Two for Flinching (29 page)

“He sure did.”

“I thought we should pay you off. Give you a
little taste and we all win. You drop it with your pride intact and
Bird gets what he wants. Would that have worked?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. It was the best we had.
What would it take? For you to leave it alone?”

“You tell me why and I’ll consider it.”

“I would,” he said, “if I knew.”

“You don’t know?”

“Nope.”

“Then why are you here?”

Fletcher shrugged his thin shoulders. “The
money.”

“Is it a lot?”

“No. Like they say, I’m not in a strong
negotiating position.”

“Worth your life?”

Another hint of a smile. “We’ll have to
see.”

We were silent for a few minutes, two men who
might have to try to kill the other. Despite myself, I kind of
liked Fletcher. He might have been a mob killer, but he seemed like
a stand-up guy. For a mob killer.

Fletcher said, “I wish you hadn’t done that
to Bird.”

“His choice. He still in the hospital?”

“Yeah. I just left. They’re going to keep him
another night.”

“Internal bleeding?”

“Beats me. I didn’t stick around for the
medical mumbo jumbo.”

“He had it coming.”

“In spades,” he agreed. “Only now you’ve got
Little Bird coming after you.”

“Is their other brother going to make an
appearance, too?”

“Other brother?”

“I heard there were three Starling
brothers.”

“News to me. He must have gone legit. Or to
the can.”

“Or to the grave.”

“Or that. I have to tell you, though, Little
Bird has always been enough.”

“So you came by to tell me to watch my
back.”

“No,” Fletcher said. “You need to watch your
front. Little Bird isn’t known for his subtlety.”

***

A definite creaking of the metal stairs,
somebody coming up. Nero came into the office not looking into my
.45. Nero could move as silently as a gnat—a really quiet gnat. I
say that with some pride since I had taught him how to do that. I
had also taught him not to sneak up on an armed man unless he
planned him harm.

Nero was in jeans and a t-shirt under his
long black coat. I knew he favored the long coat because it was
easier to conceal things. Dangerous things. He went to the coffee
maker and poured a cup.

“This fresh?”

“No.”

He sat in one of the client chairs and put
the coffee on my desk. He had had worse, after going overseas. My
relationship with Nero was complicated. I had helped him out of a
pretty serious jam and felt responsible for him. I might have
become a surrogate father except the things I taught him, no
responsible father would have taught his son. Nero was who he
was—without complaint or excuse—and I guess I wanted him to be the
best Nero he could become. Must have been that old Army slogan
ingrained in me and I wanted to pass it along.
Be all you can
be.

“Who’s Caspar?”

“Caspar?”

“The littlest ghost that just left.” He
nodded at my face. “I hope he’s not the one who clocked you.”

“No,” I said. “Friend of the clocker.”

“Clocker still in the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to have trouble with them? I don’t
know who the clocker is, but I can tell you Caspar is the one you
need to watch.”

I had to be careful what I told him. Nero
lived by the preemptive strike. You didn’t have to be a threat for
Nero to act. Only a possible threat and your friends would be
wondering whatever happened to you.

I hedged my bets. “Maybe. At some point in
the future.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

I said, “No.”

Nero looked disappointed. He reached into his
jacket and dropped Stella’s journal on the desk. “I figured you’d
be wanting that.”

“You figured right.” I slid the journal over,
squaring it on the desktop.

“I remember how fucked up you were when she
left. This is going to be worse—much worse. I think you should
leave it alone, let the police do their thing and hope for the
best. You need to let this one go.”

I tapped the ticking time bomb with my index
finger. I had a pretty good idea what it held, that damage it would
do to me, the pain I would have to go through if I opened it. It
seemed to almost vibrate with unseen energy. A dark energy.

“I can’t.”

