Good Luck

"Getting settled back in, John," a man's voice spoke softly from the open back door.

John brought his head up from behind the desk. A short man wearing eyeglasses was standing in his doorway. He held a black, snub-nosed Smith and Wesson in his hand pointed at John.

"Don't look so shocked, John. You knew I wouldn't just walk away from this."

John stood slowly.

"Stay right there. And don't even go for a weapon. I was in here last night and checked all the drawers in your desk. It's clean." He smiled a devilish, easygoing smile that crept under John's skin like a virus.

"You got me, Hank. What do you want?"

The gunman backed up and glanced out of the open doorway. "Pretty morning," he commented. "Looks just as it did on the day you dodged my bullet."

John's forehead wrinkled.

"That's right," Hank said and felt the doorjamb. "Holes are still here. Almost got you."

The man walked back and stood in front of the desk. "I want you to stay away from Tammy. I still plan to manage her. She's going places and I really don't want to deal with her tied to you in any way that might slow us down. Got me?"

"Maybe we should see what she thinks," John said as a passing bus rumbled like an angry bear.