Straw Men by Martin J Smith Read Free Book Online

Brenna said.
    DellaVecchio took another long draw from the King Cobra, then clawed another handful of chips from the bag. “Frankie Popcorn!” he said, and the two men dissolved into laughter again.
    â€œInside,” Brenna said, nodding toward the front door behind him.
    The two men looked at each other, raising their eyebrows at the same instant. “Ooh la la,” Popko said.
    Without taking his eyes off hers, DellaVecchio held his free hand up to his face, spread his index and middle fingers into a V and flicked his tongue between the two fingers. The gesture was so blatant, so crude, that Brenna could only turn away. She was used to DellaVecchio’s tastelessness, but her first impulse was to smack him. Instead, she turned back around and glared until he retracted his tongue and lowered his hand. The man wasn’t stupid.
    â€œApologize,” she said.
    Popko snickered. DellaVecchio laughed too, but it was a nervous thing that faded fast. Brenna waited. DellaVecchio sipped his beer, looking to his friend for reassurance. Popko studied the King Cobra label, suppressing a smile.
    â€œGive m’self a boner,” DellaVecchio said finally.
    Popko was in midswig, and DellaVecchio’s confession convulsed him. Malt liquor foamed from his mouth and nose as he laughed, and the fallout sprinkled the toes of Brenna’s Joan & Davids.
    Enough.
    Brenna stepped closer, got right in DellaVecchio’s face, close enough to smell the Doritos and beer. His smile disappeared. “Listen, you little shit,” she said. “You’re never gonna get closer to heaven than where you’re sitting right now.”
    DellaVecchio laughed, but he was clearly uncomfortable. Brenna leaned even closer.
    â€œKeep this up, Carmen, and you’ll be looking for somebody else to save your sorry ass, as if anybody else would bother. I’ve got limits, and you’re damned close. Am I being clear enough?”
    DellaVecchio set his bottle on the stoop and wiped his damp hand on the front of his faded green sweatshirt—more startled than contrite.
    â€œClear enough?” Brenna repeated.
    DellaVecchio nodded.
    She stepped back and shook her head, swept an arm across the scene. “What the hell are you thinking? Out drinking on your stoop first thing in the morning? You’ve got every cop in this city looking for an excuse to haul you back inside. You’ve got neighbors who’d rather have a child molester on their street than you. And what are you doing? You’re out here confirming their worst fears.”
    She jabbed her index finger at his temple, just above his misshapen left ear. She did it hard enough to hurt. “Carmen, think! I know you can.”
    Brenna knew she’d connected, but immediately regretted her tone. Sometimes it was hard to remember his history, that he was born with a brain marinated in alcohol. Brenna could see that his eyes registered real pain. DellaVecchio glanced at his friend, but found no solace there. Popko was getting unsteadily to his feet, and as he rose he slid his beer bottle into a pocket of his coveralls.
    â€œCall you later, C. D.,” Popko said, and walked down the shattered sidewalk toward the river.
    DellaVecchio watched him go. “He’s my friend,” he said after a while.
    â€œI know that, Carmen.”
    â€œYou pissed him off.”
    â€œI’m sorry about that. Really. He’s the only one besides your dad who came to see you in jail, I know. But he needs to understand what’s happening. You can do yourself a lot of harm pulling shit like this. He needs to know that.”
    Popko turned a corner, but DellaVecchio kept watching the spot where he’d been.
    â€œYou’ve got a chance at a new life, Carmen.”
    DellaVecchio’s head swiveled back to her, an almost mechanical movement that betrayed nothing, not anger, not fear, not even comprehension.
    Brenna seized the moment, hoping she had