The Drop Page 15
Bob couldn’t think of anything to say but “thank you.”
Chovka patted Bob’s face. “Dakka will be by soon. Good night.”
Bob said, “Good night. Thank you. Good night.”
George opened the door and Chovka exited, lighting a cigarette. Anwar followed, pulling the roller bag of Eric behind him, the wheels bumping over the threshold and then again on the icy sidewalk.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS this now? Marv watched the Chechens exit the bar with one duffel bag that required two guys to lift it into the back of the van. He would have thought they’d have more than one bag. All that money?
He rolled down his window as they drove off and flicked his cigarette out onto the crust of snow by the hydrant. The cigarette rolled off the hard mound, rolled down the curb, and hissed when it found a puddle there.
Another thing he’d need to do when he got to Thailand—quit smoking. It was enough already. He went to roll the window up and saw a guy standing three inches away on the sidewalk.
Same guy who’d asked him for directions a few weeks back.
“Ah, shit,” Marv said softly as the guy shot him through the nose.
“GO IN PEACE NOW to love and serve the Lord.”
Father Regan made the sign of the cross and that was it—the final mass.
They all looked around at one another, the hardy few, the penitents and patrons of the seven—Bob and Torres, Widow Malone, Theresa Coe, Old Man Williams, as well as several people who hadn’t been by in a while making return cameos and guest appearances for this, the final show. Bob could see the same numbness in all their faces—they’d known it was going to happen and yet, somehow, they hadn’t.
Father Regan said, “If anyone would like to purchase one of the pews before they are sold for consignment, please call Bridie in the rectory, which will be open for another three weeks. God bless you all.”
No one moved for a minute. And then Widow Malone shuffled out into the aisle and Torres was next. Followed by some of the guest stars. Bob and Old Man Williams were the last two out. At the holy water font, Bob blessed himself within these walls for the last time and caught Old Man Williams’s eye. The old man smiled and nodded several times but said nothing, and they walked out together.
ON THE SIDEWALK, HE and Torres stood looking back up at it.
“When did you take your tree down this year?” Bob asked.
Torres said, “Day after Little Christmas. You?”
Bob said, “Same.”
They nodded at each other and went back to looking at the church.
“Just like I predicted,” Torres said.
“What’s that?”
“They sold it to Milligan Development. It’s going to be condos, Bob. Seculars sitting up there behind that beautiful window, sipping their fucking Starbucks and talking about the faith they put in their Pilates teacher.” He gave Bob a soft, rueful smile and shrugged. After a minute he said, “You love your father?”
Bob looked at him long enough to see he was completely serious. “A shitload.”
Torres said, “You guys were close?”
Bob said, “Yeah.”
“Me too. You don’t hear that a lot.” He looked up again. “It was a gorgeous church. Sorry to hear about Cousin Marv.”
“Carjacking gone bad, they said.”
Torres widened his eyes. “That was an execution. A block and a half from your bar.”
Bob looked up the street for a bit and said nothing.
Torres said, “Eric Deeds. I mentioned him to you once.”
“I remember.”
“You didn’t then.”
“I remember you mentioning him.”
Torres said, “Ah. He was in your bar Super Bowl Sunday. You see him?”
Bob said, “You know how many people were in that bar Super Bowl Sunday?”
Torres said, “Last place he was ever seen. Then? Poof. Just like Richie Whelan. Ironic, since Deeds supposedly killed Whelan. Bodies getting clipped or vanishing all over the place, but you don’t see anything.”
Bob said, “He could turn up.”
Torres said, “If he does, it’ll probably be in a psych ward. Which is where he was the night Whelan disappeared.”
Bob looked over at him.
Torres nodded several times. “True. His partner told me Deeds always took credit for the Whelan hit because nobody else wanted to and he thought it helped his street cred. But he didn’t kill Whelan.”
Bob said, “Will he be missed, though?”
Torres couldn’t believe this guy. He smiled. “Will he be what?”
Bob said, “Missed.”
Torres said, “No. Maybe Whelan wasn’t, either.”
Bob said, “That’s not true. I knew Glory Days. He wasn’t a bad guy. Not at all.”
For a time, neither of them said anything. Then Torres leaned in. “No one ever sees you coming, do they?”
Bob kept his face as clear and open as Walden Pond. He held out his hand and Torres shook it. “You take care, Detective.”
“You too.”
Bob left him there, staring at a building, helpless to change anything that went on in there.
NADIA CAME TO HIM a few days later. They walked the dog. When it was time to go home, they walked to hers, not his.
“I’ve gotta believe,” Nadia said when they were inside, “that there’s a purpose. And even if it’s that you kill me as soon as I close my eyes—”
“Me? What? No,” Bob said. “Oh, no.”
“—then that’s okay. Because I just can’t go through any more of this alone. Not another day.”
“Me too,” he said, his eyes closed tight. “Me too.”
They didn’t speak for a long time. And then:
“He needs a walk.”
“Huh?”
“Rocco. He hasn’t been out in a while.”
He opened his eyes, looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. She’d pasted star decals there when she was a kid and they were still there.
“I’ll get the leash.”
IN THE PARK, THE February sky hung just above them. The ice had broken on the river but small chunks of it clung to the dark banks.
He didn’t know what he believed. Rocco walked ahead of them, pulling on the leash a bit, so proud, so pleased, unrecognizable from the quivering hunk of fur Bob had pulled from a barrel just two months ago.
Two months! Wow. Things sure could change in a hurry. You rolled over one morning, and it was a whole new world. It turned itself toward the sun, stretched and yawned. It turned itself toward the night. A few more hours, and it turned itself toward the sun again. A new world, every day.
When they reached the center of the park, he unhooked the leash from Rocco’s collar and reached into his coat for a tennis ball. Rocco reared his head. He snorted loud. He pawed the earth. Bob threw the ball and Rocco took off after it. Bob envisioned the ball taking a bad bounce into the road. The screech of tires, the thump of metal against dog. Or what would happen if Rocco, suddenly free, just kept running.
But what could you do?
You couldn’t control things.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO BY GABY GERSTER / DIOGENEN, ZURICH
DENNIS LEHANE is the author of ten previous novels—including the New York Times bestsellers Live by Night; Moonlight Mile; Gone, Baby, Gone; Mystic River; Shutter Island; and The Given Day—as well as Coronado, a collection of short stories and a play. He and his wife, Angie, currently live in California with their children.
www.dennislehane.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
ALSO BY DENNIS LEHANE
A Drink Before the War
Darkness, Take My Hand
Sacred
Gone, Baby, Gone
Prayers for Rain
Mystic River
Shutter Island
Coronado: Stories
The Given Day
Moonlight Mile
Live by Night
CREDITS
© 2014 TWENTIETH CENTURY FOX FILM CORPORATION. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Originally published in a different form, as “Animal Rescue,” in the anthology Boston Noir, published in 2009 by Akashic Books.
THE DROP. Copyright © 2014 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lehane, Dennis
The drop / Dennis Lehane.—First edition.
pages cm
“Originally published in a slightly different form in Boston Noir in 2009 by Akashic Books”—Title page verso.
ISBN 978-0-06-236544-6 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-06-236557-6 (hardcover)
EPub Edition July 2014 ISBN 9780062365484
1. Criminals—Fiction. 2. Couples—Fiction. 3. Film novelizations.
[1. Rescue dogs—Fiction.] I. Title.
PS3562.E426D76 2014
813'.54—dc23
2014013594
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14 15 16 17 18 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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