Beach Road

Across the way, the brothers run up and down the one court they got here, their black skin glistening with sweat even in the anemic December sun.

I still have more than enough game to school those fellas, but no one’s going to let me play hoops in this joint. All I’ve got of freedom is the pock of the bouncing ball and the sun on the back of my neck. As I do my best to enjoy those, there’s a commotion at the far end of the cage, and some inmates are shoved inside.

I’m in solitary, isolated from all the other inmates, since I fucked up that guy in the shower, messed him up so bad they’re still feeding him through a tube. So right away I know what’s happening and so does the whole courtyard, because the basketball stops bouncing and the place goes stone silent. For these sick bastards, this is better than HBO.

I almost feel the same way. I’m scared as hell, but excited-scared. No one ever learns the whole truth about himself, but in a place like this, you find out what you miss, and more than Kate’s skin or smile or the daydream she kept alive, I miss the action, the rush of shaking the dice and letting them roll, and right now they’re bouncing across the caged cement of this prison courtyard.

I stand up and, making a point of taking my time about it, move to the corner near the fence. That way no one can get behind me, and only one of them can get at me at a time.

They sent three people to do the job. There’s a pasty-looking white guy with a full sleeve of green tats on both arms, plus two thickly built black guys.

But I never take my eyes off the white guy, because I know the one in the middle is holding the blade.

They’re halfway across the lot now and closing fast, but I don’t move a muscle, not even in my face. I let them get close, and then everything changes in an instant. I bring my right foot up hard into the kneecap of the brother on the right. There’s a crunch and a scream of pain, and now, despite the four-leaf clover carved on his biceps, Irish boy is not feeling nearly as lucky, is he?

But he’s up next, and he’s got no choice. He pulls his right hand from behind his thigh and lunges at me with the knife.

Like a slow punch, I see it coming all the way. I’ve got all the time I need to turn and grab his wrist and throw him up against the second brother. Now I’m beating the shit out of Shamrock at the same time I’m using his body to shield me from the brother. When he goes limp, I snatch the homemade blade out of his hand, and with the courtyard mob stomping their feet like this is a prizefight, I turn it on the one guy left standing, who, big as he is, freezes, suddenly in no hurry to get closer.

They already got me for three homicides, one more isn’t going to make any difference, but something makes me hesitate-maybe the fact that there’s a little bit of Raiborne in his eyes-and that’s when a fourth guy, the one I never saw because he’s standing outside the cage, sticks his arms in through the mesh. He slices my throat from behind.

“That’s from Macklin,” says the voice behind me.

Once the hot wet comes flooding down my neck, I know it’s over.

I drop to my knees and then onto my back, wondering what’s the last thought I’ll have, the last thing I’ll see. I don’t need a priest or anybody else to hold my hand. I saw Kate stand naked on the beach in the moonlight. I played hoops in the NBA. I got to Paris.

The sun gets brighter and brighter and breaks into a thousand white dots before the dots dissolve and a huge black rectangle fills the sky. From behind it comes a horrifying clamor of metal rubbing against metal, and then the rectangle splits in half and becomes those two huge doors, The Gates of Hell. Then, as the last drops of blood drain out of me, the doors screech open and welcome me home.

Chapter 117. Kate

I PARK JUST off Beach Road, and as soon as I open the door, Wingo bolts out of the car and sprints onto the vast white beach. His entire canine being is beaming with happiness. The empty expanse of water and sand makes me feel better too. That’s why I’m still coming out here every day, even on a mid-December afternoon like this with the temperature barely in the forties.

I walk half a mile down the beach until I find a flat, su

The rhythmic collapse of the breaking waves calms me down and helps me concentrate, and I need all the help I can get. It’s been months since I got back from Paris, but it feels like yesterday, and I still don’t have a clue about what I’m going to do to start up my life again.

An exhausted Wingo curls up beside me, and I take out my radio and tune in to the end of the Miami Heat-Boston Celtics game. After wi

“I just want to give a shout-out to my grandmom Marie,” says Dante. “And to my homegirl, lawyer, and agent, Kate Costello. I love you both, and I’ll see you soon.”

“You hear that, Wingo? I just got my first shout-out from the FleetCenter,” I say, and then I nuzzle my sweet, faithful dog.

In the distance, a couple steps onto the sand and starts to walk toward us along the tide line. They move slowly, leaning into the wind, and when they get closer, I see it’s Macklin and Marie.

Wingo and I get up to welcome them, but something’s wrong and Marie’s face is streaked with tears.

“What’s wrong?” I ask before they even get up to me.

“Tom’s dead,” she says. “He was murdered in jail this morning, Kate. Mack doesn’t understand why I’m crying, but maybe you will.”

I’m not sure I understand it either, but suddenly I’m crying too, hard, as if someone threw a switch, and as Marie and I cling to each other, Macklin looks at the sea and stamps the sand uncomfortably.

“What’s with you two? The guy was a lying, drug-dealing piece of scum, and a cold-blooded killer. He had it coming ten times over.”

“I know that,” says Marie, staring straight into my own crying eyes and dabbing at my tears with her handkerchief. “But still. He helped Dante. He did one good thing.”

“Right, after he framed him,” says Mack, but no one’s listening.

Marie invites me to her place, but I need to be alone. Despite my tears, a heavy weight is suddenly gone, and for the first time in months, I can think clearly about the future.

Wingo and I sit back down on the blanket in the sun, and by the time we get up and trudge back to the car, I think I know what I’m going to do.

I’m going to move to Portland or Seattle, where no one knows or cares who I am. I’m going to buy a little house with a porch in front, and maybe a stream ru

And then, when Wingo and I are settled into our new neighborhood and I have the place set up just like I want it, everything warm and cozy, I’m going to get my name on a list to adopt a baby. I don’t care if it’s white, black, brown, or yellow, or if it’s from Albania, Chile, Korea, or Los Angeles, but there’s going to be one stipulation that’s not negotiable. The baby has to be a girl. Because even though I know that Tom Dunleavy wasn’t an example of anything other than his own twisted self, Wingo and I have about had it with human men.

“Isn’t that right, Wingo?”