Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 18 - Otto By Gun

Chapter title changed from "Attrition" to "Otto By Gun"

Chapter 18

“Otto By Gun”

       Mr. Abel stood up and slid a revolver into the leather holster strapped beneath his left arm, he looked up, spotted me in the open doorway of his office, grinned as if he’d caught me admiring him.

“What does your father want?” Mr. Abel asked before I could speak. Only a minute earlier, my father had arrived at the tavern for two dinner plates and a quick talk with Mr. Abel regarding John Woodstock. I wondered how Mr. Abel had known of my father's arrival, he’d been alone in his office since the dinner crowd had come in. It was after six-thirty, the tavern was  thick and noisey with diners, a spirited debate about the previous day’s H-Bomb at Bikini atoll  and the Pinkos was in full swing, a back-drop of Buddy Morrow blared from the jukebox and the telvison behind the bar counter was on.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” I replied in a refreshed effort to emulate John.

“I asked you Amelia.” Mr. Abel said, he snatched his suit jacket from the coat rack to the right of his desk. I was pinned in place by fear, Mr. Abel was prepared to meet my father armed. He stood behind his desk, his jacket, depleted by heat, perspiration, and the effort of adorning him, sagged like an abused mount yet it concealed the holster and gun completely.

“Well?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of the jacket, pried one out, lit up using a pack of matches on his desk and began to suck and puff distractedly while billows of smoke surrounded his head and somewhat mitigated his odor. In those moments, there was no way to ignore the realization that Mr. Abel looked every bit like a dragon from a nightmare version of a fairy tale. I stared at him, felt I had missed something vital.

        As if he’d read my mind, Mr. Abel strode over to the left of his desk toward the window, he grabbed the venetian blind wand and twisted it until the metal slats opened. Outside, parked at the curb, my father’s black pick-up truck glistened in a coppery sunset. Inside, sat John Woodstock in profile, a cigarette dangled from his lips as he scanned the street ahead completely unaware that just a sidewalk’s breadth away, Mr. Abel’s menace peered out at him. I wondered where Freddy and his cousins were, I hoped that they wouldn’t come along and take John by surprise.

“Your father didn’t leave much of a message when he called.” Mr. Abel faced the window as he spoke, a chill swept through me. Mr. Abel had lost sleep, had worried over my father and John Woodstock, he’d controlled me by proxy but my father and John were two remaining variables and so, the gun. My father’s telephone messages could be short, cryptic; he never offered Mr. Abel any of the fretful deference the other men in town showed, it made sense given the nature of his recent acts that Mr. Abel would be worried.

“You think I told.” I said. Mr. Abel took one more look at John outside and closed the blinds.

“What else am I to think? I gave and gave to you yesterday. Your father has rejected all of it! This stranger blew into town without explanation, he broke into my tavern, your father has given him shelter and now he’s brought him back here.”

“You think John told my father about you?” I asked. Mr. Abel shrugged, he sank down into his chair behind the desk. Like most men in the county, my father kept a firearm in his truck, but he’d come to the tavern to pick up two dinner plates and to negotiate with Mr. Abel, my father would never see the revolver until it was in his face.

“Have you been consistent Amelia?” Mr. Abel asked.

“I haven’t said anything. I didn’t even mention that I was in your car yesterday.” I said. I hoped that I could get Mr. Abel to leave his gun behind. I contemplated becoming violently ill in the main room, my father would take me away, Mr. Abel would never get a chance.