Read Online Rogue Island by Bruce DeSilva - Free Book Online Page B

erection?”
    â€œGod, I hope so.”
    â€œWell, quit poking me with it.”
    â€œYou sure? Man my age, no telling when I’ll get another one.”
    She laughed, reached under the sheet, and ran a finger along my length, and for just a moment I thought she was relenting.
    â€œNice try, funny man” she said, “but it’s just not happening until the test results come back.”
    I was still trying to think of a snappy comeback when she drifted off. I watched her sleep as my hard-on processed the bad news. Was she really paranoid about AIDS or just trying to slow things down? I didn’t know, and her deep, even breathing told me this was not the time to ask. The ulcer was grumbling, so I got up for another gulp of Maalox, then slid back into bed, buried my face in her hair, and breathed all of her in.
    In the morning, I discovered she’d gotten up during the night and turned off the police radio. I decided not to make an issue of it.
    Veronica had come prepared, scrubbing her teeth with a yellow toothbrush she pulled from her purse. When she was done, she placed it next to mine in the holder under my bathroom mirror. That seemed promising—and a little scary.
    â€œAnything else you want to store in there? Some Jean Naté? A blow-dryer? I could use some clean towels.”
    She laughed. We kissed. The toothbrush stayed.
    Veronica lived in an efficiency apartment in Fox Point, the modern red-brick building an unsightly intruder in a neighborhood of well-preserved early nineteenth-century shingle-clad colonials. We swung by there so she could dress for church, then drove to St. Joseph’s, where I’d been an altar boy as a kid. She tried to coax me inside, but I hadn’t been to mass since the sex scandal broke.
    I took her car to the diner for one of Charlie’s heart-attack cheddar omelets and the Sunday paper. The savior who stood between me and starvation had already scanned the front page.
    â€œGreat headline,” he chuckled, then bent his sweating bald pate over an acre of sizzling bacon.
    The head over my story read, ARSON SQUAD IS DUMB AND DUMBER. The managing editor had gotten unexpectedly playful with the layout, juxtaposing photos of Polecki and Roselli with head shots of Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels, who’d played the title roles in the movie. I scanned the paper for other fire news, but there wasn’t any. Then I called fire headquarters on my cell and confirmed Mount Hope had been quiet overnight.
    I picked Veronica up just as St. Joseph’s was emptying the faithful into a day that couldn’t decide between drizzle and sleet. As the worshippers spilled into the street, I recognized three “made men,” four state legislators, and a judge. Tomorrow they’d be back to labor racketeering, truck hijacking, and bribe taking.
    At her apartment, Veronica changed into a man’s faded blue oxford shirt and a snug pair of low-rise Levis while I watched and admired the view. I wondered if the shirt had a previous owner of the male persuasion, but once again I kept my mouth shut. By the time we got to O’Malley’s Billiards on Hope Street, the shirt had begun to smell like the woman who was wearing it.
    My plan was to teach Veronica how to shoot eight ball. I lost three games out of five. Must have been distracted by the low in those low-rise jeans.
    Late that afternoon we lay on my bed and caught an ESPN report out of the Red Sox spring camp in Fort Myers. Jonathan Papelbon, one of the stars of the 2007 World Series, was thumping his chest and saying there was no reason the team couldn’t repeat. “He’s a major-league blowhard,” I said, “but I think he’s going to have another big year.”
    And she said, “Why do you care so much about a stupid baseball team?”
    Back when you could sit in the center-field bleachers for ten bucks, I spent a lot of weekend afternoons at Fenway with my dad.