Sixkill by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online

not drink," he said.
    "You just got no reason not to," I said.
    "No," he said.
    "You been juicing?"
    "Like HGH?" he said. "That kind of thing?"
    "Yeah."
    "Little," he said.
    "Rock bottom," I said.
    "Yeah."
    We sat for a time, contemplating how rock-bottom he was.
    Finally I said, "Good place to start."
    "Good as any," he said.
    Zebulon Sixkill III

    Her name was Lucy, and he'd never seen anything like her. She was a Southern California sorority girl, and she was the color of honey. Golden hair, golden tan. Golden prospects. She was homecoming queen during his second season. The first time they had sex, he discovered that her golden tan was all over. He loved that. He loved the fresh smell of her. Expensive soap. Shampoo. Cologne. She always sat close to him. She always looked right at him when he talked. Her lips were glossy and parted slightly when she listened to him. She was rapturous when they made love, and she was always waiting outside the locker room after a game. He could talk to her. He talked about his parents, and their friend Mr. Booze. About his grandfather, and the loss of him. About being a Cree. They went together to dinners at Mr. Calhoun's home in Bel Air. On the weekends they went to uproarious parties at Mr. Calhoun's place in Malibu. They clubbed on Sunset. They came to know a lot about good wine and fine whiskey. They became increasingly sophisticated about which drug to use for which effect. Their pictures were in the style section. Paparazzi began to notice them coming out of clubs. At the end of sophomore year, they moved into a condo owned by Mr. Calhoun, near the campus.
    Zebulon loved her so intensely that he felt somehow submerged in it. He saw everything through the golden haze of it. He felt as if he were fully breathing for the first time. When he was small and lived with his mother and father, they were mostly drunk, or gone. He remembered feeling mostly afraid. He had felt safe with Bob. He admired Mr. Calhoun, and he respected Coach Stockard. But Lucy was something he had no words for. She seemed to contain him, to roll over him like surf. She seemed to be reality. And nothing else did.

13

    "WHERE IS HE NOW?" Susan said.
    We were having breakfast in the cafe at the Taj hotel, which used to be the Ritz. Our table was in the small bay that looks out on Newbury Street, and the spring morning was about perfect.
    "He's asleep on my couch," I said.
    "You've taken him in," Susan said.
    "For the moment," I said.
    "Good God," Susan said.
    I smiled becomingly.
    "Sometimes," Susan said, "I think you are far too kind for your own good."
    I ate a bite of hash.
    "And some other times?" I said.
    "I think you are the hardest man I've ever seen," she said.
    "So to speak," I said.
    "No sexual allusion intended," Susan said.
    She broke off the end of a croissant, put very little strawberry jam on it, and popped it in her mouth.
    "Do I have to be one or the other?" I said.
    She finished chewing her croissant, and touched her mouth with her napkin.
    "No," she said, "you don't. And in fact, you are both. But it's an unusual combination."
    "So are we," I said.
    Susan smiled.
    "We surely are," she said.
    "But a good one," I said.
    "Very good," Susan said. "What are you going to do with him?"
    "Try and fix him," I said. "After all, he might be able to help me with Dawn Lopata."
    "Ah," Susan said. "A practical purpose."
    "Keeps me from being a do-gooder," I said.
    Susan nodded.
    "Successfully," she said. "I'm sure you can get him in shape and teach him to box and all, if he sticks with you. Do you think you can get him off the booze?"
    "I don't think he's an alcoholic," I said.
    "Why?"
    "Informed guess," I said. "You ever work with alcoholics?"
    "People become dependent on alcohol for many different reasons," Susan said. "If the reasons are amenable to psychotherapy, sometimes I can help."
    "Such as?" I said.
    "Reasons?" she said. "Oh, childhood abuse leading to feelings of low self-worth, maybe. Whatever it is,