Read Online Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller by Phillip Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Phillip Wilson
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you Clatterback, I’m starting to like Junior. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’’
Clatterback shrugged.
``And if you really must know, my wife was killed in a car accident about two years back.’’
``She driving or was it one of those taxis that got sideswiped and the passenger gets killed. I’ve heard a lot about those lately,’’ Clatterback said without hesitation and without thinking.
Brant smiled weakly in frustration at the line of questioning. Even years later, Maggie’s death was a sore point. He was still raw, but damned if he was going to wear his emotions in the open.
``Sideswiped at an intersection,’’ he said, finally. ``She was getting milk and a newspaper.’’
``Damn. They ever catch the shit?’’
``Nineteen-year-old kid from Philly. Blew two times over the limit.’’
``Where is he now? The kid, I mean.’’
``I know what you mean,’’ Brant said as he reached for another piece of chicken.
``It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,’’ Clatterback said as he read the look on Brant’s face.
``It’s fine,’’ Brant responded. ``Kid got 20 years. He’s in Norfolk.
Clatterback puffed out his cheeks. The eye twinkle had dimmed slightly, replaced by something else. A touch of sympathy perhaps, Brant thought as he weighed the reaction of his new partner to the intimacies he’d just been told.
``That’s medium security isn’t it?’’
``Yes, it is.’’
Brant lifted his Guinness and they toasted each other.
``So what about you, Junior? What’s your story? I mean now that we’re sharing our most heart-felt secrets.’’
``Not much to tell,’’ Clatterback said. ``I’m just trying to make my way in the world.’’
Brant shot an appraising look. ``Ah, try again. There’s something about you I can’t quite place. You got friends in high places or something, right?’’
Clatterback shrugged. ``Don’t think so. Not unless I have an uncle or an aunt that I don’t know about who’s some kind of billionaire. Besides, a name like Clatterback. Not exactly common, is it?’’
Brant had to concede the point. In truth, he’d done a quick Goggle search the previous night, but had come up largely empty. Just the usual academy training, mention in a community newspaper a year ago and nothing else.
``Suit yourself,’’ Brant said. ``I’m agnostic. Just watch your step and don’t get yourself killed. More importantly, don’t get me killed.’’
Clatterback nodded a greeting to a waitress, a woman in her twenties who’d glanced in their direction. He’d ordered a plate of cod and chips but was still waiting for his meal. The waitress caught the meaning and mouthed a response. Yes, it was coming and would be there in a moment, she’d seemed to say.
``What?’’
``Just thinking.’’
``That can be dangerous,’’ Brant replied, finishing the last of the chicken and wiping his fingers on the paper napkin sitting at the side of the basket.
``So I’m told. No, I was actually thinking about this pub. Look at them at the bar, all the punters. That’s what they were called back in the day, right? I’ll bet all of them now are computer jockeys working on some trading floor or Internet startup. This is playtime for them. Not like it used to be. And this place. An affront to Irish pubs everywhere.’’
``What would you know about any of that, Junior,’’ Brant asked, warming to the term. ``You’re a frickin’ millennial. You’re one of them.’’
Clatterback shook his head.
``I’m older than I look, but you know what I’m talking about. And I despise that word.’’
``What word?’’
``The M word. It’s usually laced with the assumption that we’re all lazy, entitled and pampered. Maybe we are, maybe we’re not, but for God’s sake, give us a chance to mess up just like your generation. Know what I
Clatterback shrugged.
``And if you really must know, my wife was killed in a car accident about two years back.’’
``She driving or was it one of those taxis that got sideswiped and the passenger gets killed. I’ve heard a lot about those lately,’’ Clatterback said without hesitation and without thinking.
Brant smiled weakly in frustration at the line of questioning. Even years later, Maggie’s death was a sore point. He was still raw, but damned if he was going to wear his emotions in the open.
``Sideswiped at an intersection,’’ he said, finally. ``She was getting milk and a newspaper.’’
``Damn. They ever catch the shit?’’
``Nineteen-year-old kid from Philly. Blew two times over the limit.’’
``Where is he now? The kid, I mean.’’
``I know what you mean,’’ Brant said as he reached for another piece of chicken.
``It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,’’ Clatterback said as he read the look on Brant’s face.
``It’s fine,’’ Brant responded. ``Kid got 20 years. He’s in Norfolk.
Clatterback puffed out his cheeks. The eye twinkle had dimmed slightly, replaced by something else. A touch of sympathy perhaps, Brant thought as he weighed the reaction of his new partner to the intimacies he’d just been told.
``That’s medium security isn’t it?’’
``Yes, it is.’’
Brant lifted his Guinness and they toasted each other.
``So what about you, Junior? What’s your story? I mean now that we’re sharing our most heart-felt secrets.’’
``Not much to tell,’’ Clatterback said. ``I’m just trying to make my way in the world.’’
Brant shot an appraising look. ``Ah, try again. There’s something about you I can’t quite place. You got friends in high places or something, right?’’
Clatterback shrugged. ``Don’t think so. Not unless I have an uncle or an aunt that I don’t know about who’s some kind of billionaire. Besides, a name like Clatterback. Not exactly common, is it?’’
Brant had to concede the point. In truth, he’d done a quick Goggle search the previous night, but had come up largely empty. Just the usual academy training, mention in a community newspaper a year ago and nothing else.
``Suit yourself,’’ Brant said. ``I’m agnostic. Just watch your step and don’t get yourself killed. More importantly, don’t get me killed.’’
Clatterback nodded a greeting to a waitress, a woman in her twenties who’d glanced in their direction. He’d ordered a plate of cod and chips but was still waiting for his meal. The waitress caught the meaning and mouthed a response. Yes, it was coming and would be there in a moment, she’d seemed to say.
``What?’’
``Just thinking.’’
``That can be dangerous,’’ Brant replied, finishing the last of the chicken and wiping his fingers on the paper napkin sitting at the side of the basket.
``So I’m told. No, I was actually thinking about this pub. Look at them at the bar, all the punters. That’s what they were called back in the day, right? I’ll bet all of them now are computer jockeys working on some trading floor or Internet startup. This is playtime for them. Not like it used to be. And this place. An affront to Irish pubs everywhere.’’
``What would you know about any of that, Junior,’’ Brant asked, warming to the term. ``You’re a frickin’ millennial. You’re one of them.’’
Clatterback shook his head.
``I’m older than I look, but you know what I’m talking about. And I despise that word.’’
``What word?’’
``The M word. It’s usually laced with the assumption that we’re all lazy, entitled and pampered. Maybe we are, maybe we’re not, but for God’s sake, give us a chance to mess up just like your generation. Know what I
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