Free Sacred by Dennis Lehane

couple of times and he decided he preferred to sleep in the bushes for a while.
    She came out onto Beacon through a small yard in front of a nondescript brownstone, found herself in a stream of Emerson College students heading to a night class. She walked with them as far as Berkeley Street and then retrieved our company car from its illegal parking spot on Marlborough Street.
    “Oh, yeah,” she told me, “we got a parking ticket.”
    “Of course, we did,” I said. “Of course, we did.”
     
    Richie Colgan was so happy to see us he almost broke my foot trying to slam his front door on it.
    “Go away,” he said.
    “Nice bathrobe,” I said. “Can we come in?”
    “No.”
    “Please?” Angie said.
    Behind him, I could see candles in his living room, a flute glass half-filled with champagne.
    “Are you playing some Barry White?” I said.
    “Patrick.” His teeth were gritted and something akin to a growl rumbled in his throat.
    “It is,” I said. “That’s ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love’ coming from your speakers, Rich.”
    “Leave my doorstep,” Richie said.
    “Don’t sugarcoat it, Rich,” Angie said. “If you’d rather we came back…”
    “Open the door, Richard,” his wife, Sherilynn, said.
    “Hi, Sheri.” Angie waved through the crack in the door.
    “Richard,” Sherilynn said.
    Richie stepped back and we came into his house.
    “Richard,” I said.
    “Blow me,” he said.
    “I don’t think it’d fit, Rich.”
    He looked down, realized his robe had opened. He closed it and punched me in the kidneys as I passed.
    “You prick,” I whispered and winced.
    Angie and Sherilynn hugged by the kitchen counter.
    “Sorry,” Angie said.
    “Oh, well,” Sherilynn said. “Hey, Patrick. How are you?”
    “Don’t encourage them, Sheri,” Richie said.
    “I’m good. You look great.”
    She gave me a little curtsy in her red kimono, and Iwas, as always, a little taken aback, flustered like a schoolboy. Richie Colgan, arguably the top newspaper columnist in the city, was chunky, his face perpetually hidden behind five o’clock shadow, his ebony skin splotched with too many late nights and caffeine and antiseptic air. But Sherilynn—with her toffee skin and milky gray eyes, the sculpted muscle tone of her slim limbs and the sweet musical lilt of her voice, a remnant of the sandy Jamaican sunsets she’d seen every day until she was ten years old—was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever encountered.
    She kissed my cheek and I could smell a lilac fragrance on her skin.
    “So,” she said, “make it quick.”
    “Gosh,” I said, “am I hungry. You guys have anything in the fridge?”
    As I reached for the refrigerator, Richie hit me like a snowplow and carried me down the hall into the dining room.
    “What?” I said.
    “Just tell me it’s important.” His hand was an inch from my face. “Just tell me, Patrick.”
    “Well…”
    I told him about my night, about Grief Release and Manny and his Pods, about the encounter with Officer Largeant and Angie’s B and E of the corporate offices.
    “And you say you saw Messengers out front?” he said.
    “Yeah. At least six of them.”
    “Hmm.”
    “Rich?” I said.
    “Give me the diskettes.”
    “What?”
    “That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
    “I—”
    “You’re a computer illiterate. Angie, too.”
    “I’m sorry. Is that bad?”
    He held out his hand. “The discs.”
    “If you could just—”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He snapped the diskettes from my hand, tapped them against his knee for a moment. “So, I’m doing you another favor?”
    “Well, sorta, yeah,” I said. I shifted my feet, looked up at the ceiling.
    “Oh, please, Patrick, try the aw-shucks-bawse routine on someone who gives a shit.” He tapped my chest with the diskettes. “I help you, I want what’s on these.”
    “How do you mean?”
    He shook his head, smiled. “Now, see, you think I’m playing, don’t you?”
    “No, Rich,