Summer Cool - A Jack Paine Mystery (Jack Paine Mysteries) Read Free Page B

pleasantly.
    Coleman looked as though he'd swallowed something very sour. He looked past Paine's head for a long time. His eyes had taken on the rock hardness evidenced earlier; with an effort of will, he reshaped and softened his face before he let it drift back to Paine.
    "A lot of what you've said is true," he said. "I admit that. But Joe Dannon's dead. The investigation of what happened between you and him is closed. You've been completely exonerated. I could start you again, at current pay levels, at exactly the same spot you left in. And, due to extenuating circumstances, I could see that your move toward detective's rank was expedited. I think I owe you that much, and more."
    "Is your ass on the line, Coleman?" Paine asked, smiling.
    "No," Coleman shot back.
    "That's not what I heard. I heard a shake-up is on the way, with this new guy as chief. And you figure on strengthening your position by getting me back on the force and making everyone see what a great guy you are, never mind a cracker jack administrator."
    Coleman was looking down at his blotter. "I could assign you to find Bob Petty, at full pay, on leave. You'd be doing just what you are now, and get paid steady for it. You know he wiped Terry out. She must have told you that."
    "She told me," Paine said, getting up, "but I don't give a fuck about money."
    "You should," Coleman said. "Like I said, with full pay—"
    "Did Bobby say anything else to you on the phone?"
    Paine was about to get up, but he found himself pinned, Coleman leaning across his desk, his hand gripping Paine's arm. There was a look of desperation in Coleman's eyes that Paine wanted to relish but discovered he could not.
    "Look," Coleman said, "come back and work for me now, and I'll push you faster than you thought possible. In six months, you'll have Petty's old job. Full detective, full pay, accrued pension. I can promise that. Do it for your dad." Coleman tried to smile ; it came onto his face crooked. "Just like old times, eh?"
    "There weren't any old times," Paine said. He pulled his arm away from Coleman's grip, got up, and walked to the door.
    As he opened it he looked back. Coleman was sinking slowly back into his chair. The breeze from the air conditioner was rustling the back of his head again ; again, none of the coolness was reaching his sweating face.
    Coleman looked at him, a haunted look, a look that perhaps was searching for the old times he so desperately wanted to cling to. Then his hands moved around his desk, looking for papers to rustle, and his eyes looked down, a new drop of sweat falling from his face to the center of the empty blotter.
    "Better turn your air conditioner off," Paine said, leaving the door open behind him. "I might call the mayor and tell him you're cheating."

4
     
    P aine sat in his car. The road he had parked on sported uncollected garbage spilling off the curbs, cracked brick-face buildings, rusting grates over bodega windows, Miller beer signs behind iron-reinforced windows with only the neon on the M flashing sporadically. The entire street looked like an alley.
    Ah, America, Paine thought.
    Paine lifted his watch to check the time ; as he did so, there was a tap on the passenger-side window and he looked over to see Roberto Hermano's smiling face. Hermano was almost woman-cute, with tight black curls, limpid brown eyes with long lashes. His skin was smooth and unblemished. He was twenty-six, but looked seventeen. Paine's watch said 5:45 ; Hermano was precisely on time.
    Paine leaned over and unlocked the door, and Hermano slid into the seat, slammed the door behind him, and relocked it.
    Hermano flipped the switch on a miniature boom box he had set in his lap; a blurt of reggae music came out, very loud, before Paine hit the stop button and said, "Don't."
    Hermano smiled widely and then feigned hurt. "Paine-man, how you doing? Don't you like Bob Marley, man? I like Bob Marley." He moved his face closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.