Chapter One -  Death in the Afternoon

 THE BLOOD HADN'T STARTED TO DRY YET, so the dead man hadn't been lying there on the kitchen floor for long.

There didn't seem to be anyone home when I pulled up in my beat-up, Korean War vintage jeep, Sheba. I had a key to the dingy, second floor flat, so I'd let myself in the back door to the kitchen, thinking I'd surprise an old friend when he got back. Instead, he'd surprised me by being dead. The second I opened the door, I saw Barry lying face down, a pool of red spreading outward from under his stomach.

A quick look told all--a man in his late forties, wearing only tattered jeans and tee shirt, barefoot, arms and chest well muscled from years of weightlifting, longish red hair and sideburns, gray eyes and broken nose. His hands had been tied behind his back. There was a gag in his mouth and a look of astonishment and agony on the lifeless face.

I had no doubt what the coroner was going to say: multiple stab wounds to the abdomen.

"Barry," I said in a sighing whisper. "Man, oh, man, what did you get yourself into this time?"

Barely two hours before, Barry Hunter had called me saying he'd just gotten back into Atlanta from a trip and had something to tell me. Hunter was the kind of guy who couldn't hold down any kind of job for long, working one week as a mechanic, the next week as a house painter and not working at all the week after that. He lived in an ever-changing series of grungy apartments with an ever-changing series of girl friends, the only constant in his life being a meticulously restored '48 Harley-Davidson. Barry was a Civil War freak and he was into survivalism. It seemed ironic now.

I had known Barry a good ten years. We were birds of a feather, I guess, though Hunter was some ten years older than I was. I'm a fitness freak too, and spend a lot of time at the gym. I'm not as bulky as Hunter was, but every muscle on my lean, almost scrawny body is hard and taut, and I stand a good head taller than the average. I keep my black hair short--it's easier to take care of that way--and I've never been able to settle down with a job or a woman either. The very idea of reporting to an office or assembly line at the same time every day for forty years is enough to make me feel faintly nauseated. I make my money a different way than most folks, and I don't see any need for the tax boys to know about every dollar I make.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a crook. Or at least, I'm not the kind of predator who gets his kicks hurting and destroying people. I don't do hits or shakedown jobs, though muscles and a mean look often come in handy. And I'm not a licensed investigator either.

Maybe I'm a misfit, but I'm not a predator.

What I am, I guess, is an outsider.

When a rich real estate developer wants to get his runaway daughter away from a pimp, I get the job. When a rising young politician needs to deal with a creep stalking him and his family, no publicity and no questions asked, I collect a nice fee for the favor. When a nightclub owner learns there isn't much he can legally do about a disgruntled ex-employee slashing his tires and smashing his windows, his lawyer talks to my lawyer, money changes hands, and the problem is over the next day.

Okay, so I'm not a nice guy. But if you ever get a real creep on your case, you're going to want someone like me on your side. I'm the Outsider. I work just outside the law. If you're pretty much a straight Joe, and you've got a problem the police can't seem to deal with, I'll help. For a fee.

I don't mean to brag, but I'm good at my work.

But I'm no miracle worker, and there wasn't any way I was going to bring Barry back from the dead.

As I stood staring at the corpse, the shock began to fade and cold anger began to grow.

Someone had killed a friend of mine, a friend of many years standing who'd slept on my couch when times were bad and let me sleep on his when our positions were reversed. Okay, he was something of a bum--but he'd never let me down, and there were dozens of other people who'd say the same. A lot of people were going to find a big hole in their lives when word got around.

When I could finally take my eyes off Barry's body, I looked around the kitchen. Someone had been looking for something.

The drawers and cabinets were all open, and what little tableware and cookware Barry had was scattered on the counter. Whoever it was had worked fast. They'd left the refrigerator door open.

I stepped gingerly over the body and around the puddle of blood and moved as quietly as possible into the living room, taking care not to touch anything. Someone had been at work in here, too. Cushions snatched from the ratty sofa and slashed open with a knife lay on the floor, the drawers of the rickety old desk hung open, and papers were scattered everywhere. Two big bookcases stood empty, and books--there were at least a couple of hundred; like I said, Barry was a Civil War freak--lay in heaps on the badly worn carpet.

