Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) by Steve Ulfelder

Author:Steve Ulfelder [Ulfelder, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Hard-Boiled
Amazon: B009LRWW6I
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2013-05-13T12:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Guilt drove me to the shop to see how things were going.

They weren’t going well. I found Andrade parked in the office, one-handing the computer. He said he was learning our software, but his fast mouse click when he saw me looked like a telltale for solitaire. Or porn surfing.

Floriano was working on two cars at once and trying to handle late drop-offs at the same time.

I really wanted to visit Brad Bloomquist again.

“Hell,” I said.

If Floriano heard, he didn’t respond.

I sighed, grabbed my coveralls, stepped into the flow.

Spent the rest of the day doing boring maintenance on boring cars. Thought about Rinn Biletnikov, Donald Crump, Brad Bloomquist. Especially Brad. Something about his story didn’t click. I waited for it to come to me.

It didn’t.

What did come to me: flashes of Gus. The banister slide into his very first Barnburners meeting. His hero worship when I beat up Andrade. His hidden nervousness about speaking in AA, followed by the smooth talk itself.

The way he tabletopped his dirt-bike jumps, like he was born to do it.

The way he looked like Roy: slender, big brown eyes, uncombed hair, that unfinished look to his features.

The way he looked gut-shot in a sweatshirt, his back arched, one hand clutched delicately like he was holding an imaginary piece of chalk.

The way I’d walked out on Roy. The way I’d tossed Gus down a flight of cast-iron stairs.

These flashes would come, and I would feel so … heavy. Like I needed to sit right away. But if I sat, I’d want to lie down. And if I did that, I’d want to sink through the floor.

I worked slow that day.

At five thirty, we all drove to Marlborough for Andrade’s tools. Three wide on my F-250’s bench seat. Nobody said a word. When Floriano saw Andrade’s immaculate shop, he made a tight little nod, and I knew he understood why I’d hired a new guy with one good arm.

You can’t lift a loaded rolling tool chest. We had to empty every drawer by hand, and even then Floriano and I could barely wrestle the piano-sized chest into the back of my truck. By the time we got everything to my shop, unloaded, and squared away, it seemed like I should take the guys to dinner. And then we had to wait twenty-five minutes for a table at T.G.I. Friday’s. And still none of us said much of anything.

Long day.

* * *

“No man should have to do this,” I said to Peter Biletnikov the next morning, extending my hand. I had made my way up front, to the pews reserved for family.

He stared at the hand until I pulled it back. Then he turned and put his arm around Rinn, who stiffened but let him leave it there.

I walked to the back, wanting to serve as an informal usher when the Barnburners rolled in.

It was a small church, but pristine. The paint was fresh, the blue carpeting was new, all the Bibles matched—it was what you’d expect in a town like Sherborn.

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