A Drink Before the War by Dennis Lehane Read Free Book Online

didn’t make much difference, but at least I knew where I was now.
    The rectory. The screaming banshee was Delia, Pastor Drummond’s housekeeper. In a moment, she’d begin hitting me with something. The paramedic said, “Father?” and I could hear the pastor hustling Delia out of the room. The paramedic said, “You finished?” He sounded like he had things to do. A real angel of mercy. I nodded and rolled over onto my back. I sat up. Sort of. I hooked my arms around my knees and sat there, holding on, my head swimming. The walls were doing a psychedelic dance in frontof me and my mouth felt like it was full of bloody pennies. I said, “Ouch.”
    â€œYou got a way with words,” the paramedic said. “You also got a mild concussion, some loose teeth, a busted lip, and a hell of a shiner growing by your left eye.”
    Great. Angie and I would have something to talk about in the morning. The Ray-Ban twins. “That it?”
    â€œThat’s it,” he said, dropping the stethoscope into the bag. “I’d tell you to come down to the hospital with me, but you’re from Dorchester, so I figure you’re into all that macho bullshit and won’t come.”
    â€œMmm,” I said. “How’d I get here?”
    Pastor Drummond, behind me, said, “I found you.” He stepped in front of me, holding my shotgun and the magnum. He placed them gently on the couch across from me.
    â€œSorry about the rug,” I said.
    He pointed at the vomit. “Father Gabriel, when he was in his cups, used to do that quite often. If I remember right, that’s why we picked that color pattern.” He smiled. “Delia’s making up a bed for you now.”
    â€œThanks, Father,” I said, “but I think if I can walk to the bedroom, I can walk across the street to my own place.”
    â€œThat mugger might still be out there.”
    The paramedic picked up his bag from beside me and said, “Have a good one.”
    â€œIt’s been swell for me too,” I managed.
    The paramedic grimaced and gave us a little wave before letting himself out the side door.
    I reached out my hand and Pastor Drummond took it, pulling me up. I said, “I wasn’t mugged, Father.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Angry husband?”
    I looked at him. “Father,” I said. “Please. You have to stop getting illicit thrills from my lifestyle. It has to do with a case I’m on. I think.” I wasn’t even sure. “It was a warning.”
    He supported me as far as the couch. The room was stillabout as stable as quarters on the Titanic . He said, “This is some warning.”
    I nodded. Bad move. The Titanic overturned and the room slid sideways. Pastor Drummond’s hand pushed me back against the couch. I said, “Yes. Some warning. Did you call the police?”
    He looked surprised. “You know, I didn’t think of it.”
    â€œGood. I don’t want to spend all night filling out reports.”
    â€œAngela might have, though.”
    â€œYou called Angie?”
    â€œOf course he called me.” She was standing in the doorway. Her hair was a wreck, messy strands hanging over her forehead; it made her look sexier, like she’d just woken up. She was wearing a black leather jacket over a burgundy polo shirt that hung untucked over gray sweatpants and white aerobic sneakers. She had a purse you could hide Peru in, which she dropped on the floor as she crossed to the couch.
    She sat beside me. “Don’t we look beautiful,” she said, her hand under my chin, tilting it upward. “Jesus, Patrick, who’d you run into—an angry husband?”
    Father Drummond giggled. A sixty-year-old priest, giggling into his fist. Not my day.
    â€œI think it was a relative of Mike Tyson,” I said.
    She looked at me. “What, you don’t have hands?”
    I pushed her hand away. “He had an