who is forgiven, cleansing the mind of anger and resentment. What a load of crap.
“Mulligan? Forgive me, please?”
“I won’t because all of me wants to, regardless of the consequences, and because you’ve counted on that from the very beginning.”
“What? I didn’t quite catch that.”
I didn’t say anything. Doesn’t anybody watch
“I don’t understand anything that’s happening,” she said, her voice small now, not quite a whimper. “Who was the man with the gun? Why did he shoot Brady?”
“Because he deserved it,” I said. “Check the Providence paper’s Web site tomorrow and you can read all about it.”
“I could have been killed,” she said. “Don’t you care?”
“You’re lucky I wasn’t the one holding the gun,” I said, and hung up.
After work, Gloria invited me to the Trinity Brewhouse for a drink.
“What about Hopes?”
“I like this new place,” she said. “I don’t drink at Hopes much anymore.”
For a second, I flashed on an intimate evening with Gloria. Over the last few months, I’d been beaten, betrayed, and bereaved, and now I needed somebody’s arms around me. But not Gloria’s. At least, not right now. I still ached for Veronica, and Gloria was not a woman to be trifled with. I told her I was tired. I told her I just wanted to go home.
But that’s not what I did.
I peeled the yellow parking ticket off my windshield, stuck it under the wiper of the publisher’s BMW, and drove over to Camp Street to catch up with Jack Centofanti for a few minutes. Then I popped into Hopes and found McCracken drinking alone at a table in back.
“So,” he whispered as I sat across from him with my club soda. “I guess I’m an accessory to murder.”
“Sorry I had to involve you.”
“Aw, that’s okay. Only one thing I’m sorry about.”
“What’s that?”
“The pro who set the fires is still out there, for hire to the next asshole who wants something burned down.”
“The guy who attacked Gloria and killed Rosie is still out there, too,” I said.
“Probably the same guy.”
After he left, I flirted with Annie and asked her when she got off. She laughed and turned me down flat, so I finished my drink and drove to Good Time Charlie’s, where Marie was just finishing her shift.
I wooed her with a cheap dinner at the diner, brought her home, and took her to bed. She was athletic and enthusiastic. I told myself she could give Veronica lessons. I was so full of shit.
In the morning, I awoke to the familiar sound of Angela Anselmo screeching at her kids. I got up, stepped into the bathroom, and noticed that Veronica’s yellow toothbrush was still in the porcelain holder above my sink. I plucked it out, snapped it in half, and tossed it in the garbage.
Marie and I showered together. She scrubbed my back, and I took my sweet time with hers. She was dressing when I heard rustling at the apartment door.
Peering through the peephole, I saw nothing but the cracked plaster wall across the hall. I flipped the dead bolt, yanked the door open, and discovered something black and hairy sitting at my threshold.
“Rewrite!”
She leaped at me and almost knocked me down.
Her hair was matted and she smelled bad. A note was tucked under her collar: “You take care of the bitch for a while.”
I fed her some cold cuts from the fridge. Then Marie helped me give her a bath in the tub.
“What am I going to do with you?” I said out loud as I rinsed the suds from her thick, curly coat. Rewrite cocked her head and looked at me with her glistening brown eyes. The landlord would pitch a fit, and with my crazy hours, how could I take care of her anyway?
Then it dawned on me.
There was a nice couple in Silver Lake who knew how to love a dog.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Patricia Smith, one of our greatest living poets, edited every line of every draft and helped this befuddled male create credible love scenes—both on the page and off. Thank you, baby, for permission to excerpt your poem “Spinning ’til You Get Dizzy.”
Paul Mauro, a New York City police captain; Ted Anthony, an Associated Press assistant managing editor; and Jack Hart, the world’s greatest writing coach, read the first draft with care and made many insightful suggestions. Every writer should have such friends.
Thank you, Otto Penzler, for reading the book, making useful suggestions, and recommending me to LJK Literary Management. Susanna Einstein at LJK is much more than an agent. She is the best editor I have ever worked with, and I’ve worked with some of the greats.
I am in Jon Land’s debt for recommending my book to his publisher, Tor/Forge. My thanks to all the folks at the publishing house, especially Eric Raab, for taking a chance on a first-time novelist and doing a fine job with the final edit.
And to sixteen of my favorite crime novelists—Ace Atkins, Peter Blauner, Lawrence Block, Ken Bruen, Alafair Burke, Sean Chercover, Harlan Coben, Michael Connelly, Thomas H. Cook, Tim Dorsey, Loren D. Estleman, Joseph Finder, James W. Hall, Dennis Lehane, Bill Loehfelm, and Marcus Sakey: Thank you for your encouragement and support along the way.
