byJohnny Liddell bit off the end of the cigar, spat it in the general direction of the spittoon. He scraped a wooden match on the sole of his shoe, lit the end of the cigar and inhaled deeply.
“Nobody’s convincing me that Johnny Carroll killed himself,” he said flatly. He blew a cascade of dirty white smoke ceilingward.
“You might as well ask me to believe that Stalin became a Capitalist. And I won’t believe it.”
Detective Sergeant Terence Grady grunted.
His cold, grey eyes studied the private d**k’s face. “I’ve got to believe the evidence of my own eyes, Johnny,” he said. “He was still warm when we got there. He did the job himself; no question about that.”
Johnny Liddell growled. “He wouldn’t give the world a break like that, Terry. He was mean enough to live forever.”
He tapped a
