The James Deans by Reed Farrel Coleman

Author:Reed Farrel Coleman [Coleman, Reed Farrel]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781597228961
Publisher: Gale
Published: 2005-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

GLITTERS WAS DOING brisk business when I walked in. Rocky was working the door. I guess maybe Adonis was out getting his body bronzed or something. With his face so distorted by scar tissue, it was difficult to tell if the ex-pug recognized me or not. I didn’t leave it to chance.

“Hey, remember me? You tried putting your right hand through my rib cage a few nights ago before your boy took batting practice on my knees.”

“About that, John, he—”

“I don’t really give a shit, Rocky. Let’s just say you owe me one. Get John. I’ll be waiting at the bar.” “Here.”

He gave me my ten dollars back.

I didn’t have long to wait. People are usually prompt on payday, and John Heaton was no exception. Unfortunately for him, he was going to get a bonus he hadn’t counted on. When he sat down next to me, I said nothing, but continued nursing my beer. I removed two white envelopes from my jacket pocket and slid them along the bar to Heaton.

“One’s for you, the other’s for Domino.”

He had the good taste and good sense not to count it out in the open. Apparently, he still hadn’t picked up today’s papers. I ordered him a drink.

“Can’t drink while I’m on,” he said, but not in time to stop the barmaid from fixing his whiskey.

“Ever stop you while you were on the job?”

“No, but this ain’t the job. Here they’re fuckin’ serious about it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Heaton,” I said as the barmaid placed his scotch down in front of him. “They’ll make an exception today.”

He didn’t touch it. “Oh yeah, and why is that?”

“Because the guy who murdered Moira just signed a full confession.”

He froze in place. Only his face moved, and involuntarily, streams of emotions washing over his bloated red countenance so quickly I couldn’t keep up. Finally, it was just a blank mask. “What?”

“You read the papers?”

“Not since—no, not in a long time.”

“Drink your drink, John.”

He did, in a gulp. I tapped the bar in front of him. The barmaid poured another. He drank. After the third, he was primed.

“It’s ugly, huh?”

“Very.”

“Tell me.”

I didn’t argue with him. He’d find out anyway. He was pretty stoic about it until I described how Alfonseca had disposed of Moira’s body in pieces off City Island. That he couldn’t bear and slammed his forehead down full force onto the bar. It split open like the skin of an overripe fruit, blood pouring down into his eyes, over his cheeks, swallowing up his tears. I told the barmaid to get Rocky. There was little doubt in my mind he’d know how to stem the flow of blood. As for the rest of it, there was nothing anyone could do to help.

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