Read Online Altar of Bones by Philip Carter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Carter
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heart. He watched the woman emerge from out of the shadows. It wasn’t the doctor from the hospital; this woman was older, not as pretty. He thought he’d puke with relief.
She walked past Dom without seeming to see him. He wiped his sweating hand on his pant leg and picked up the phone.
“Ry?”
7
Washington, D.C
.
T HE T WO men in their designer threads and custom-made shoes quickly crossed the street, jaywalking just so they wouldn’t have to meet him on the narrow sidewalk head on. Ry O’Malley gave them a little curled-fingers wave, then laughed to himself as he watched the two suits try to decide whether to wave back or run like hell.
He knew he looked scary as all get out, a real badass with his long hair and tattoos and biker’s black leather jacket. This part of Columbia Heights had been flirting with gentrification for years, but enough stubborn pockets of crime and poverty remained so that at cocktail parties the biggest topic of conversation was how to get a permit to carry.
As Ry turned the corner, he heard the stutter and hiccup of an engine badly in need of a tune-up come up behind him. Dusk was just falling, and he paused under a streetlamp to take a pack of cigarettes and disposable lighter out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t smoke, but the ritual of stopping to light up was a good way to do a little recon without being obvious about it.
The sick engine, he saw, was under the hood of a small red van with GIOVANNI’S PIZZERIA painted in white script on the side panels. The van chugged past him and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. A kid with spiked hair and a nose ring got out, carrying one of those insulated cases that were supposed to keep the pies hot but left them soggy instead.
Ry watched the kid climb the steps and ring the bell of a brownstonetown house, then he tossed the cigarette into the gutter and crossed the street. A lamp also shone in the bay window of his own Queen Anne– style shotgun, but it was set on a timer. No one was waiting inside to welcome him home.
He let himself in, stepping over the pile of junk mail and flyers that had accumulated beneath the slot in the front door. He shut off the alarm and went into the living room, took off his leather jacket and flung it at a leather sofa.
His Walther P99 was tucked gangbanger-style in the small of his back, and he took it out and laid it on the iron-banded Spanish chest he used for a coffee table. The chest was a gift from the prima-ballerina girlfriend he’d lived with for a while, until she’d grown tired of the long separations, of not knowing where he was or what he was doing, or whether the next time she saw him would be on a slab in a morgue.
He sat on the chest and unlaced his boots. They had steel in the toes and one kick with them could cave in a man’s ribs or his head, but that made them heavy as hell. It felt good to get them off his feet. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and made himself a very dry and very cold martini. He never drank while on a job and he shuddered now as the icy gin bit the back of his throat.
He had his feet up, Stan Getz on the stereo, and the martini was half-gone before he noticed the blinking red light on his telephone answering machine.
He waited until the last, piercing notes of
Body and Soul
died away before he got up and went to the antique Dickens desk that faced the room’s big bay window. Through the deepening dusk outside, he could see his next-door neighbor trying to defy the laws of physics by squeezing his SUV into a parking space three inches too small. And the border collie who lived on the corner was taking her owner out for a walk. He watched as they went from the lamppost, to the fire hydrant, to the tire of the pizza delivery van. His ballerina girlfriend had called it “leaving pee-mails,” and the memory almost made Ry smile.
He reached out and pressed the play button, and the machine’s hollow voice said,
You have one new message. Thursday, August
She walked past Dom without seeming to see him. He wiped his sweating hand on his pant leg and picked up the phone.
“Ry?”
7
Washington, D.C
.
T HE T WO men in their designer threads and custom-made shoes quickly crossed the street, jaywalking just so they wouldn’t have to meet him on the narrow sidewalk head on. Ry O’Malley gave them a little curled-fingers wave, then laughed to himself as he watched the two suits try to decide whether to wave back or run like hell.
He knew he looked scary as all get out, a real badass with his long hair and tattoos and biker’s black leather jacket. This part of Columbia Heights had been flirting with gentrification for years, but enough stubborn pockets of crime and poverty remained so that at cocktail parties the biggest topic of conversation was how to get a permit to carry.
As Ry turned the corner, he heard the stutter and hiccup of an engine badly in need of a tune-up come up behind him. Dusk was just falling, and he paused under a streetlamp to take a pack of cigarettes and disposable lighter out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t smoke, but the ritual of stopping to light up was a good way to do a little recon without being obvious about it.
The sick engine, he saw, was under the hood of a small red van with GIOVANNI’S PIZZERIA painted in white script on the side panels. The van chugged past him and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. A kid with spiked hair and a nose ring got out, carrying one of those insulated cases that were supposed to keep the pies hot but left them soggy instead.
Ry watched the kid climb the steps and ring the bell of a brownstonetown house, then he tossed the cigarette into the gutter and crossed the street. A lamp also shone in the bay window of his own Queen Anne– style shotgun, but it was set on a timer. No one was waiting inside to welcome him home.
He let himself in, stepping over the pile of junk mail and flyers that had accumulated beneath the slot in the front door. He shut off the alarm and went into the living room, took off his leather jacket and flung it at a leather sofa.
His Walther P99 was tucked gangbanger-style in the small of his back, and he took it out and laid it on the iron-banded Spanish chest he used for a coffee table. The chest was a gift from the prima-ballerina girlfriend he’d lived with for a while, until she’d grown tired of the long separations, of not knowing where he was or what he was doing, or whether the next time she saw him would be on a slab in a morgue.
He sat on the chest and unlaced his boots. They had steel in the toes and one kick with them could cave in a man’s ribs or his head, but that made them heavy as hell. It felt good to get them off his feet. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and made himself a very dry and very cold martini. He never drank while on a job and he shuddered now as the icy gin bit the back of his throat.
He had his feet up, Stan Getz on the stereo, and the martini was half-gone before he noticed the blinking red light on his telephone answering machine.
He waited until the last, piercing notes of
Body and Soul
died away before he got up and went to the antique Dickens desk that faced the room’s big bay window. Through the deepening dusk outside, he could see his next-door neighbor trying to defy the laws of physics by squeezing his SUV into a parking space three inches too small. And the border collie who lived on the corner was taking her owner out for a walk. He watched as they went from the lamppost, to the fire hydrant, to the tire of the pizza delivery van. His ballerina girlfriend had called it “leaving pee-mails,” and the memory almost made Ry smile.
He reached out and pressed the play button, and the machine’s hollow voice said,
You have one new message. Thursday, August
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