Nero nodded. “Figured that, too.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

April 8,

I think I’m ready to get back in the saddle.
It’s been six weeks and I’ve been working out, eating right. My
body still doesn’t feel like my own, though. I had got so fat! The
jerk has been sniffing around, telling me I look good and A has
that light in his eyes when I see him. I almost blush when he looks
at me with that naked desire! He’s been patient (impatiently
patient!) He’s been waiting for so long, I’ll have to make sure it
was worth it.

I quit when I started to show. Carrying
another man’s child, it didn’t feel right having sex with A. Not
that it ever did. But with a baby inside, it was a bad kind of
wrong. If that makes any sense. I was so scared—right up until she
finally came out. I have always been careful, used protection and
all that, but those things say something like 99.8% effective. What
if that .2% bit me in the ass? If that baby had not been B’s and he
saw that…

I’m not sure why B scares me so. I know he
is a man capable of great violence. I know he has killed men. He
never talks about it, but from what I’ve read, it’s a safe bet he
has taken some of those lives with his bare hands. That was why I
was so attracted to him to start with. That power, that strength he
has. He has never threatened me physically. In all of our legendary
arguments I’ve never been afraid. Afraid he would leave, sure, but
not for my safety. Every man has a breaking point, though, and when
B breaks, nothing will be capable of containing him.

I dodged that bullet. Time to get back in
the saddle. For some reason.

Chapter Forty-Nine

I slammed the journal shut. The sun had
begun to set, my office collapsing in gloom.
What the
hell?

I had never doubted Sarah was my child.
Stella and I had been trying to conceive and we had. Toward the
end, I knew she had been unfaithful—I just didn’t know how
unfaithful and for how long. Maybe I should have had my doubts, but
I didn’t and evidently they would have been unfounded anyway. Since
my beloved wife had used protection with all of her lovers.

Stella was worried the child might not have
been mine and that I would freak.
How would I know?
Sarah
came out covered in blood and umbilical fluid, an eight pound
bundle of joy and screams. It would have taken a DNA test to prove
she wasn’t mine.

Son-of-a-bitch!

I jumped out of my chair and stormed out of
the office. There was going to be hell to pay.

***

I didn’t obey the speed limit. I didn’t come
to a complete stop at intersections. I didn’t check my rearview for
a tail. I didn’t slow down, count backward from fifty and plan out
my next move. I did grip the steering wheel with all my might.

I parked the Jeep in the circular drive and
ran up the steps to the grey stone house. I didn’t knock. The knob
turned under my hand and the door opened.

He rose of his easy chair, hurrying to meet
me in the hall. “Beason? What the hell do you think you’re—“

I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him
into the wall. A framed picture of the Drake family fell, the glass
shattering.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.” I wasn’t
yelling, my voice a tense whisper. I noticed the signs and I didn’t
care. “Right here. Right now.”

He struggled, fighting to break my grip.
Fifteen years ago, he might have given me a run for my money. Not
today. “Beason, let me go,” he ordered in his most authoritative
judge’s voice. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You were fucking her. My wife.”

He wilted, might have even slinked to the
floor if I had hadn’t had him in a vice grip. “Oh Lord.”

I pulled Drake back and slammed him into the
wall again. “He can’t help you now. How could you do that to
me?”

Tears spilled from his eyes. “It wasn’t like
that.”

I slammed him into the wall once more. I was
getting the hang of it. I enjoyed it. “Tell me what it was
like.”

“I was in love with her.”

Another slam.

“I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

“What? You were walking along one day and
tripped and your dick fell into my wife?”

Luther Drake cried without shame. “I—there
was something about her. She was special.”

“Tell me about it. She was my wife.”

“I’m sorry, Beason. I couldn’t help myself.
She was like a drug. Once she got in my system, I couldn’t get rid
of her.”

“And when she rejected you, you killed
her.”

“What?” He blinked, as if he was seeing me
for the first time. “No. Never.”

“Once it had run its course, she tossed you
aside. You couldn’t let that happen, could you? Not the Honorable
Judge Luther Drake. You couldn’t take that.”

