Speare had learned that sweater vest was not a good shot. Sax was not so sure, but as the question hung in the air. “Where is my soul mate?” Speare noted the Vest’s hands went to a hip holster (did they still even make those?) and a quick draw that would leave McGraw shy.
Sax dodged as the gun went off.
Speare used a flying tackle.
The bullet splintered a book case and came to rest in a stack of the Bard’s Spirit by some spiritual bloke. Vest’s hand let the gun go and skitter across the laminate as Speare used his right forearm across the guy’s throat to pin him to the ground.
A gacking sound from Vest or had he called himself Samuel? Speare relents on some pressure to only have a forked tongue strike out and smack him clear in the eye.
“AH!” Speare rolls back as out of nowhere Vest connects with a roundhouse. That catches Speare’s chin and sends him down. Not what he was expecting from the accountant type. Speare tries to shoulder roll up only to have a knife slice and stick into his right shoulder throwing his roll off and landing him on his back.
Vest is now standing over him. Speare’s eyes look to where the gun should be.
Clenched but empty.
A crack of a shot. Wood of a bookshelf and some newly shot book pages’ rain down.
“Okay sweater vest halt, desist and quit trying to act macho to my private eye friend with the knife in his shoulder.” Sax’s voice is bordering on what would be classed as a Dad voice. “And answer me simply why the fuck you are calling my husband your soul mate?”
“Because honey, we are married.” Natan’s voice entered the silent bookstore like liquid silk.