Green Monster Read Free Page A

wanted from life—and how a long-distance romance with an ex-cop fit into it. She said there was a chance—more than a chance, really—that he would be part of that life, but she wasn’t ready to say when.
    Sam wanted to be in Caroline’s life. He was in his mid-thirties, and finding it lonely to be away from the police force. He had been used to not having anyone to greet him when he came home at night, but at least there’d been the crude jokes and camaraderie with his fellow cops during the day. Now he was thinking about getting a dog. When he was a kid, he’d had a German shepherd named Bart—a former police dog, brought home by his dad after it was injured in a chase. If he could find a dog as smart and loyal as Bart had been…but detective hours were unpredictable. Did he want to have to worry about running home in the middle of a stakeout to let the dog out? Or finding someone to take the dog when Sam had to leave town?
    The band was his primary release, but not from job stress, like Hargrove and the others. Sam was battling boredom, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t want to be a cop again; he liked the freedom of being a private investigator. He could be relentless when a job had his full attention, and, working on his own, he didn’t have to worry about being told to speed up or slow down on a case.
    It was the cases themselves that were sucking the life out of him. When he was being honest with himself, he could admit that he didn’t care whether Beth Cheslak was screwing Brian Johnson at their real estate agency, even if Beth’s husband Bob was paying him $100 an hour to find out. It was tawdry work. But, it wasn’t the prying and skulking that bothered him; it was the reason he was doing it. As a cop, he was Preserving civic order and Protecting the citizenry. He was helping a grieving wife, mother, or father find a small measure of relief by hunting down and locking up the murdering thug who’d ruined their lives. But catching Beth Cheslak coming out of the motel with Brian Johnson? That was a pay day, nothing more.
    Marcus Hargrove brought “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” to its sudden ending, drawing cries for more from the dancers. He gave Sam and the band the signal for “Land of 1,000 Dances,” and they all hit and held a B-minor.
    â€œOne, two THREE!” Marcus sang into the mic, and then Sam and the band let a solid D chord hang in the air while Marcus sang “ONE, two, three…” Then Bear played the descending bass riff, Stu began hammering the snare and hi-hat and the band kicked into the set-closer—you couldn’t follow Wilson Pickett’s “Land of 1,000 Dances” with anything except “Shout,” and they always saved that one for the end of the night. When Marcus had finished screaming the final “ah, HELP me!”s, they put their instruments down, left the stage to the yells and applause of the exhausted dancers, and went to the bar for their beers—on the house.
    â€œPhone call for you, Sam,” Ted Tollefson said as he poured him a glass of Bass Ale from the tap.
    â€œWhen did it come?” Sam said. He wiped his sweating forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
    â€œDuring ‘Twist and Shout,’ I think.”
    â€œDid they leave a number?”
    â€œNo. It was a woman. She’s still on the line. Said she’d wait.”
    Sam took a deep gulp of his beer and then reached across the bar for the phone receiver that Ted held out to him.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œSam Skarda?”
    â€œThat’s me. You’ll have to speak up. It’s real loud in here.”
    â€œAre you…Boston…tomorrow?”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Sam said. “I didn’t catch that. Louder, please.”
    â€œâ€¦fly…tomorrow!”
    â€œNo, sorry, still not hearing you real well. Call me on my cell phone, and I’ll