Blood and Bone by William Lashner

Author:William Lashner [Lashner, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Call me Bobby.”

“I don’t know, Bobby. We’re prohibited from fraternizing with

witnesses we meet on the job.”

“Is that what I am? A witness?”

“Yes.”

“How exciting.”

“And there are rules.”

“Oh, rules,” he said with a dismissive wave of his blistered hand.

“It’s only coffee. And we can discuss your Mr. O’Malley a bit fur-

ther.”

“Well,” she said with a smile of her own. “Maybe you’re right.

Coffee does sound nice.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out

a card.

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As he reached for the card, the sleeve of his white shirt extended

from the cardigan. A French cuff. She held on to the card a few sec-

onds to take a better look. A round silver cuff link. And was that a

spot on the cuff link? Dark. Like a drop of something. Something

like blood. She looked up at his face, at the deranged eyebrows and

the lidded eyes that were hiding everything but their dementia. In a

strange way, she wanted to hug him like a lost child even as she won-

dered where he was in such a hurry to get to.

Still holding on to the card, she stared into his eyes and said,

“What’s your brother’s name, Bobby?”

He licked his lips. “Eugene.”

“Eugene Spangler of Des Moines, Iowa.”

“He’s in a home now, a hospice, preparing for his death. They

overcook the green beans.”

“Please give Eugene my best wishes,” she said before letting go of

the card.

“I’ll do that . . .” He glanced at the card, looked back up at her.

“Lucia.”

“Give me a call when you get back,” she said in a voice as breath-

less as Marilyn Monroe’s. “I’ll be waiting.”

CHAPTER 45

A SENATOR WALKS INTO A BAR.

The amazing sight of Senator Francis Truscott IV walking into a

joint like Bubba’s seemed so surreal to Kyle that it could only be the

setup of a joke.

A senator walks into a bar. He orders ten martinis lined up in a row.

“What’s the occasion?” says the bartender. “I’m celebrating,” says the senator. “I just raised a million dollars for my reelection campaign.”

Truscott, a tall man in his late forties, wore a pair of jeans, a leather

jacket, and a baseball cap, trying hard to hide his senatoricity. But the

jeans were pressed, and the leather of the jacket was butter soft, and

it was a Phillies cap he was wearing, which was like a sign saying not

from here. And of course there was the gaunt and severe face, chis-

eled by the gads of press coverage he had garnered over the years into

something like a monument.

“Congratulations,” says the bartender as he lines up eleven martinis side

by side. “Have another on the house.” “No thanks,” says the senator. “If ten don’t wipe out the taste of all the dick I’ve been sucking, I don’t think eleven will either.”

Or something like that.

BLO O D AN D BO N E 295

Kyle was waiting for the senator in a booth, alone. But not entirely

alone. There was Skitch at the bar, throwing dice with Old Tommy

Trapp while keeping an eye on things. And Kat was parked in a car

across the street, ready to call the police if something looked fishy.

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