Bluetick Revenge Read Online Free PDF

that,” I said.
    It wasn’t quite time for dinner, so I picked up a book I’d been reading, leaned back in my chair, and put my feet up on the
     desk. Presently I was working my way through
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
, by Robert Pirsig. I’d read it many times before, but it’s a wonderful examination of philosophy and well worth rereading
     every few years. Philosophy had interested me since college, and I had even tried graduate school for a year. Later, when
     I left the practice of law, one of my goals was to study the entire history of philosophy from pre-Socratic Greece right up
     to the twentieth century. I attained that goal, though by the time I got up to American pragmatism I had forgotten what distinguished
     the stoics from the epicureans. That’s one of the dangers of studying philosophy. You’re never quite done.
    I heard water running and assumed Karlynn was taking a shower. Sometime after five she and Prince wandered into my office.
     She wore a new pair of jeans and what sure as hell looked like one of my size 44 white cotton T-shirts. Her hair looked a
     little less stringy, and I could see how she might make it into the “good-looking” category with a little bit of effort. “I’m
     bored,” she said.
    “My job is to protect you, not entertain you.”
    “Whatcha reading?” she asked as if I’d said nothing. I held up the book so she could see its title.
    “I didn’t know you were into bikes,” she said.
    “It’s not about bikes,” I said. “It’s about values.”
    “Oh.”
    “If you see one you like,” I said, “feel free.” Two of the walls in my study are lined with books, mostly books on philosophy
     and some fiction by authors such as Edward Abbey and Thomas McGuane. She glanced at a few of the titles, then scanned the
     rest of the office. It’s only about two hundred square feet, but it’s more than adequate. I’d furnished it with a mahogany
     desk and added color by creating a cactus garden atop the matching credenza against the south window.
    “You must like bears,” she said. The other walls boasted several paintings of grizzly bears, including an original by Robert
     Bate-man that I had purchased after one particularly profitable year during my legal career.
    “Bears are cool,” I said. “In my next life I want to be a grizzly. I want to live on the Alaskan coast and eat salmon and
     berries all day.”
    “Is that you?” she asked, pointing to a framed black-and-white photo of young Pepper in full boxing regalia. It was clear
     she was going to continue to make conversation, so I put the book down.
    “That’s me,” I said. She moved closer to the photo. Beneath the photos on a small silver band, was an inscription: “Capt.
     Pepper Keane-Heavyweight Champion MCB Camp Lejeune for 1984. An officer AND a lawyer-who’d have thunk it?”
    “Most heavyweights are taller,” she said. That definitely should’ve been strike three, but I’d heard it so many times that
     I’d become more or less immune to it. She wasn’t going away, so I removed my feet from my desk and stood up.
    “I guess we should feed the dogs and make some dinner,” I said. She followed me to the kitchen. I let Buck and Wheat in, then
     handed her a large metal mixing bowl and told her where the dog chow was. “I’ve been feeding him in the basement,” I said,
     “so he won’t fight with my dogs.” While she was doing that, I ushered Buck and Wheat into the garage and fed them. Then I
     returned to the kitchen and started boiling water for spaghetti.
    She returned from the basement and stood against the counter while I chopped tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and garlic. “Joe
     Frazier is only five-ten,” I said. “And Tyson isn’t even six feet.” She didn’t respond. I melted some butter in a frying pan
     and slid the vegetables into it.
    “You one of those men who like to cook?” she asked.
    “No,” I said, “I’m one of those men who like to eat.”