I’m pretty good when it comes to reading people, and I could tell that Mickey didn’t want to hear squat from me. I shut up and tried to come up with more theories—did my next-door neighbor finally figure out that I was the one who picked a few of her prize tulips? God, I only took about three, and she must have had at least twenty in her garden. Her last name is O’Malley—some IRA connection? I walked over to the TV and turned it on and right off again: a Cialis commercial. I picked up the phone that was on the conference table; dead. I sat back down.
    After a very long few minutes, Mickey raised his head and looked at me. I held his gaze until he shifted his eyes to the right of my bigger-than-life Dumbo left ear. My hands shot up to smooth down my hair, which was a good thing, because it was sticking out. I probably looked like Alfalfa of The Little Rascals. Finally, Mickey spoke. “Okay.”
    â€œOkay?”
    â€œOkay. I accept that neither one of us knows what’s going on. But I assume that you’re the primary target.”
    â€œFrom your position I get why that would be a fair assumption.”
    â€œThank you very much.”
    â€œYeah.” I paused. “Um, Mickey, did Jake show you his badge?”
    â€œHis badge ?”
    Apparently he hadn’t. I nodded. “I guess he’s a cop, or else he’s pretending to be one.”
    Mickey brought his hands to his face and leaned back in his chair. I focused on my empty Diet Coke can and rolled it around in my hands. Eventually I looked back at him. He was staring at me, puzzled. I bit the inside of my lower lip and was about to study my can some more when he said, “Hey. Let’s work on getting out of this, shall we?”
    Then he did a very nice thing. He reached across the table and put his hand over mine and gave it a squeeze. I don’t know why he felt so kindly toward me just then, but perhaps he had at last noticed my flying nun ears and felt sorry for me. Whatever his reasons, in that moment he was my Mr. Rochester. He wasn’t puffing up his chest, he wasn’t taking charge, and most of all, he was trusting me. He made me feel like we belonged together in this thing, whatever it