The Accidental Pallbearer Read Online Free PDF Page B

ensure the child’s and wife’s safety? Only one thing I can think of.”
    From out of the pouring rain,
Hut! HutHut!
Conte goes to the window. The Runner stops in front of the house. Black, broad-brimmed, rain-repellent hat. White T-shirt. Red running shorts. White running shoes. He points to Eliot, then to himself. Repeats the gesture. Smiles.
Hut!
and moves on.
HutHut!
Conte returns to the kitchen.
    Robinson wants to know, “What’s so fascinating about that fuckin’ whack job?”
    “I think he wants to communicate.”
    “I think you’re still bombed, bro.”
    “I think he wants to communicate with me.”
    Robinson is hyper-alert: “About what? Why would he want to communicate with you? For what reason? Are you trying to tell me something?”
    Conte says he needs to revive himself with a shower and shave and asks Robinson to lock the door when he leaves for Saint Anthony. Robinson replies, “I’ll still be here unless you take more than forty-five minutes to do yourfuckin’ ablutions.” (“Ablutions” induces Eliot’s first full grin in weeks.) Robinson goes to the front room, picks up one of the numerous high-end clothing catalogues, sits in the cushy reclining chair slowly thumbing the pages of Bullock & Jones of San Francisco, noting articles he’d seen to advantage on Conte’s generous frame and jealous of his friend’s ability to pay such prices – Robinson’s own elegance of dress an imitation, one-third-price-knock-off of Eliot’s. Fuckin’ Eliot with his mortgage-free house, peanuts real-estate taxes, thanks no doubt to Big Daddy … drives an eight-year-old Toyota Camry, does his own laundry, does well enough in his private-dick practice to support his sartorial excesses and the opera CDs, his only entertainment expense. No girlfriend to blow his money on. Madame Hand and Her Five Fair Daughters. Eliot, you bitch … Who went for the high-tech surveillance devices? Obviously Silvio. And what does Silvio get in return for his investment of fatherly love? Eliot, you fuckin’ ingrate. And me with a spoiled wife and five kids who don’t want to grow up. And this fuckin’ Michael C who will destroy everything I’ve got.
    Conte appears and Robinson says, “I have to leave in five minutes and you have to listen to me. We have a problem with a serial rape crisis in this town and my assistant chief – that’s right, Michael Coca – he’s the one. The women will not bring charges and no one knows exactly how many except Coca. Just one, one brave one confided in my wife, who confided in me, and now I confide in you. The victims are all married to my patrolmen, who don’t know the story, because the wives have been told by Coca that their husbands in this fuckin’ economy will lose their jobs, because Cocasits ex-officio chair of internal affairs and will bring their husbands down regardless they were never out of line. Tells them he wants to dip his wick on a regular basis. Coca will never be brought to normal justice. In other words, El, this is your type criminal specialty. I have no evidence. He uses condoms. No victims who will come forward. My hands are tied. Even Silvio’s hands are tied, God forbid it ever comes to his attention with his fragile heart. On what basis do I say serial? Something the one who confided in my wife said he said during the act. Let’s talk more if you want to, I can’t miss Mass. I have to go now. See you later. You do what you do – I don’t need to know your methods. Only Coca needs to know. Me, I’m not even curious whatsoever. El, I’m realistic. Hear me out. No one here is talking about icing anyone,
capeesh
? But Coca needs to have the fear of Our fuckin’ Lord rammed hard up his ass. Speaking of which, I don’t want to be late for Mass. This is my sincere hope: Five days from now we listen to
Bohème
without this misery hanging over our heads. You’re looking a lot better, by the way. Almost handsome.” He winks. “See you