CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was a quarter past four in the morning when I rolled a tired body back to my place and marched up the stairs from the garage to the apartment above. Unlocking the door as quietly as I could I let myself in, thinking Gramps was back in the spare bedroom and deep in his sleep. Throwing the Navy wool coat onto the divan I made my way through the living room as quietly as I could toward the kitchen. Unstrapping the Kimber still in its shoulder-holster I laid the holster and webbing onto the round kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. I was hurting. I was thirsty. I was hungry. But more than anything I was pissed.
Pissed at getting beat up.
Pissed at getting shot at.
Pissed at coming up empty in finding the Polanski brothers.
Especially pissed in not getting a ha
