Beach Road by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

in my office, I wad up a sheet of printing paper, lean back in my desk chair ($59),

and let fly. The paper ball bounces off the slanting dormer ceiling of my second-floor attic office ($650 a

month), glances off the side of a beige metal filing cabinet ($39), bounces on the end of my worktable

($109), and drops softly into the white plastic wastebasket ($6).
    The tasteful furnishings are all from IKEA, and the successful shot-nothing but wastebasket-is my

eleventh in a row.
    To give you a sense of the breakneck pace of my legal career, that’s not even close to a personal best. I

have reached the high fifties on multiple occasions, and one lively afternoon, when I was really feeling it, I

canned eighty-seven triple-bankers in a row, a record I suspect will last as long as man has paper and too

much time on his hands.
    After two years as the sole owner and employee of Tom Dunleavy, Esquire, Inc., headquartered in a

charming wooden house directly above Montauk Books, my paper-tossing skills are definitely world-class.

But I know it’s a sorry state of affairs for an educated, able-bodied thirty-two-year-old, and after 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.”

Beach Road

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