Blood of Angels by Reed Arvin Read Free Book Online Page A

loose.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Carl shrugs. “The kid looks over at me with an expression that would curdle milk, and he went el loco. The detective had to physically restrain him from ripping my head off. Rita’s backing up to get clear of the chaos, and I’m trying to get the kid’s hands unglued from my necktie. A couple more cops come in and settle the kid down, and everything gets under control again. The whole thing only lasted a few seconds, but it was definitely interesting.”
    â€œWhat set the kid off?”
    â€œThe translator said that in this kid’s culture, he’s like a prince or something.”
    â€œA prince?”
    â€œPrince, shaman, witch doctor.” He pauses. “ Benywal. That’s it.”
    â€œWhat the hell’s a Benywal ?”
    â€œHow do I know? Anyhow, I deeply insulted him with my offer of a plea deal. The kid said I was the devil, anyhow.” He pauses. “Not the devil, now that I remember it. Just a devil.”
    â€œNo kidding.”
    â€œI told the kid he had me all wrong. I was trying to help him. He looked like he was going to spit in my face.” Carl shrugs. “It was pretty obvious we weren’t going to get the deal, so I went home. I wasn’t in the mood to be told I was a devil anymore, anyway. It was amusing for a few minutes, but it lost its appeal pretty fast.”
    I shake my head. “Looks like we might be in for quite a show.”
    Carl sighs. “You’re in for the show,” he says quietly. “They’re leading me to pasture, Thomas. I’ve got good years left in me. Maybe not great, but good.” He looks at me helplessly, which is a new expression for him. He is so good at what he does—so finely tuned, for such a precise purpose—that neither one of us can imagine his next act. He’s only sixty-five, which means he could be looking at twenty-five years to fill.
    â€œYou think any more about that teaching job?” I ask. “Any law school in the country would be lucky to have you.”
    â€œI have a very serviceable revolver at home, Dennehy,” he says. “If you ever see me sitting around a bunch of twenty-three-year-olds telling my old war stories, please use it on me.”
    He sounds tired, like he’s already bored with doing the nothing he has staring at him for the next two or three decades. “I had to get out of my office for a while,” he says. “It’s like a parade in there. Everybody wants to say good-bye. It’s all sad faces and moist eyes. Nightmare.”
    â€œI can’t believe you have to come back next Monday for one last day.”
    â€œYeah, and I have to wait until the next Friday for the party. The great state of Tennessee is forcing me to use four days vacation.”
    â€œJust as well. Knowing the group around here, nobody is going to be in shape to come into the office the next day.”
    â€œSpeaking of the party, no speeches, Thomas. I’m serious.”
    â€œFine by me, but Rayburn never met a microphone he didn’t like.”
    Carl’s eyes widen. “God, I hadn’t thought of that. Look, want to meet me before at Seanachie’s? I can’t face David Rayburn with a microphone sober.”
    â€œSure,” I say, smiling. “And listen, Carl…”
    I don’t get the sentence finished before he’s out of his chair and heading toward the door. “Like I said, no speeches.”

CHAPTER
3
    IT ’ S FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE nine the next morning when I arrive at the New Justice Building for Bol’s hearing. The old building, over on Union—a street conspicuously renamed by the conquering northern army shortly after the end of the Civil War—was an aging money pit of a structure, but it was a repository of extraordinary memories, both glorious and infamous. The new building, by contrast, is a high-tech paean to the power of the