The Reckoning Read Online Free PDF Page B

upstanding citizens like you in jail. Hell, a DUI would be harder on you. And the strip bar doesn’t want to take you to court, as long as—”
    “I know, as long as I never show my face there again. But what about the girl?”
    “Melissa? If that’s really her real name. She probably figures such risks come with the territory. Besides, if she sued you, she’d have to spend some time in court, and I don’t think that lady wants to get up that early.”
    Royce licked his lips. It felt like there was a basketball stuffed down his throat.
    “What—what about the newspapers, TVs?”
    Tony shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about that. The police blotter is public record, but the cop shop reporters don’t know you from Adam. I wouldn’t worry.”
    “What about Leslie?”
    Tony blinked. “What about her?”
    “Do I need to tell her?”
    Tony stared down at his beer. “That’s up to you.”

It was late—and snowing—by the time Royce and Tony left the bar.
    “Just take it easy the next few days. I’ll call the DA’s office tomorrow morning, see what I can do.”
    “Sure, thanks,” Royce said flatly, not thrilled about the prospect of finally having to go home to face Leslie. He walked slowly to his car, shivering. All he had was the suit coat. Christ, he couldn’t get a handle on Baltimore weather. One day in the seventies, the next day some of the white stuff.
    His fingers clawed in the Cavalier’s glove compartment for a scraper. Damn, not there. No gloves either. So he improvised, using the only credit card he possessed to clear his windshield of slush.
    On the drive home, he mulled over what he would tell Leslie. She deserved to be told the whole truth. He knew that. But it was all so sleazy, so shameful. In the nearly two years of their perfect marriage, nothing like this had come up. He clenched the wheel tightly. God, what had happened to him? How could he have actually done something like that?
    Royce winced, recalling how he had climbed onto that stage and accosted the girl. What would he tell Leslie? A white lie, maybe, or just the partial truth. He’d done it before, hadn’t he? Not to Leslie, but there had been other times. Sincerity came easy to him. Could he get away with it?
    Luckily, Royce didn’t have to tell the truth—or a revised version, either—when he arrived home.
    Leslie and Craig were in bed. There was only one light burning in the dining room. On the table was a partially consumed pizza, his favorite, a thick crust from Piezano’s. He noticed the candles poked among the pepperoni. Shit, his party.
    There was a card, which he opened. The cover sweetly congratulated him on his fortieth birthday, with the inside punch line, “Better you than me.” Leslie had signed it, and she had signed for Craig as well—”with much love.” On the table was also a small gift. He unwrapped it: a gold Seiko watch with a lizard band, engraved with “40th. Your loving wife.” Feeling like a total, unmitigated shit, he slipped the Timex off his left wrist and replaced it with the Seiko. It felt rich, light as a feather compared to his old clunker.
    You shit.
    Upstairs, he quietly undressed and slipped into bed. Oh no, Leslie was wearing her white cotton socks and her heavy-grade flannel nightgown. She mewed softly, pulling the blankets away from him and tightly bunching them around her neck.
    “Cold,” she murmured.
    Okay, okay. The damn furnace. Frigging furnace. Fucking furnace. Goodness, his language—and thoughts—were becoming foul. All right, so he’d go downstairs and fiddle with it, as just and fitting punishment.
    “Probably the pilot light went out again,” he muttered angrily to himself, taking baby steps down the narrow cellar stairs to keep from falling in the half-lit murk.
    The furnace was one of those antiquated octopus things converted from coal to natural gas before Royce was born. It looked like the boiler bowels of the Queen Mary , what with its fat, stubby body and