The Tin Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

match—“Hey, I’ll show you a good short guy can take a big guy
any
day!” When Paul entered an argument, it was to pull a friend away from thé confrontation or to keep it from getting out of hand; when he walked away, he made it look to everyone as if he was on
their
side.
    Paul had come around behind the bar to help Patrick and Wendy wash some mugs and shot glasses, and he saw his big brother grinning at him. “What?”
    “You,” Patrick said. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re the same kid who used to drop put of trees and ambush me or your sisters. You’re so laid back, so damned … what? Diplomatic.”
    “That’s the main thing they taught us, Patrick—sometimes what you do in the first few seconds of a conflict, or even
before
you arrive on the scene, will determine the outcome,” Paul said, finishing the glasses and giving his sister-in-law an appreciated shoulder massage. “Go in pissed off, hard charging, and kick-ass, and everyone rises to the challengeand wants to kick ass too, and before you know it the fight’s on. Being polite takes the wind out of most guys’ sails—you call a guy ‘sir’ enough times and sound like you mean it, and he’ll go away from sheer boredom.”
    “Nah. I’d just pull out my gun and shoot ’im,” Patrick joked.
    “That’s the absolute
last
option, bro,” Paul said seriously. “Dad told me that in thirty-two years on the force, he’d only been involved in a half-dozen shooting incidents, and he regretted firing every bullet even though he used it to protect his life or that of another cop. There are guys on the force who have
never
fired their weapons except at the range. I want to be one of those guys.”
    “In this city? I doubt it,” Wendy said dryly. Wendy McLanahan was very close to term, but she didn’t show it at all—her belly pooched out only a little, which made it hard for most folks to believe she was due in less than three weeks. She wore preggie slacks and a baggy Victoria’s Secret silk blouse, but even without them she carried her baby close under well-conditioned stomach muscles and had no sign of a ponderous or waddling walk. She had let her reddish-brown hair grow long and straight; it curled seductively over her shoulder and nestled between her ample baby-ready breasts. “I do like your attitude better than your brother’s—but you have to remember, he’s been trained to drop bombs on folks for years.”
    “Yes, I know—the SAC-trained baby-killer,” Paul said with a smile. “What was it you always said SAC stood for? Your target list, right?—’schools and children.’ Hey, Cargo.” Paul grabbed a passing uniformed cop. “Cargo, meet my brother, Patrick, and his wife, Wendy. Patrick, Wendy, this is Craig LaFortier. We call him Cargo.” Patrick could seewhy—the guy was huge, at least six four and close to three hundred pounds. “Kicks butt in the Pig Bowl football game every year. He’s my FTO.”
    Patrick and Wendy shook hands with LaFortier, the cop’s hand engulfing theirs. “I assume an FTO is the guy you’ll be riding with for the first few months?” Wendy asked.
    “Yep,” said LaFortier in a deep, foghornlike voice. “It stands for …”
    “ ‘Fucking training officer,’ ” Paul interjected.
    “Field
training officer,” LaFortier corrected him, with a scowl fierce enough to darken the entire waterfront. “And that better be the last time I ever hear that crack, rook, or you’ll be
washing
patrol cars at the South Station instead of riding in ’em. Yes, Paul gets a little on-the-job training for six months. We start tomorrow night.”
    “Tomorrow?
You just graduated!” Patrick exclaimed. “They don’t give you an orientation or anything?”
    “Normally, yes,” said LaFortier, “but my shift begins tomorrow, and I have off for Christmas, so instead of waiting two weeks, Paul gets to start right now. He’ll come in a couple of hours early and we’ll get him a locker, show him how to