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

I've loved her for twenty, I love my family and would die for them on this spot"—again he had banged the table, bringing a look from the bartender, who knew them but knew that cops could be violent, even dangerous, especially when very drunk at three o'clock in the morning—"but Jesus, Jack, I did it because I wanted to. What the fuck is wrong with me?"
    He'd sat up then, and laughed at his own incomprehensibility.
    "We all do shit we shouldn't," Paine had said.
    Petty's sell-anger flared again. "That doesn't answer it!" He leaned close over the table, as if the empty booth were surrounded with ears. "You know Terry," he said. "You've seen her in a bathing suit. Even after having kids her body drives me crazy. It's not perfect, but it's. . ." He'd shrugged. "It's perfect. You keep telling me how wonderful she is."
    "She is, Bobby."
    Petty snorted, sat up straight, searched for a still-usable bottle of beer, found a tall-neck Bud hiding near his elbow half full. He drank from it. "She is. And she knows it. That's what I've always loved best about her: She knows she's good at being a wife and a mother, she's strong—" Petty waved his own thoughts away. 'All that shit." He looked at Paine. "Didn't you tell me once you'd grab her in a minute if I was gone?"
    Paine smiled. "I was drunk, Bobby."
    "You're drunk now. Tell me, wouldn't you grab her in a minute if I wasn't around?"
    "Sure I would, Bobby."
    "I'm not kidding." Petty was very drunk. He put his beer bottle down, almost tipping its edge, and reached across the small table to grab Paine's arm in a vise grip. "Didn't you have a crush on her when you first met her? She told me you tried to kiss her once at one of the Fourth of July parties down at the club." His eyes were as intense as his grip, which meant that he wanted a straight answer.
    "I did, Bobby. But I was drunk then, too. By then I had Ginny."
    "Yeah," Petty said. "Sure, Ginny. . . "
    The bartender was making motions with his arms to Paine. Jack focused his eyes toward the bar and saw the man waving his apron like a flag. When he caught Paine's attention he pointed to his wrist and waved at the door.
    "Pete wants us to leave," Paine said to Bobby.
    Bobby turned and smiled at Pete. "Out in a minute, Petey."
    Pete threw up his hands and turned to his paper on the bar, flipping the pages angrily. Bobby found his Bud bottle, drained it, and then suddenly returned his tight eyes to Paine. "You didn't answer my question, Jack."
    "Which one?"
    Again, tears forced their way out of Bobby's eyes ; the tightness in his pupils softened and his granite face flushed red.
    "Don't hit the table," Paine said, quickly putting his hand out to stay Petty's fist.
    "Dammit, Jack, I want to know! I want to know why I let my dick tell me what to do! Terry's great in bed, she's the best! I felt so guilty. . . ." His face had collapsed into his hands, and he sobbed like a schoolboy. "Jesus, I couldn't wait a couple of months till she got well. I was too fucking weak. I'll never do anything like that again . . .
    He sobbed for a half minute ; then Paine stood and got him up and steered him for the door, past Pete shaking his head over his paper, stretching to come after them and lock the door, mumbling with a trace of affection, "Fucking cops..."
      That was Bob Petty. He'd never do it again. He'd been a weak marine. A weak cop. And could barely stand it, the breaking of his code.
    That was Bobby Petty, the essential Bobby Petty. There were secret doors, and secret locks into little hidden rooms, no doubt, but that was Bob Petty's soul.
    He'd never do it again.
    And now he'd done it again, broken the code, kicked the pieces into the gutter, and Paine couldn't figure why. Petty had unlocked some secret door, and whatever was in it was so deep and horrible that it had made him take his essential self, the soul of Bobby Petty, and strangle it and make it die.
    Paine stared at the ceiling, at the parade of his waking dreams. This night, even