Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

picked up the suitcases, and walked out of the office, waddling a little under the pressure of his vast thighs.

22
     
    Two target sites at the firing range of the Paradise Rod and Gun Club on the north edge of town were set aside on Thursdays for the members of the Paradise Police Department. Jesse required everyone on the force to fire service pistol and shotgun once a month. Fifty rounds pistol, ten shotgun. This Thursday it was Jesse’s turn, and Suitcase Simpson’s. Jesse brought both the nine-millimeter service pistol that came with the job, and the short .38 revolver that he usually carried. Both men put on the earmuffs, and Simpson shot first, two-handed, in the crouch that everyone used. He scored well enough, but Jesse could tell that he didn’t like shooting very much, that he was controlling a flinch. When it was his turn Jesse fired two clips from the nine-millimeter, and put all but three rounds into the bull’s-eye.
    “Jesus, Jesse, you can shoot.”
    Jesse read his lips and nodded. He put down the nine, drew the revolver, and put all five rounds into the black. Then he stepped back, reloaded the revolver, holstered it, and took off his earmuffs.
    “How in hell did you get to shoot like that?” Simpson said.
    “Practice,” Jesse said.
    They each fired the shotgun, taking turns with it. When they were through Jesse handed the shotgun to Simpson.
    “You get to clean it,” Jesse said.
    “ ’Cause you’re the chief?”
    “Of course,” Jesse said.
    Simpson nodded.
    “But I’ll buy you coffee,” Jesse said. “Prove I’m a regular guy.”
    They sat in Simpson’s cruiser outside the Salt Air Doughnut Shop behind the supermarket in the town’s only shopping center, and ate some donuts and drank coffee.
    “You married, Suit?” Jesse said.
    “Not yet,” Simpson said. “I’m still playing the field, you know?”
    “Plenty of time,” Jesse said. “What’s your real name?”
    “Luther. My mother teaches Sunday school, she’s a very religious person, named me after some famous religious guy.”
    “Un huh.”
    “Gym teacher started calling me Suitcase when I was in the fourth grade, and it stuck.”
    “Better than Luther,” Jesse said.
    “Yeah, I guess so. I never did know why he called me Suitcase.”
    “After the ballplayer, don’t you think?”
    “Ballplayer?”
    “Harry Simpson,” Jesse said. “Cleveland, KC, the Yankees.”
    “Never heard of him,” Simpson said. “Why’d they call him ‘Suitcase’?”
    “Big feet, I suppose.”
    Simpson ate half a donut.
    “I never knew why he called me that,” Simpson said, “and I didn’t want to seem stupid, so I never dared ask.”
    “So how come you asked me?” Jesse said.
    Simpson paused and frowned for a time, which he did, Jesse knew, when he was trying to think.
    “I dunno,” he said finally, “you don’t seem like you think things about people.”
    “It’s a good way for a cop to be,” Jesse said.
    “Not thinking things about people?”
    “Something like that,” Jesse said.
    Simpson frowned again and drank some coffee. They were quiet watching the junior high school kids, ill at ease and full of pretense, cutting through the parking lot to hang out in front of the shopping center.
    “Man,” Simpson said finally, “you can really shoot.”

23
     
    When Jennifer called, Jesse was on his third drink, sitting on his tiny deck overlooking the harbor with his chair tilted back, balancing with one foot on the deck rail.
    “I need to talk,” she said when he answered.
    “Okay,” Jesse said.
    He added some ice to his glass and poured more scotch over it. He took the drink and the portable handset back out onto the deck, and sat down again, and hunched the handset between his shoulder and neck, and drank some scotch.
    “I’m through with Elliott,” Jennifer said.
    “Un huh.”
    “Are you glad?”
    Jesse took another drink. Across the harbor, the lights on Paradise Neck seemed untethered in the thick night.
    “I’m trying to get to a place where what you do doesn’t make me glad or sad,” Jesse said.
    “You’re drinking, aren’t you, Jesse?” Jennifer said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
    “Or you can hear the ice rattle in the glass when I take a sip,” Jesse said.
    “Don’t you want to know why I broke up with Elliott?”
    “He and Tommy Cruise decided to make the picture without you?”
    “There’s no need to be hateful, Jesse.”
    “Maybe there is,” he said.
    Jennifer was