A Gunman Close Behind. A. A. Glynn
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finished my drink.
Beth reappeared, ducked into the kitchen and, in a remarkably short time, was hollering for us to come and get it.
Jack and I settled ourselves down at a laden table that looked and smelled pretty good. I’d forgotten how hungry I was.
Joanne appeared in the doorway, shyly. She was wearing a wide-skirted summer dress, her hair had been smoothed neatly. There were no lines of bitterness on her face now, and her gently moulded features were touched with a judicious amount of cosmetic.
She looked mighty good.
In spite of her sniffles.
“Wade into supper,” invited Beth, “and we’ll be in time to catch the late night epic on TV.”
I stretched lazily.
“Ah, civilised American life,” I said.
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