Black Jack Point Read Online Free PDF Page A

with her until she dozed off, then come down
     to Patch Gilbert’s empty den at two a.m., unable to sleep. He watched an old
Perry Mason
rerun. Perry’s was a perfect world for you, one where justice ticked along sure as clockwork.
    Whit let the TV mumble along and sat in front of the bay window. He cracked open the window so he could hear the murmur of
     St Leo Bay. The night was dark, the moon shy behind clouds, the fireflies glowing and vanishing like candle wick embers, just
     snuffed out between wet finger and thumb. The fire truck lights still blazed over the now-canopied site, an officer standing
     watch.
    The old house was full of the old man, his laughter, his teasing. On a side table there was a bottle of Glenfiddich that Whit
     had seen Patch open only last week. He found two shot glasses and picked up the bottle. He poured the shots of fine Scotch,
     one for him, one for Patch.
    He didn’t touch either drink for a long moment, then downed both. The Scotch burned his throat a little, made his eyes water.
     Closest to tears he would get.
    Patch. Thuy. Promise you. Whoever did this won’t walk.
    He went to bed, curling next to Lucy, shielding her from the night.

6
    ‘Patch Gilbert wanted a hundred thousand dollars. Raised real quietly,’ Gooch said. ‘You know how I feel about publicity.
     I’m not talking to the police, but I’ll tell you about the deal.’
    Gooch opened a Shiner Bock. He and Whit watched the noontime sun play along the ripples in the Golden Gulf Marina. The summer
     live-aboards were gearing up for lunch, the inescapable Jimmy Buffett tunes drifting across the waters, lunchtime beers popping
     open, hung-over throats clearing and gearing up for another half day of lazy life.
    ‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’ Whit pulled a soda from the cooler. ‘Goddamn it, Gooch, don’t you do this to me.’ Thursday
     morning court had been full – traffic and small claims – but Whit was distracted, bug-eyed from lack of sleep and anxious
     to hear back from Parker on the bones and the Nueces County ME’s office on the autopsies.
    ‘I don’t know that I was the first or only person Patch approached.’ Gooch leaned back in the lounge chair, took off his T-shirt
     in the bright sun, closed his eyes. His chest was big and broad, dark with tan but white where the scars lay. One, small and
     blossom-shaped, looked like a bullet wound, another like a healed slash across his abdomen, another like a long-ago stab in
     his shoulder. He never talked about the scars.
    ‘Why would he ask you for a hundred thousand bucks?’
    Gooch opened one eye to stare at Whit.
    It was strange to have your closest friend stay anenigma. Gooch could stare down hired killers, practice the intricacies of hand-to-hand combat, and make troublesome people
     disappear into federal custody. He was a fishing guide, captain of a premier boat named
Don’t Ask,
and yet something far more. He was one of the ugliest men Whit had ever seen, with a face a mother might reluctantly love,
     but he had charisma that drew certain people like moths to a flame. Gooch had saved Whit’s life several months ago, disposing
     of drug dealers with all the ease of a priest dealing with tardy schoolgirls. And Gooch had made it clear that explanations
     as to the
how
would not be forthcoming. Whit had sensed that Gooch waited then, to see if the friendship would survive, if Whit would respect
     his obsessive need for privacy. Whit was glad to be alive and pretended like nothing had happened.
    ‘People consider me resourceful and discreet,’ Gooch said.
    ‘Ah,’ Whit said. A heavy sailboat crawled into the marina; on it, three women in bikinis turned their faces and flat bellies
     toward the warm sun. Whit watched them lean against the rails in glorious idleness.
    ‘So what level of detail you want?' Gooch asked.
    ‘Go deep.’
    ‘Fine. Patch was a steady client of mine. Took him and some of his old army friends fishing. He knows I know a lot