“No—I—it—“

Another slam. “You couldn’t let her go and
you killed her.”

“It’s true. I couldn’t let her go. But I
would never hurt her. Never.”

The tears ran down his face.

“I was in-love with her.”

Suddenly, my anger was spent. Luther Drake
was just another man Stella had ruined. Beating him to death would
not solve anything, prove anything. An old man.

Just to be sure, I hit him one time, a
powerful right hook to the ribs. He groaned and I let him slide to
the floor. Without another word, I turned and left.

I had been mistaken. It did feel good.

Chapter Fifty

The flashpoint subsided. The burning embers
remained. The coals of rage that could fuel me, carry me far beyond
where I believed I could go. They had done it before, they would do
it again. Now.

I parked in the garage, entering the house
through the kitchen. The sound of the television came from the den.
Sarah was laying on the couch watching cartoons, Erin in the easy
chair, her textbooks and notebooks balanced precariously.

“Hey, Uncle Bees.”

“Hey.”

“You want your chair?”

“No.” I turned to my daughter. “Sarah.”

She ignored me.

“Honey, I’m talking to you.”

She blinked. “Huh?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Sir?”

I nudged a Barbie doll with my foot. A modern
marketing marvel. Take the same toy, change the clothes, and sell
the same toy to the same people. “This place is a mess. You need to
clean it up.”

“Okay.”

I waited. When nothing happened, I took the
remote and the screen went dark. “Now.”

Sarah sighed. Heavily. Finally, she pulled
herself from the couch.

I went into the kitchen, put a pot of water
on the stove and took a box of macaroni from the pantry. Another
healthy meal. I dug in the refrigerator and came out with a
cucumber.

The front door opened, no knock, and I heard
my daughter squeal, the dog bark. My father was here. I stood over
the trash can and peeled the cucumber. My daughter wouldn’t eat the
peel. I had to focus so I wouldn’t lose a finger. It wasn’t
easy.

Dad joined me in the kitchen. Fresh from work
in dirty blue jeans and green t that read
Ray’s Plumbing
with a picture of a stick figure holding a giant wrench. He hadn’t
changed the design since I was in high school. He watched me
work.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.”

“Luther called me.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s got a couple of cracked ribs.”

“He’s lucky.”

“I expect he is.” He took his hat off, ran
his hand through his blond/white hair. “You want to talk about
it.”

“No.” I reached into the cabinet for a
cutting board and began chopping the cucumber with probably a
little too much vigor. “We’re done. Luther and me.”

“Don’t blame you.”

I looked up suddenly at my father. “You knew?
Didn’t you? That’s why the two of you are on the outs.”

Dad sagged. “I suspected.”

“How could you not tell me?” I had to fight
to keep from screaming, to keep my daughter from hearing. “My wife
having an affair with your oldest friend and you don’t say
anything?”

“What was I supposed to say? Your wife seemed
too friendly with your mentor? That she laughed too hard at his
jokes? She put her hand on his arm when she spoke to him?”

“It was enough for you to cut bait.”

Dad shook his head. “That man cheated on both
of his wives—for years. You want to know why I cut him off? Because
I could even suspect him of doing that to you. I decided I didn’t
need somebody like that in my life any more.”

“At least you could have told me.”

“What good would it have done? You would
blown up, Stella would have denied it. The two of you were already
having problems. If I’d had any proof, believe me, son, I would
have said something.”

The television came back on. The water had
begun to boil. I opened the box and dumped the noodles in the
pot.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Luther may have killed her.”

Dad’s head rocked back. “You really think
that?”

I nodded.

Dad said something under his breath. I wasn’t
certain, but it sounded a lot like a swear word. If so, that would
have been the third I’d ever heard him utter. The first had been
when he banged his thumb with a hammer. The second when Gus and I
came home stumbling drunk at four o’clock in the morning. It was
not something my father did lightly.