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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

This old guy’s twitchy. The first one of us who moves is likely to get a bullet between the eyes.

I think you were right about that pastrami. He must have a sandwich packed for lunch. I’ll give you first dibs on it.

Gisco considers hungrily. The balloonist has lowered the flame on the heater. We’re descending quickly. Down to about twenty-five feet. It’s now or never.

Gisco stands and growls.

“Back off, Fido,” the old balloonist says, “or they’ll be stuffing you for the window display of the Tipperville Taxidermists.”

Gisco glares back at him. Lets loose an even more threatening growl.

The old guy raises the pistol. “Or maybe I’ll have your head mounted above my pool table.” His right hand shakes as his trigger finger starts to tighten.

He takes his eyes off me for a second as he aims. I make a dive for his gun hand.

The pistol goes off with a CRACK. The shot misses Gisco. I have enough presence of mind to jerk the old guy’s wrist so that the bullet also misses the balloon.

Houlihan doesn’t put up a fight. In a second, I’ve taken his gun away, and he’s lying on his back.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he pleads. “I have grandkids. Well, I don’t exactly have them yet, but I will if that good-for-nothing son of mine ever settles down. Please, I have a loving wife. Well, she would be loving if she wasn’t bitching at me night and day.”

“Calm down, we’re not going to hurt you,” I assure the scared geezer as I bend to the propane stove.

“Your dog’s about to rip out my jugular.”

“He might back off if you tell him where your sandwich is.”

“In the backpack there. My wife made it. He can have it. It’s got sweet gherkins. I hate those damn pickles. She knows that, but she puts them in anyway.”

I crank the flame back up. We start rising again, and I unclamp the tether rope. “How much propane do you have?” I ask him.

“Just what you see there, and one spare tank on the ground. Where do you plan on going?”

Where are we headed? I ask Gisco.

The Amazon, he replies matter-of-factly.

What?

You heard me. Keep watch on him. I’m going after that sandwich.

What do you mean, the Amazon? And how can you think about food at a time like this? Don’t you have any self-control at all?

I happen to like sweet gherkins. Even with pastrami.

The big dog begins rooting around in a corner of the gondola like a truffle pig in search of the mother lode.

“We’re going to the Amazon,” I inform the balloonist.

He looks back at me and then, terrified as he is, bursts into laughter. “What have you guys been smoking?”