The Angel Maker - 2 Read Free

tip.
    She looked real good. High, strong cheekbones, heavy eyebrows and shoulder-length brown hair that in certain light held a rusty red. Intense, concentrating eyes, and an outdoors complexion. He knew damn well she'd been home to fix herself up, and that made him wonder, all of a sudden, about her intentions. She didn't wear silk blouses and pearl necklaces around the fourth floor, unless a hell of a lot had changed in the past two years. Would she comment about the way he looked?
    A jazz rat wearing the same pair of khakis for a week. You could track his meals on these pants. His shirt was on its second day. He generally did laundry Mondays and Thursdays.
    It was kind of strange to see her again, strange to have not seen her for so long. Not that he hadn't kept up with her through others, but seeing her in the flesh was altogether different. Nice flesh at that. But he felt none of the lusty urges he had been caught up in two years earlier. She felt to him more like a high school sweetheart, someone from long ago whom he had known before the rules had changed. Of course, the rules hadn't changed, he thought; he had.
    He and his wife, Liz, had rebuilt their relationship from the ashes of overwork, failed promises, and a disintegration of purpose, interest, and spirit. it had required enormous sacrifices on both their parts: Boldt had left the department; Liz had borne the burden of pregnancy and a difficult delivery to bring them a son. New roles now: Liz, the provider, mother, and lover; Boldt, part-time jazz rat, full-time house husband and Mr. Mom. Together they had found a new rhythm, carved out a new existence.
    Now, here was Daffy glowing in the limited light of the cheap seats, nervous eyes seeking him out.
    He bought himself a few precious moments by delaying the ending of the song with a long improvisation. It would all be improvisation from here on out, He rose from the bench and interrupted Mallory before she could complain about the length of the set. "Push drinks on them," he suggested, feeding her one instinct. "I'll stretch the next set to compensate."
    Mallory grimaced but didn't argue. Daphne would call that a learned behavior.
    He finger-combed what hair he could find up there. She kept her eyes on him as he approached. He wiped his palms on his pants and offered a smile. Two years had passed, and all he could think to say was, "Hey there."
    She grinned and nudged a chair away from the table with her foot.
    He felt big and clumsy as he sat down in the chair. He had added a dozen pounds and knew he looked it. Not her. They shook hands, and he was thankful for that. No need to be weird about this. He said, "Can/t even see the scar " though he wasn't sure what possessed him to do 'so.
    She tugged at the scarf and revealed it to him: three or four inches long, still slightly pink. It would always be there to remind her. He remembered the knife held there as if it were yesterday, Daffy attempting to talk a known killer out of using the knife on her; Boldt, the one with the gun. She in the way of the bullet, her throat in the way of that blade. Her weapons were her words and they had failed her. Boldt wondered if she had recovered from that one yet. Those things tended to haunt you. "That was a stupid thing to say," he admitted. "Is this the new you? Looking for my flaws?"
    "Let me tell you something: There are women who would kill to have flaws like yours." He hoped a compliment might erase his mistake. "Keep your shorts on, Casanova. That's all behind us."
    "Hey, you think I don't know? I'm a father now. Though that's probably news to you." "I keep up," she said. "I didn't think it would have been too appropriate for me to throw you and Liz a baby shower."
    "it must have taken some courage to break a two-year habit of staying away. This is no visit, is it? Not dressed like that, it isn't. Have you been somewhere? Going somewhere? Are you selling something? Why are you here? Not that I'm complaining."
    "I heard