Dead Irish by John Lescroart

Author:John Lescroart
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2011-03-24T07:00:00+00:00

“You know the combination?”

“I know it’s under the blotter on the desk.”

But it wasn’t.

So they spent about forty minutes looking for it, until Alphonse got on the floor and pulled out the elbow rest or writing pad or whatever it was that was stuck in the desk with a little groove on the bottom that you could put your finger in and then pull out.

“He always kept it under the blotter.”

“Hey, baby, it’s cool. The main thing is we got it now.” He whistled. Five numbers, up to eighty. “You ever open the thing?”

She nodded, sliding off the desk where she’d been sitting, sulking, coming down very hard. “You got any more blow?” she asked.

Alphonse had a few lines, as always, and he hadn’t poured them out back at Linda’s on the general rule that you don’t tap out. But, he figured, now was tap city or bust.

This be the table, jacks. He felt it, and as he’d earlier proved, he was on a roll. “Maybe a line, two.” He smiled his bright smile. “And the man be dealin’.”

He was careful, pouring the cocaine onto the wooden desk, cutting it cleanly into four lines with his pocket knife, the one he’d used on Sam. It was a sharp knife.

They made a game out of it. “Right two,” Alphonse said, and Linda, on her knees with her ass sticking out—was she doing that on purpose?—and her tits—and Alphonse loved tits—big and firm-looking held up under the T-shirt, just turned that little dial. “Left, eighteen.”

“Daddy’s gonna shit we don’t get this back.”

“We’ll get it back. Right seventy-seven.”

“Sunset strip.”

“You wanna?”

She giggled.

“Right nine,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Left—don’t go past it—sixty-three.” He expected they’d go at it nine, eleven, forty times, but goddamn if the thing didn’t open just like a refrigerator.

Linda, wordless, reached in and pulled out one of the packets of hundred-dollar bills, tied with a banker’s ribbon on which was written, in red felt-tip pen, “$10,000.”

Alphonse eased his ass off the desk and made himself go slow the fifteen feet across to her. She just held it out, like, “What is this?”

He took it, riffled it, realizing deep in his heart that it was the real thing, that this was the number-one end of the line roll to end all rolls.

He crossed back to the desk. The packet of money fit easily into the front pocket of the camouflage pants. “Goddamn,” he said, surprised at the high end to his voice. He turned to look at Linda, still kneeling by the safe. “Goddamn! You hear me? God . . . goddamn.”

He felt like he had to go to the bathroom. “How much is there?” Linda asked, her voice small now behind the cavernous roaring rush in Alphonse’s ears.

He didn’t even hear her. Over at the desk now he saw the knife and maybe a quarter line of powder and, knowing he’d just busted the house, he leaned down and scraped it into a small pile, licked his finger, ran it over the wood and then popped it into his mouth.

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