Read Online Bloodlines by Jan Burke - Free Book Online
Authors: Jan Burke
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, California, Fiction - Mystery, Police Procedural, Women Journalists, Women detectives - California, Irene (Fictitious character), Reporters and reporting - California, Kelly
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Jack said.
The moon shone bright over the water and sand. Jack began to show O'Connor how to hold his fists, how to throw his weight into a punch, how to protect himself from a counterpunch. The sand both braced and slowed his feet, and twice when he overstepped, it cushioned his falls. Some of Dermot's lessons came back to him, but now made more sense.
Jack rolled up his pants legs and dropped to his knees, held both hands up. "Okay," he said, "come at me. Hard as you like."
After a few hesitant punches, Jack said, "Harder."
O'Connor punched a little harder.
"Harder," Jack said again. "Pretend I've been mean to Maureen."
O'Connor began walloping Jack's open palms.
After a few minutes of punishment, Jack yelled, "Okay, okay! Truce! Uncle! Hell, I'm not going to be able to hold a pen tomorrow." At O'Connor's look of horror, he said, "Just a joke, kid. Just a joke. I'm fine. How are you?"
O'Connor was breathing hard, and as Jack had predicted, he felt warm from his exertions. But the breeze off the water was cooling him, the sand was soft beneath his feet, and he knew he had boxed better this time than he ever had with Dermot. He smiled. "I'm fine."
Jack stood and brushed off his legs and feet. "We'll have another lesson tomorrow."
"Do you mean it?" O'Connor asked.
"Sure. But don't try this out on anybody until you've had a chance to really learn what you're doing."
"Oh, I don't aim to start fights."
"Kid," Jack said as they began to put on their socks and shoes, "if I thought you were aiming to start fights, I wouldn't have taught you anything about boxing."
"Who taught you?"
"My father."
O'Connor was silent, suddenly seeming to need all his concentration for his shoelaces.
"Your dad ever teach you anything?" Corrigan asked.
O'Connor looked up. "Oh, sure. Lots of things. When I was little, he taught me how to tie my shoes. And when I get big enough to shave, I'll know how, 'cause he used to let me watch him do that. And he used to sing, so I learned a lot of songs from him."
Corrigan was quiet as they began to walk back to the Wrigley Building, heading up American Avenue. Nearby to the north, eerily silhouetted in the moonlight, were hills so crowded with oil derricks they seemed cloaked in a strange black forest of identical leafless trees. "That's where my dad worked," O'Connor said, pointing. "He built some of those wells."
"Roughnecking--that's some of the hardest work anywhere," Jack said.
O'Connor nodded. "My dad likes hard work. Maureen remembers him better than I do--from before the accident, I mean. He never drank in those days. Not a drop. And even now, I know...I know it's not what he really likes. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think so, yes."
"I keep praying that the Lord will cure him. I don't understand why he doesn't. I mean, Jesus suffered on the cross, but he didn't stay up there for years at a time, now, did he?"
"I'm not the man to teach you about religion, Conn. I'll be a poor enough boxing coach."
Jack saw that the boy was making some earnest reply, but just at that moment, a Red Car came by, rumbling its way down the rails to the next stop.
"What did you say?"
"I said, never mind boxing--I mean, I won't mind learning it. But what I really want you to teach me, Mr. Jack Corrigan, is how to be a newspaper-man."
**CHAPTER 8
THE NURSE CAME BACK TO CHECK ON CORRIGAN, BREAKING THE SPELL reminiscence had cast on O'Connor. She attempted another round of banter with O'Connor, but after his third one-word reply gave it up and left him to brood over Corrigan alone.
He watched Jack, still filled with wonder that the man had taken an eight-year-old boy's ambitions so seriously. Jack had told O'Connor to begin by keeping a diary, to note what he had seen and heard each day, and his thoughts on any matter that struck his fancy. "That will be private," he said. "So I'm going to trust you to do that on your own. I'll give you assignments to turn in to me."
O'Connor had borrowed paper from
The moon shone bright over the water and sand. Jack began to show O'Connor how to hold his fists, how to throw his weight into a punch, how to protect himself from a counterpunch. The sand both braced and slowed his feet, and twice when he overstepped, it cushioned his falls. Some of Dermot's lessons came back to him, but now made more sense.
Jack rolled up his pants legs and dropped to his knees, held both hands up. "Okay," he said, "come at me. Hard as you like."
After a few hesitant punches, Jack said, "Harder."
O'Connor punched a little harder.
"Harder," Jack said again. "Pretend I've been mean to Maureen."
O'Connor began walloping Jack's open palms.
After a few minutes of punishment, Jack yelled, "Okay, okay! Truce! Uncle! Hell, I'm not going to be able to hold a pen tomorrow." At O'Connor's look of horror, he said, "Just a joke, kid. Just a joke. I'm fine. How are you?"
O'Connor was breathing hard, and as Jack had predicted, he felt warm from his exertions. But the breeze off the water was cooling him, the sand was soft beneath his feet, and he knew he had boxed better this time than he ever had with Dermot. He smiled. "I'm fine."
Jack stood and brushed off his legs and feet. "We'll have another lesson tomorrow."
"Do you mean it?" O'Connor asked.
"Sure. But don't try this out on anybody until you've had a chance to really learn what you're doing."
"Oh, I don't aim to start fights."
"Kid," Jack said as they began to put on their socks and shoes, "if I thought you were aiming to start fights, I wouldn't have taught you anything about boxing."
"Who taught you?"
"My father."
O'Connor was silent, suddenly seeming to need all his concentration for his shoelaces.
"Your dad ever teach you anything?" Corrigan asked.
O'Connor looked up. "Oh, sure. Lots of things. When I was little, he taught me how to tie my shoes. And when I get big enough to shave, I'll know how, 'cause he used to let me watch him do that. And he used to sing, so I learned a lot of songs from him."
Corrigan was quiet as they began to walk back to the Wrigley Building, heading up American Avenue. Nearby to the north, eerily silhouetted in the moonlight, were hills so crowded with oil derricks they seemed cloaked in a strange black forest of identical leafless trees. "That's where my dad worked," O'Connor said, pointing. "He built some of those wells."
"Roughnecking--that's some of the hardest work anywhere," Jack said.
O'Connor nodded. "My dad likes hard work. Maureen remembers him better than I do--from before the accident, I mean. He never drank in those days. Not a drop. And even now, I know...I know it's not what he really likes. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think so, yes."
"I keep praying that the Lord will cure him. I don't understand why he doesn't. I mean, Jesus suffered on the cross, but he didn't stay up there for years at a time, now, did he?"
"I'm not the man to teach you about religion, Conn. I'll be a poor enough boxing coach."
Jack saw that the boy was making some earnest reply, but just at that moment, a Red Car came by, rumbling its way down the rails to the next stop.
"What did you say?"
"I said, never mind boxing--I mean, I won't mind learning it. But what I really want you to teach me, Mr. Jack Corrigan, is how to be a newspaper-man."
**CHAPTER 8
THE NURSE CAME BACK TO CHECK ON CORRIGAN, BREAKING THE SPELL reminiscence had cast on O'Connor. She attempted another round of banter with O'Connor, but after his third one-word reply gave it up and left him to brood over Corrigan alone.
He watched Jack, still filled with wonder that the man had taken an eight-year-old boy's ambitions so seriously. Jack had told O'Connor to begin by keeping a diary, to note what he had seen and heard each day, and his thoughts on any matter that struck his fancy. "That will be private," he said. "So I'm going to trust you to do that on your own. I'll give you assignments to turn in to me."
O'Connor had borrowed paper from
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