Read Online The staked Goat by Jeremiah Healy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeremiah Healy
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Craigie’s body after the fire, then made my mind change the subject.
Her building in South Boston was a three-decker on a clean street, sort of a wooden version of the D’Amicos’ place. Like the Italian North End, the Irish and Italian neighborhoods in Southie had been stable, if stubborn, for generations. A Lithuanian section, dating mostly from the end of World War H, straddled Broadway a little farther west.
There were three buzzers arranged vertically on the outside doorjamb. Each would signify a different floor of the three-story house. The bottom and middle name plates said ”M. Lynch” and ”A. Lynch.” The top one said ”N. Meagher.” I pushed it. Strains from some detestable C&W song reached me through the cabbie’s half-open window, something like ”I’m breaking my back putting up a front for you.”
I heard footsteps tripping down the stairs inside the door, and a fight flicked on over my head. No intercom and buzzer systems in this part of town. The door opened on a chain, and I heard her laugh.
”Well, well,” she said, slipping the chain and swinging open the door. ”A pleasure call, I hope.”
She was wearing a gray Red Sox T-shirt and white tennis shorts. A bath towel, draped clumsily, covered her left hand from the wrist down.
I said, ”I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I have a plane to catch, and I wanted to talk with you before I left.”
She went up on tiptoes and saw the cabbie over my shoulder. She shivered a bit. ”Pay off your cab and come on up. I’ll freeze in this doorway, but I’d be glad to drive you to Logan afterwards.”
As I turned back toward the cab, I heard her say, ”It’s okay, Drew.” Someone moved on the second landing and a door closed.
I settled with the driver and lugged my suitcase to her stoop. She tapped ahead of me in sandals up the two flights to her apartment.
Her door opened from the staircase into a big kitchen, perhaps fifteen by fifteen. A screened-in but sealed-off porch lay behind the kitchen. Once inside, I dropped my bag on the floor, and we turned left into a corridor that led to the front of the house. She had a cozy living room with a small bay window. There were throw pillows on the floor, and brick-and-board bookcases along both walls. Two low tables and some indirect lighting completed the furnishings.
She laid the towel carefully on one of the tables and asked me if I wanted a drink.
”Ice water?” I said, feeling the dehydration of the Chinese food and the screwdrivers.
”I have stronger,” she said.
”Thanks, just water.”
She lowered WCOZ just a bit on the stereo under a shelf of mystery paperbacks. ”Let me take your coat,” she said.
I shrugged out of it, and she left with it for the kitchen. Her bottom looked firm in the shorts, her legs straight and slim beneath them.
She was back in a flash. ”One ice water,” she said, handing me a tall, expensive-looking glass. ”Pull up a pillow.”
She collapsed naturally into one near a table with a tumbler of amber liquid on it. I sat down a little less gracefully.
She scooped up her tumbler and mock-toasted. ”Welcome to my parlor.”
”Said the spider to the fly,” I finished.
She smiled and sipped.
”It’s nice... comfortable,” I said. ”Even with the security.”
She tilted her head in question.
”Drew,” I said. ”On the landing, short for Andrew, as in ‘A. Lynch’?”
She laughed. ”Drew’s a cop. He and his wife live on the second floor. She’s expecting, and he’s just sort of protective. His parents—this is their house—they live on the first floor. Do you want to take your jacket off? The Lynches have to keep the heat up because of her mother. She’s pushing eighty and needs to have it warm.” She ran her nondrink hand down her T-shirt, neck to navel. ”That’s why I lounge around like this, even in February.”
Her nipples were subtly more defined for a moment under the shirt as her hand moved. She took another
Her building in South Boston was a three-decker on a clean street, sort of a wooden version of the D’Amicos’ place. Like the Italian North End, the Irish and Italian neighborhoods in Southie had been stable, if stubborn, for generations. A Lithuanian section, dating mostly from the end of World War H, straddled Broadway a little farther west.
There were three buzzers arranged vertically on the outside doorjamb. Each would signify a different floor of the three-story house. The bottom and middle name plates said ”M. Lynch” and ”A. Lynch.” The top one said ”N. Meagher.” I pushed it. Strains from some detestable C&W song reached me through the cabbie’s half-open window, something like ”I’m breaking my back putting up a front for you.”
I heard footsteps tripping down the stairs inside the door, and a fight flicked on over my head. No intercom and buzzer systems in this part of town. The door opened on a chain, and I heard her laugh.
”Well, well,” she said, slipping the chain and swinging open the door. ”A pleasure call, I hope.”
She was wearing a gray Red Sox T-shirt and white tennis shorts. A bath towel, draped clumsily, covered her left hand from the wrist down.
I said, ”I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I have a plane to catch, and I wanted to talk with you before I left.”
She went up on tiptoes and saw the cabbie over my shoulder. She shivered a bit. ”Pay off your cab and come on up. I’ll freeze in this doorway, but I’d be glad to drive you to Logan afterwards.”
As I turned back toward the cab, I heard her say, ”It’s okay, Drew.” Someone moved on the second landing and a door closed.
I settled with the driver and lugged my suitcase to her stoop. She tapped ahead of me in sandals up the two flights to her apartment.
Her door opened from the staircase into a big kitchen, perhaps fifteen by fifteen. A screened-in but sealed-off porch lay behind the kitchen. Once inside, I dropped my bag on the floor, and we turned left into a corridor that led to the front of the house. She had a cozy living room with a small bay window. There were throw pillows on the floor, and brick-and-board bookcases along both walls. Two low tables and some indirect lighting completed the furnishings.
She laid the towel carefully on one of the tables and asked me if I wanted a drink.
”Ice water?” I said, feeling the dehydration of the Chinese food and the screwdrivers.
”I have stronger,” she said.
”Thanks, just water.”
She lowered WCOZ just a bit on the stereo under a shelf of mystery paperbacks. ”Let me take your coat,” she said.
I shrugged out of it, and she left with it for the kitchen. Her bottom looked firm in the shorts, her legs straight and slim beneath them.
She was back in a flash. ”One ice water,” she said, handing me a tall, expensive-looking glass. ”Pull up a pillow.”
She collapsed naturally into one near a table with a tumbler of amber liquid on it. I sat down a little less gracefully.
She scooped up her tumbler and mock-toasted. ”Welcome to my parlor.”
”Said the spider to the fly,” I finished.
She smiled and sipped.
”It’s nice... comfortable,” I said. ”Even with the security.”
She tilted her head in question.
”Drew,” I said. ”On the landing, short for Andrew, as in ‘A. Lynch’?”
She laughed. ”Drew’s a cop. He and his wife live on the second floor. She’s expecting, and he’s just sort of protective. His parents—this is their house—they live on the first floor. Do you want to take your jacket off? The Lynches have to keep the heat up because of her mother. She’s pushing eighty and needs to have it warm.” She ran her nondrink hand down her T-shirt, neck to navel. ”That’s why I lounge around like this, even in February.”
Her nipples were subtly more defined for a moment under the shirt as her hand moved. She took another
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