Read Online Live by Night by Dennis Lehane - Free Book Online Page B

Nova Scotia in three to four days. And then he’d send for Emma after a couple of months.
    Which seemed a bit long.
    But she’d wait for him. She loved him. She’d never said it, true, but he could feel her wanting to. She loved him. He loved her.
    She’d wait.
    Maybe he’d just swing by the hotel. Pop his head in real quick, see if he could spot her. If they both vanished, they’d be impossible to trace. But if he disappeared and then sent for her, by that point, the cops or the BI could have figured out who she was and what she meant to him and she’d show up in Halifax with a posse on her tail. He’d open the door to greet her, they’d both go down in bullet rain.
    She wouldn’t wait.
    He either went with her now or without her forever.
    He looked at himself in the glass of his mother’s china cabinet and remembered why he’d come here in the first place—no matter where he decided to go, he wouldn’t get far dressed like this. The left shoulder of his coat was black with blood, his shoes and trouser cuffs were caked in mud, his shirt torn from the woods and speckled with blood.
    In the kitchen, he opened the bread box and pulled out a bottle of A. Finke’s Widow Rum. Or, as most called it, Finke’s. He removed his shoes and carried them and the rum with him up the service stairs to his father’s bedroom. In the bathroom, he washed as much of the dried blood from his ear as he could, careful not to disturb the heart of the scab. When he was certain it wasn’t going to bleed, he took a few steps back and appraised it in relation to the other ear and the rest of his face. As deformities went, it wasn’t going to make anyone look twice once the scab fell away. And even now, the majority of the black scab clung to the underside of his ear; it was noticeable, no question, but not in the way a black eye or broken nose would have been.
    He had a few sips of the Finke’s while he chose a suit from his father’s closet. There were fifteen of them, about thirteen too many for a policeman’s salary. Same with the shoes, the shirts, the ties and hats. Joe chose a striped malacca tan single-breasted suit from Hart Schaffner & Marx with a white Arrow shirt. The silk tie was black with diagonal red stripes every four inches or so, the shoes a pair of black Nettletons, and the hat a Knapp-Felt, as smooth as a dove’s breast. He stripped off his own clothes and folded them neatly on the floor. He placed his pistol and his shoes on top and changed into his father’s clothes, then returned the pistol to the waistband at the small of his back.
    Judging by the length of the trousers, he and his father weren’t exactly the same height after all. His father was a little taller. And his hat size a bit smaller than Joe’s. Joe dealt with the hat problem by tilting it back off the crown a bit so it looked jaunty. As for the length of his trousers, he double-rolled the cuffs and used safety pins from his late mother’s sewing table to hold them in place.
    He carried his old clothes and the bottle of good rum down into his father’s study. Even now he couldn’t deny that crossing the threshold into that room when his father wasn’t present felt sacrilegious. He stood at the threshold and listened to the house—the ticking of its cast-iron radiators, the scratch of the chime hammers in the grandfather clock down the hall as they prepared to strike four. Even though he was positive the house was empty, he felt watched.
    When the hammers did, in fact, fall on the chimes, Joe entered the office.
    The desk sat in front of tall bay windows overlooking the street. It was an ornate Victorian partners desk, built in Dublin in the middle of the last century. The kind of desk no tenant farmer’s son from the shitheel side of Clonakilty could have reasonably expected to ever grace his home. The same could be said for the matching