An Honest Man: A Novel by Michael Koryta

Author:Michael Koryta [Koryta, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller, Mystery, Suspense
ISBN: 9780316535946
Google: uzX9zgEACAAJ
Amazon: B0BLND9S2H
Barnesnoble: B0BLND9S2H
Goodreads: 61425815
Publisher: Mulholland Books
Published: 2023-07-25T05:00:00+00:00

30

The three men waited for him, two of them watching Oz, who was tapping the porch railing with the aluminum bat. It was a Little League bat, smaller than standard. That wasn’t good news; the lighter the bat, the harder you could swing it with one hand. Israel would’ve preferred to see a weapon that required a windup. That bought you time.

Israel had no weapons except his fists and his work boots. His first drug dealer had sold him on the importance of a heavy boot, ideally steel-toed. If anyone gets you down—and they will, soon enough—you’re going to need a kick that counts, he’d advised.

Israel shrugged out of his hoodie as he walked down the hill, let the wind peel it off his body. He wanted to be unencumbered. He was taller than any of them except Hoss, leaner than all of them, faster. They had all been in fights, but he wasn’t sure how many of them had been in fights that counted. He knew none of them had been attacked in a prison shower by a lifer with a shiv made out of a broken metal broom handle.

Three on one, though. He would have to be very fast. The downside to wearing heavy boots was compromised foot speed; the upside was the one kick that counted.

“Why you looking for me, Oz?”

He crossed the patchy lawn where clumps of rough grass fought their way up from thin soil. The three of them walked to meet him, fanning out. Israel stood, hands at his sides, palms flat. Oz stopped, but Hoss and Darian orbited Israel. He could smell their body odor, the sourness of their overheated anger. Darian moved warily, the way a man walked around an unfamiliar dog. Israel wasn’t unfamiliar to him, though. Their fathers had fished together, their families had gathered for holiday meals. The last of those gatherings had been for a Super Bowl party at the boatyard, the first win of Belichick’s career in New England, the February after the Twin Towers fell, back in the days when the worst things seemed farthest from home.

“The police told me,” Oz said.

“Told you what?” Israel said. “That I’m a photographer? Nobody gathered that from watching me carry a camera around every damn day? Needed Sterling’s detective work?”

Oz started tapping the Little League bat against his cupped palm. It contacted his wedding ring each time, the rhythmic clang of a distant bell buoy.

“You’re gonna need a friggin’ bulletproof explanation of what the hell you’ve been doing if you want to stay on this island,” Darian said from behind Israel.

If he wanted to stay.

“I’m a photographer. There’s not a soul on this island hasn’t seen me with a camera in my hands. And nobody said one word, ever, because—”

“Nobody knew you were taking pictures of their kids like a pedophile!” Oz shouted.

So there it was. The obvious assumption, and yet it still cut through Israel’s soul, hearing it said out loud. If these ignorant bastards only knew…

“Anyone who’s concerned is more than welcome to look at the pictures,” he said.

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