Read Online The Fourth Durango by Ross Thomas, Sarah Paretsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ross Thomas, Sarah Paretsky
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If he hadn’t gone into government, he could’ve made himself a ton of it.”
“Maybe.”
Adair turned to examine Vines with undisguised curiosity. “You ever like Paul?”
“I grew up with him and roomed with him for four years.”
“Evasive.”
Vines looked at something just beyond Adair’s left ear. “I don’t suppose I ever liked him. Not really. I respected his mind, envied his looks, despised his politics and very much wanted to fuck his sister.”
“Which you eventually did.”
“Which I eventually did.”
Adair, his curiosity again evident, asked, “You ever like Dannie?”
“Very much.”
“And now?”
“And now, Jack, I just love her.”
Chapter 9
It was still light that last Friday evening in June when they stopped along the outer edge of the seventh hairpin turn up on Garner Road. By raising himself slightly in the front seat of the Mercedes, Jack Adair could inspect most of Durango down below, including its five-block-long, three-block-wide business district, or downtown, which was bounded on the west by the Southern Pacific tracks. Just beyond the tracks were the ocean and what Chief Sid Fork liked to call “the longest one-foot-wide sharp-rock beach in the entire state of California.”
As Adair had predicted, the sunset was spectacular, its last rays bathing the business district, including the lone seven-story skyscraper, in a soft warm light a stranger might have compared to gold—a more knowledgeable native to brass.
Adair was still taking in the view when he asked, “How much’ve we got left in that Bahamian bank?”
“Around three hundred thousand.”
Adair turned to stare at Vines with disbelief and even shock.
“We had expenses, Jack. Your legal fees. The high cost of money laundering. Dannie’s treatment. Blessing Nelson’s mother. And me—since I ate and drank some of it up.”
“We’ll just have to make do then,” Adair said, remembered something and added, “Keep sending that five hundred a month to Blessing’s mother.”
“For how long?”
“Until we run out of money,” said Adair, and resumed his inspection of Durango down below.
Five blocks east of the SP tracks, the city’s business district had failed in its attempt, many years ago, to flow around Handshaw Park, which was two city blocks of pines, magnolias, coral trees, eucalyptus, green grass when it rained, nine concrete picnic tables, a children’s broken slide, some swings and a gray bandstand that once had been painted a glistening white.
Back when the bandstand still glistened, select members of the Durango High School marching band made a few vacation dollars by playing concerts in the park on summer Sunday afternoons. But as the city’s tax base shrank, the budget ax fell first on the summer concerts, then on the marching band itself and, finally, on its director, Milt Steed, who had also taught art and, when last heard from, was playing cornet down in Disneyland.
Handshaw Park had been called simply City Park until B. D. Huckins was elected mayor. She renamed it after Dicky Handshaw, who had served four terms as mayor until Huckins beat him in the 1978 election, which was still remembered as the most vicious in the city’s 148-year history.
Renaming the park had seemed at first like a nice conciliatory gesture. But that was before word got around of an exchange in the Blue Eagle Bar between Norm Trice and a prominent local attorney who regarded himself as a budding political savant. The attorney had claimed that next time out B.D. Huckins could easily be defeated by almost any candidate with balls and a few brains.
“Like you, huh?” Trice had asked.
“Sure. Like me. Why not?”
“Because,” Trice had explained in a patient voice, “B. D. didn’t name that park after Dicky Handshaw so folks’d remember him. She did it so guys like you’d remember what happened to him.”
Kelly Vines said, “Seen enough?”
Jack Adair nodded, took one last look and
“Maybe.”
Adair turned to examine Vines with undisguised curiosity. “You ever like Paul?”
“I grew up with him and roomed with him for four years.”
“Evasive.”
Vines looked at something just beyond Adair’s left ear. “I don’t suppose I ever liked him. Not really. I respected his mind, envied his looks, despised his politics and very much wanted to fuck his sister.”
“Which you eventually did.”
“Which I eventually did.”
Adair, his curiosity again evident, asked, “You ever like Dannie?”
“Very much.”
“And now?”
“And now, Jack, I just love her.”
Chapter 9
It was still light that last Friday evening in June when they stopped along the outer edge of the seventh hairpin turn up on Garner Road. By raising himself slightly in the front seat of the Mercedes, Jack Adair could inspect most of Durango down below, including its five-block-long, three-block-wide business district, or downtown, which was bounded on the west by the Southern Pacific tracks. Just beyond the tracks were the ocean and what Chief Sid Fork liked to call “the longest one-foot-wide sharp-rock beach in the entire state of California.”
As Adair had predicted, the sunset was spectacular, its last rays bathing the business district, including the lone seven-story skyscraper, in a soft warm light a stranger might have compared to gold—a more knowledgeable native to brass.
Adair was still taking in the view when he asked, “How much’ve we got left in that Bahamian bank?”
“Around three hundred thousand.”
Adair turned to stare at Vines with disbelief and even shock.
“We had expenses, Jack. Your legal fees. The high cost of money laundering. Dannie’s treatment. Blessing Nelson’s mother. And me—since I ate and drank some of it up.”
“We’ll just have to make do then,” Adair said, remembered something and added, “Keep sending that five hundred a month to Blessing’s mother.”
“For how long?”
“Until we run out of money,” said Adair, and resumed his inspection of Durango down below.
Five blocks east of the SP tracks, the city’s business district had failed in its attempt, many years ago, to flow around Handshaw Park, which was two city blocks of pines, magnolias, coral trees, eucalyptus, green grass when it rained, nine concrete picnic tables, a children’s broken slide, some swings and a gray bandstand that once had been painted a glistening white.
Back when the bandstand still glistened, select members of the Durango High School marching band made a few vacation dollars by playing concerts in the park on summer Sunday afternoons. But as the city’s tax base shrank, the budget ax fell first on the summer concerts, then on the marching band itself and, finally, on its director, Milt Steed, who had also taught art and, when last heard from, was playing cornet down in Disneyland.
Handshaw Park had been called simply City Park until B. D. Huckins was elected mayor. She renamed it after Dicky Handshaw, who had served four terms as mayor until Huckins beat him in the 1978 election, which was still remembered as the most vicious in the city’s 148-year history.
Renaming the park had seemed at first like a nice conciliatory gesture. But that was before word got around of an exchange in the Blue Eagle Bar between Norm Trice and a prominent local attorney who regarded himself as a budding political savant. The attorney had claimed that next time out B.D. Huckins could easily be defeated by almost any candidate with balls and a few brains.
“Like you, huh?” Trice had asked.
“Sure. Like me. Why not?”
“Because,” Trice had explained in a patient voice, “B. D. didn’t name that park after Dicky Handshaw so folks’d remember him. She did it so guys like you’d remember what happened to him.”
Kelly Vines said, “Seen enough?”
Jack Adair nodded, took one last look and
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