Read Online Blue Heaven by C. J. Box - Free Book Online Page B

violent. He fostered his image and persona. He was the kind of police officer, and man, who projected a dark malevolence even when he performed a simple, normal task like opening a door for someone or smiling at a joke. People around him, even strangers, always seemed relieved that Gonzalez had not decided to harm them. He had a way of looking up from hooded eyes that chilled the blood. Gonzalez was never troubled by doubt in his own judgment and never hesitated to follow up with his own kind of justice. He was the creator of the infamous L.A. mutilation known as the “guilty smile,” where a man’s cheeks were ripped back from the corners of his mouth to his ears. When the victim’s face eventually healed, the mutilation made it look like a wide, clownish smile.
    Singer had barely touched his beer. Newkirk and Gonzalez had emptied the pitcher, and Gonzo tried to get the attention of the bartender by lifting it whenever he thought the man looked over.
    “What we’ve got to do is get control of the situation,” Singer said softly, almost to himself. “We can’t wait for things to happen, then react. We’ve got to get ahead of it so we can steer things in our favor.”
    “Like waiting for that motherfucker to look over and get us a pitcher,” Gonzalez said.
    Newkirk sighed. “I’ll get it.”
    He approached the bar. There were only two other drinkers, a skeletal man in stained Carhartts who looked like an old miner, and a much younger man in a brown UPS uniform. Newkirk perched between them and put the pitcher on the bar.
    “What was it? Coors?” the bartender asked, rousing himself from where he leaned against the backbar and watched
Sportscenter
on the television mounted to the ceiling.
    “Yes,” Newkirk said. He shot a glance at the old miner, who nodded at him then went back to watching the television. The UPS man seemed to be waiting for Newkirk to say something.
Oh no
, he thought;
a talker.
    “Don’t get too close to me,” the UPS man slurred. “I’m radioactive.”
    “You are?” Newkirk asked pleasantly, but in a way he hoped would be dismissive.
    “I’m fucking poison. I might rub off on you, and you don’t want that.”
    Newkirk shifted to look him over. He was built; solid, tight clothes, thick thighs, but a broad friendly face. Newkirk guessed six-two, two-twenty. A brass-colored name tag on his uniform read TOM BOYD . It was unusual to see a package delivery employee in uniform so long after the workday was over. He remembered the truck outside.
    “Don’t you have to turn your truck in at night?”
    Tom snorted. “S’posed to. But instead I pitched camp right here on this stool when I got done with my route. Right, Marty?” he said to the bartender, who had tilted the empty pitcher to fill it with beer from the tap.
    “Yes, Tom,” the bartender said wearily. Newkirk got the impression Tom had already talked Marty’s ear off.
    “I’ll take care of that pitcher,” Tom said, fishing a wad of bills out of his pocket and slapping them on the bar. “And another double Jack for me.”
    “You sure you need another one?” Marty asked.
    “What are you, a bartender or my fucking counselor? A knife could drop out of the sky at any second and kill my poor, pathetic ass. So pour ’em!”
    Marty shrugged, and Tom shook his head in drunken exaggeration. “That’s right. That’s right.”
    Neither Newkirk nor Marty said anything, not wanting to encourage him.
    “I’m poison,” Tom said again. “I’m fucking radioactive. Everything I touch turns to crap.”
    Tom was one of those guys, Newkirk thought, who was practically begging to be asked what was wrong and wouldn’t give up until he was.
    “Women problems, eh?” Newkirk said, not really interested.
    “Is there any other kind? I mean really?”
    “Just call her. Let her talk it out and keep your mouth shut while she does. That’s what works for me.” To emphasize his point, Newkirk raised his hand and rotated the wedding