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

Uzi, Ange. Probably what he hit me with.”
    â€œSorry,” she said. “I’m a little anxious. I didn’t mean to snap.” She looked at my lips. “This wasn’t done with the Uzi. Your temple, maybe. But not the lips. Looks like a speed glove to me, the way it tore the skin.”
    Angie, the expert on physical abrasions.
    She leaned in close, whispered. “You know the guy?”
    I whispered back. “No.”
    â€œNever saw him before?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œAngie, I wanted this, I would’ve called the cops.”
    She leaned back, hands up. “OK. OK.” She looked at Drummond. “OK if I take him back to his place, Father?”
    â€œIt would make Delia’s day,” Drummond said.
    â€œThanks, Father,” I said.
    He folded his arms. “Some security you are,” he said, and winked.
    He’s a priest, but I could’ve kicked him.
    Angie picked up the guns and then lifted me to my feet with her free hand.
    I looked at Father Drummond. “G’night,” I managed.
    â€œGod bless,” he said at the door.
    As we went down the steps into the schoolyard, Angie said, “You know why this happened, don’t you.”
    â€œNo, why?”
    â€œYou don’t go to church anymore.”
    â€œHa,” I said.
    Â 
    She got me across the street and up the stairs, the queasiness steadily evaporating as the warmth of her skin and the feel of the blood rushing through her body reawakened my senses.
    We sat down in the kitchen. I kicked Harold the Panda out of my chair, and Angie poured us each a glass of orange juice. She sniffed hers before she drank. “What’d you tell the Asshole?” I asked.
    â€œAfter I told him what happened, he seemed so pleased someone finally kicked your ass, he would’ve let me fly to Atlantic City with the savings account.”
    â€œGlad to know some good came out of this.”
    She put her hand on mine. “What happened?”
    I gave her the rundown from the time she left the office to ten minutes ago.
    â€œWould you recognize him again?”
    I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    She sat back, one leg raised and propped beside her onthe chair, the other tucked under her. She looked at me for a long time. “Patrick,” she said.
    â€œYeah?”
    She smiled sadly and shook her head. “You’re going to have a hard time getting a date for a while.”

7
    We were just about to call Billy Hawkins the next day at noon when he walked into the office. Billy, like a lot of people who work in Western Union offices, looks like he just got out of detox. He’s extremely skinny and his skin has that slightly yellowish texture of someone who spends all his time indoors in smoke-filled rooms. He accentuates his lack of weight by wearing tight jeans and shirts, and rolls his half-sleeves up to his shoulders as if he has biceps. His black hair looks like he combs it with a clawhammer, and he has one of those drooping Mexican bandit mustaches that nobody, not even your average Mexican bandit, wears anymore. In 1979, the rest of the world went on, but Billy didn’t notice.
    He plopped himself lazily into the chair in front of my desk and said, “So, like, when you guys going to get a bigger office?”
    â€œThe day I find the bell,” I said.
    Billy squinted. Slowly, he said, “Oh, right. Yeah.”
    Angie said, “How you doing, Billy?” and actually looked like she cared.
    Billy looked at her and blushed. “I’m doing…I’m doing all right. All right, Angie.”
    Angie said, “Good. I’m glad.” What a tease.
    Billy looked at my face. “What happened to you?”
    â€œHad a fight with a nun,” I said.
    Billy said, “You look like you had a fight with a truck,” and looked at Angie.
    Angie gave it a small giggle, and I didn’t know who I wanted to pitch