Beach Road by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

visiting Dante’s grandmother Marie, and realizing what she’s going through, it feels even lamer than it did twenty-four hours ago.
    It could be my imagination, but even Wingo stares at me with disappointment. “C’mon, Wingoman, cut me a little slack. Be a pal,” I tell him, but to no avail.
    Marie is still on my mind when the phone shatters the doldrums. To maintain a little dignity, I let it ring twice.
    It is
not
Dante.
    No, it’s Peter Lampke, an old friend. He’s just accepted an offer on his Cape in Hither Hills and wants to know if I can handle the closing.
    “I’m up to my eyeballs, Peter, but I’ll make time for a pal. I’ll call the broker right now and get her to send over the contracts. Congratulations.”
    It may not be challenging work, but it’s at least two or three hours of bona fide billable, legal employment. I immediately call the broker, Phyllis Schessel, another old friend, leave her a message, and, with the rent paid for another couple of months, call it a day.
    I don’t even attempt a twelfth shot, just leave the crumpled-up paper in the basket.
    I’m halfway out the door, key in hand, when the phone rings again. I step back inside and answer.
    “Tom,” says a deep voice at the other end of the line, “it’s Dante.”

Chapter 26
    Tom
    THREE HOURS LATER I’m in New York City, and I must admit, the whole thing feels surreal.
    Two bolts turn over, a chain scrapes in its track, and Dante Halleyville’s frame fills door 3A at 26 Clinton Street. Dante hasn’t stepped out of the apartment in more than a week or opened a shade or cracked a window, and what’s left of the air inside smells of sweat and fear and greasy Chinese food.
    “I’m starving” are the first words out of his mouth. “Three days ago a delivery guy looked at me funny, and I’ve been afraid to order anything since. Plus I’m down to twelve dollars.”
    “Good thing we stopped on the way,” I say, pulling the first of three large pizza boxes out of a bag and placing it in front of Dante.
    He sits down with Clarence on a low vintage couch, a forty-year-old picture of Mick Jagger looking back at me over their shoulders. I’m not saying I approve of Dante’s decision to bolt, but an old immigrant neighborhood filled with young white bohemians, half of whose rent is paid by their parents, is not the first place the police are going to look for a black teenager on the run. The apartment belongs to the older sister of a kid Dante met this summer at the Nike camp.
    Dante wolfs down a slice of pie, stopping only long enough to say, “Me and Michael were there that night. I mean, we were right there,” he says, taking another bite and a long drink from his Coke. “Ten yards away. Maybe less than that. Hard to talk about it.”
    “What are you saying, Dante? You
saw
Feifer, Walco, and Rochie get shot? Are you telling me you’re a
witness?
”
    Dante stops eating and stares into my eyes. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or hurt. “Didn’t see it, no. Me and Michael were hiding in the bushes, but I heard it clear as I hear you now. First a voice saying, ‘Get on your knees, bitches,’ then another, Feifer maybe, asking, ‘What’s going on?’ Sort of friendly, like maybe this is all a joke. Then, when they realize it’s serious, all of them bawling and begging right up to the last gunshot. I’ll never forget it. The sound of them begging for their lives.”
    “Dante, why’d you go back there that night?” I ask. “After what happened that afternoon? Makes no sense to me.”
Or to the police,
I don’t bother to add.
    “Feifer asked us to come. Said it was important.”
    This makes even less sense.
    “Feifer? Why?”
    “Feifer called us that afternoon. That’s why I recognized his voice over at the beach. Said he wants to put all this drama behind us, wants things to be cool. Michael didn’t want to go. I figured we should.”
    “Michael still have his gun?” asks Clarence, and if he hadn’t I