Chapter 6
Tony pulled up at the gates, regretting that he hadn’t shaved. Or slept. On his dashboard, a small screen was detailing the casino explosion, and another a news anchor and a reporter were discussing the Revolver. He felt like of he didn’t stay clued in to everything, he would miss something vital. All he could think about were the bullets. He only knew one person in possession of a Colt revolver, and he was praying that he was right and that the case would be over. The gates swung open and his car hummed into action.
“Remember the plan, guys. He springs into action, you come running to help, okay? I'm not getting killed today,” Tony said into his comms unit.
“We know the plan, Tony,” said Steve, who was sat in a car further up the street, tugging at his collar. Wearing his suit underneath ‘civilian’ clothes in the middle of summer in Nevada wasn’t exactly cooling.
He expected the front door to be closed. It was wide open, with the man of the hour propped against the doorframe in a varying state of undress.
“Anthony. You usually call before you make a house visit,” he said, moving to button up his shirt.
“Well, this one couldn’t wait,” he replied, coming face to face with him. He glimpsed the hallway, and its usual, pristine condition had ben tarnished. Something made of glass, which Tony recognised as one of his whiskey decanters, had been smashed. Black glitter was strewn across the marble floor, and in a heap was one of his suit jackets. Further along was his bow tie and holster, but no sign of the gun. Until this point in time, Tony had always thought Alexander’s form of precaution was admirable; who else would carry around a nineteenth century army issue gun? It was the same for him as it was every wealthy man – if you couldn’t defend yourself, you’d get robbed at any point. Tony himself didn’t leave the house, or compound, with his watch on.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the murders going on around here, would you?” Tony asked as he shoved his hands in his pockets out of sudden fear.
“No,” he replied, tucking his shirt into his trousers, “why would I? Unless you thought I had something to do with it?”
“No, not at all,” he said, still searching for the gun in the space behind him, “its just that, well, this guy leaves behind bullets that fit your gun.”
“Tony, I'm not the only person in North America with a Colt,” he laughed, fixing his cufflinks back into his sleeves.
“I realise this, but here’s the thing. The bullets are-“
“Hey, have you seen my shoes anywhere?” a voice called from inside the house. Moments later, the speaker came forward. She hadn’t realised that Tony was there, or she would’ve made some effort to at least cover the split seam in her dress’s skirt.
“Try the kitchen,” he grinned wolfishly, not taking his eyes off of Tony’s confused expression. “Like I said, Anthony, I don’t know anything.”
He stepped back from the doorframe, gathering his holster and bow tie in a fist, and slung his jacket over his shoulder as he followed the woman into the kitchen.