by Robert Ward
“What’s that?” Garrett said.
“Thing is,” Geiger said, “I had a real jones about shooting that son of a bitch. But when I finally did it, it didn’t feel right. ‘Cause just before I fired I saw his face.”
“Yeah?” Garrett said.
“Yeah,” Geiger said. “And the bastard was smiling at me.”
“Weird,” Garrett said. “You think it was death by cop?”
“Yeah, I do,” Geiger said. “And I ask you, partner, where is the great satisfaction in that?”
“Know what you mean,” Garrett said. “The pleasures in this job are few and far between.”
Geiger nodded in agreement, then stomped on the gas, and the two detectives shot down Broadway toward a crab cake, a bottle of beer, and a shot back. At Bertha’s, their favorite hang.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The beach at Maya, Mexico, is white and the surf is perfect. In the morning Jesse walked down it to a little palm frond bar called the Frog and had coffee and eggs with chili verde. Then after reading the International Tribune and talking to a couple of Canadian expats, she went into the small town where she’d found a woman, Sylvia Hernandez, who had agreed to teach her Spanish. Jesse had worried that she might not be able to pick it up, the same worry she’d always had since she was a kid. That she wasn’t too bright, that she couldn’t learn things that other people took for granted. But as usual, she was wrong. In fact, Sylvia said as they studied on the back porch, she had a real aptitude for languages. Of her five new students, Jesse was by far the best.
That was good, Jesse thought, because she wanted her boy to be multilingual. The world was changing so quickly. What was important was to keep up with it, to understand that the changes didn’t come every ten or fifteen years now but within weeks, or months.
Everything was connected now, she thought, through computers, satellites, and what you knew one day was outdated the very next.
Of course, there were some things that changed more slowly, and here in the village by the sea she could enjoy them for a while. The sea, the beach, the trees, the birds … the Mexican music. In town there was even a bar where a blues band played. She heard them as she rode by on her bicycle just the other day.
She could feel the tug of the place. The idea of going in there and singing, playing blues again … it was pretty appealing. Maybe after she had the kid she’d stop down, see if they needed a singer.
That was what she missed most when she thought of Bob. He was a great guitar player, unselfish, not the kind that went on endless jams but spare, playing only enough notes to make the tune work.
That’s what had attracted her most about him. Not his endless talk, his anger, his obsession with money. Just the way he played the guitar and hung out with the band after the gig. She’d only asked him about the money so they wouldn’t end up broke. What she really liked was everyday life, not having to struggle just to make ends meet. And that was what she wanted to give Bob Junior.
Yes, she thought, as she walked down the beach. She’d call the baby Bob, after his dad. She owed him that much. He was a madman who lived in a dream world and she saw now that he had always wanted to die. That was the point of the whole thing, she thought, as she felt the warm water rush over her ankles.
If he couldn’t make the past come to life then he would hurry the present to its end. He hadn’t thought that was the point of it all, but really it was. Bob would have never made it as a roving citizen of the world … he had invested everything in the past. That was where he was comfortable, living in a dream. A dream of purity and goodness, and anything less sent him into some kind of rage.
Well, when the baby came, Jesse thought, there would be no more of that. The sixties would never be mentioned in her house, nor would any of its heroes or ideals. The past was an octopus, and its tentacles would pull you right down to the bottom of the sea.
She looked up at the moon and felt the wind on her face. It felt so good, so clean, and Bob Junior was growing daily inside her.
She wondered what he would look like, of course, but even more so, she wondered what he would be like. Strong and practical, she prayed, with maybe a musical bent.
And helpful, she thought as she felt the waves splash on her legs. Yes, she had no doubt that Bob Junior would be a very bright and helpful child.
Like his dad used to be, she thought. She wished she’d known him then.
Tyrus Books, a division of F+W Media, publishes crime and dark literary fiction—offering books from exciting new voices and established, well-loved authors. Centering on deeply provocative and universal human experiences, Tyrus Books is a leader in its genre.
tyrusbooks.com
Published in Electronic Format by
TYRUS BOOKS
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.tyrusbooks.com
Copyright © 2006 by Robert Ward
Cover images istockphoto.com/© Benoit Beauregard
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3393-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3393-8
This work has been previously published in print format by:
St. Martin’s Press
Print ISBN: 0-312-35780-X
