Trust Dave Ritter, he thought, to
pick some place where malt beverages were sold, for a rendezvous.
Dave's coupe was parked inconspicuously beside the red-trimmed roadhouse.
Opening his glove-box, Rand took out the two percussion revolvers and
shoved them under his trench coat, one on either side, pulling up the
belt to hold them in place. As he went into the roadhouse, he felt like
Damon Runyon's Twelve-Gun Tweeney. He found Ritter in the last booth,
engaged in finishing a bottle of beer. Rand ordered Bourbon and plain
water, and Ritter ordered another beer.
"I have the stuff Tip left with Kathie," Ritter said, taking out a couple
of closely typed sheets and handing them across the table. "He said this
was the whole business."
Rand glanced over them. Tipton had neatly and concisely summarized the
provisions of Lane Fleming's will, and had also listed all Fleming's life
insurance policies, with beneficiaries, including a partnership policy on
the lives of Fleming, Dunmore, and Anton Varcek, paying each of the
survivors $25,000.
"I see Gladys and Geraldine and Nelda each get a third of Fleming's
Premix stock," Rand commented. "But before they can have the certificates
transferred to them, they have to sign over their voting-power to the
board of directors.
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