Read Online The Pain Scale by Tyler Dilts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tyler Dilts
Tags: Mystery
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riding solo, I knew every detective on the Homicide Detail by sight. There was never any doubt for me about where I wanted to end up. I hadn’t thought about that hunger in a long time.
“Who put in the call?” I asked.
“I’ve got it on the screen.”
I followed him back to his cruiser, and he got in and moved the laptop mounted to the dash, articulated to a better angle for me to see. It was a name I didn’t recognize and an address that wasn’t the congressman’s.
Had I been in less pain, or even a little less tired, I would have gotten the uniform’s name and tried to connect with him for a few minutes. But I didn’t. I didn’t have it in me. Just told him to have a good night and went back to my car.
It seemed a lot later than it had when I’d gotten there.
“A guitar?” Harlan said. He hadn’t mentioned his medical situation, and I hadn’t asked.
“Yeah.” We were in his living room. I tipped the Sam Adams bottle back and drained the last drops.
“You don’t seem like the guitar type.”
“That’s what I said. She didn’t really care, though. I think it’s just about the therapeutic value.”
“Gonna do it?”
“I don’t want to spend the money.”
“Never pegged you for a tightwad.”
“Who brought the beer?”
He studied me for a few seconds, then got up and went into his bedroom. He came back out with what I first thought was a guitar case. When I got a closer look, though, I could tell it was the wrong shape. Not enough curves. “What’s that?” I asked.
“A present.” He practically tossed it into my lap, then sat down right where he’d been and picked up his beer. “Open it up.”
The case was much heavier than I’d expected. I searched around the edges for the clasps and undid them, one by one. Inside, cradled in dark-blue velvet, was a banjo. It looked like a good one, too. It was made from a dark wood that appeared to be aged mahogany, with mother-of-pearl inlays in the neck and polished brass encircling the round part on the bottom. It was worn from play but obviously well cared for.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked him.
“Play it,” he said with a seriousness that surprised me. “For your therapy.”
His tone took all the argument out of me.
“I didn’t know you played the banjo,” I said.
“I don’t anymore. Can’t do it with the arthritis.” That was the first time I’d ever heard him mention that ailment. I thought about questioning him, but I let it go. “If you’re not hung up on the guitar, that’ll be just as good. Probably even better for the dexterity.”
I looked down at the instrument in my lap.
Then back at Harlan.
Then back at the banjo.
I couldn’t guess exactly what he made of my expression, but I could tell that, somewhere deep below his stern countenance, he took pleasure in my bafflement.
“What?” he said.
I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea what to make of it. I couldn’t even recall giving any thought at all to the banjo since my brief teenage fascination with the stand-up comedy stylings of Steve Martin. And perhaps the occasional
Deliverance
reference.
Harlan was enjoying the moment, but I felt like it was a delicate situation nonetheless.
I said the only thing I could think to say. “Thank you.”
My first estimation of the banjo’s weight was about fifteen pounds. By the time I had carried it home, though, I was convinced it was twice that. The pain in my shoulder felt like a dull knife, and it pulsated all the way down my arm. Along the way, I stopped half a dozen times to switch the shoulder strap on my briefcase to the other side and transfer the instrument from one hand to the other. As counterintuitive as it seemed, it was actually more comfortable to carry the load in my left hand. I think the weight helped to stretch some of the tightness and ache away.
At home, I put the case down on the couch in the living room, hung my coat and shoulder holster over the back of
“Who put in the call?” I asked.
“I’ve got it on the screen.”
I followed him back to his cruiser, and he got in and moved the laptop mounted to the dash, articulated to a better angle for me to see. It was a name I didn’t recognize and an address that wasn’t the congressman’s.
Had I been in less pain, or even a little less tired, I would have gotten the uniform’s name and tried to connect with him for a few minutes. But I didn’t. I didn’t have it in me. Just told him to have a good night and went back to my car.
It seemed a lot later than it had when I’d gotten there.
“A guitar?” Harlan said. He hadn’t mentioned his medical situation, and I hadn’t asked.
“Yeah.” We were in his living room. I tipped the Sam Adams bottle back and drained the last drops.
“You don’t seem like the guitar type.”
“That’s what I said. She didn’t really care, though. I think it’s just about the therapeutic value.”
“Gonna do it?”
“I don’t want to spend the money.”
“Never pegged you for a tightwad.”
“Who brought the beer?”
He studied me for a few seconds, then got up and went into his bedroom. He came back out with what I first thought was a guitar case. When I got a closer look, though, I could tell it was the wrong shape. Not enough curves. “What’s that?” I asked.
“A present.” He practically tossed it into my lap, then sat down right where he’d been and picked up his beer. “Open it up.”
The case was much heavier than I’d expected. I searched around the edges for the clasps and undid them, one by one. Inside, cradled in dark-blue velvet, was a banjo. It looked like a good one, too. It was made from a dark wood that appeared to be aged mahogany, with mother-of-pearl inlays in the neck and polished brass encircling the round part on the bottom. It was worn from play but obviously well cared for.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked him.
“Play it,” he said with a seriousness that surprised me. “For your therapy.”
His tone took all the argument out of me.
“I didn’t know you played the banjo,” I said.
“I don’t anymore. Can’t do it with the arthritis.” That was the first time I’d ever heard him mention that ailment. I thought about questioning him, but I let it go. “If you’re not hung up on the guitar, that’ll be just as good. Probably even better for the dexterity.”
I looked down at the instrument in my lap.
Then back at Harlan.
Then back at the banjo.
I couldn’t guess exactly what he made of my expression, but I could tell that, somewhere deep below his stern countenance, he took pleasure in my bafflement.
“What?” he said.
I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea what to make of it. I couldn’t even recall giving any thought at all to the banjo since my brief teenage fascination with the stand-up comedy stylings of Steve Martin. And perhaps the occasional
Deliverance
reference.
Harlan was enjoying the moment, but I felt like it was a delicate situation nonetheless.
I said the only thing I could think to say. “Thank you.”
My first estimation of the banjo’s weight was about fifteen pounds. By the time I had carried it home, though, I was convinced it was twice that. The pain in my shoulder felt like a dull knife, and it pulsated all the way down my arm. Along the way, I stopped half a dozen times to switch the shoulder strap on my briefcase to the other side and transfer the instrument from one hand to the other. As counterintuitive as it seemed, it was actually more comfortable to carry the load in my left hand. I think the weight helped to stretch some of the tightness and ache away.
At home, I put the case down on the couch in the living room, hung my coat and shoulder holster over the back of
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