Still moving as noiselessly as possible, I checked out the bedroom. The mattress had been pulled off the bed and slashed, the dresser drawers were all sitting on the floor and the clothes scattered about. In the bathroom, it was the same story. They'd even lifted the lid to the toilet tank and left it propped against the wall.

The shock was gone now, entirely replaced by cold, deliberate rage. I wanted to go after these bastards who did this myself, but I knew I'd have to call the police. I take enough chances with the law as it is. I'd neglected to bring my cell phone with me from the jeep. Barry's phone was in the kitchen, and I was headed back there when I heard the screen door open and close softly.

I froze, listening intently.

There were more faint sounds of movement from the kitchen. Whoever was in there was very light on his feet or very little or both.

I looked at the front door. The chain and the deadbolt were both off. I could probably get out the front door before whoever it was knew they had company. But if this was one of the scum who'd done Barry in, they'd likely be gone before I could get the police here.

Well, at least I had a line of retreat.

Slowly and quietly I reached in my pocket and took out my buckknife, opening it without sound. Then I tiptoed over the thickly carpeted floor to peek inside the kitchen.

That was when I saw the woman.

She was crouching next to Barry, a slender woman maybe in her late twenties with hair the color of dark honey drawn back in a tight bun. She was perhaps just a little too muscular for most guys' taste. Her lips, bare of lipstick, made a perfect Cupid's bow. She wore khaki shorts, a black halter top and running shoes, and carried some kind of shapeless bag slung over one shoulder with a strap. On her face as she examined the body were shock, anger and disbelief

In the right hand resting on her knee was a .38 revolver.

She saw me the second I saw her.

In a flash she was on her feet, the pistol gripped in both hands and pointed directly at my face.

"Freeze, dirtbag!" she snarled. "Or they'll be scrubbing your brains off the wall!"

She sounded sincere. She also looked like she knew how to handle a gun. I froze.

"Come on out into the open and raise your hands!"

I stepped through the doorway, and my hands came up slowly. I kept my face as expressionless as possible.

"Put the knife on the counter."

I obliged.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I got a right to be here!"

"How do you know I don't?" I spoke calmly, with no hint of challenge or belligerence. I don't like to make a lady nervous when she's holding a gun on me.

"Who are you?"

"A friend of that guy." My voice oozed sincerity as I cocked my head towards the corpse on the floor. A hint of doubt showed in the icy mask of her face.

"Okay, then, what's your name?"

"Jesse. Jesse Nolan."

The trace of doubt grew stronger. I was just about dead sure she recognized the name, though I couldn't place her at all.

"Can you prove that?"

I shrugged as well as I could with both hands in the air. "I've got I.D. in my wallet if you want to see it."

She hesitated another moment. "Okay, take out your wallet and throw it on the counter. Slowly!"

I did as told. A few seconds later, she was holding the pistol in one hand and my driver's license in the other, studying the picture on the license and my face. She sighed, apparently satisfied that I was who I claimed to be, and lowered the pistol.

"Okay, you can take your hands down. But I'm calling the police." There was still doubt and mistrust in her voice, but it was fading.

I lowered my arms. "Maybe, you'd better let me call the cops."

"Why?" She looked at me searchingly, as if she were trying to dig something up from deep in her memory.

"They know me. I've had occasion to work with the Atlanta cops before." And sometimes against 'em, I thought, but I didn't tell her that. I figured I'd call Lieutenant Morgan at homicide. He didn't much like me, but he knew I wasn't a hit man.

"You really don't remember me, do you?" There was a look of bemused irony on her face now.

"No, I don't. Should I?"

"You don't remember Bo at all, Jesse?" There was a quiet confidence in her voice now.

"Bo?"

She nodded.

"The only Bo I remember is a skinny little teenage niece who spent two or three summers with Barry back when I first knew him. You mean you're...?"

She nodded again.

I sighed. "We'll sort this out later." Then I  picked up the phone on the kitchen wall and punched out a number. The police operator answered, and I said, "Homicide. Lieutenant Morgan, please."
 

Next episode: Shady Dealing