Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

sitting here blabbing at me?” Michelle said.
    Jesse smiled at her.
    “Trying to do the right thing,” he said.
    Michelle stared at him for a long moment.
    “Jesus Christ,” she said. “You’re weird.”
    Jesse took a business card out of the pocket of his white uniform shirt and gave it to Michelle.
    “You need help sometime,” Jesse said, “you can call me.”
    Michelle took the card, as if she didn’t know what it was.
    “I don’t need any help,” she said.
    “You never know,” Jesse said and stood up. “It’s what else we do,” Jesse said, and turned and walked back to his car.
    She stared at him as he walked and watched the car as it pulled away. She watched it up Main Street until it turned off onto Forest Hill Avenue and out of sight. Then she looked at the card for a moment and put it into the pocket of her jeans.

41
     
    The disk jockey at the 86 Club wore a ruffled white shirt and a tuxedo vest with silver musical notes embroidered on it. He played records and did some patter but the noise with or without the music was so loud in the low room that no one could hear what he said. A few people danced, but most of them were sitting and drinking at tiny tables, jammed into the space in front of the long bar.
    Tammy Portugal was alone, crowded onto a barstool, drinking a Long Island iced tea and smoking Camel Lights. She was wearing tight tapered jeans and spike heels and no stockings and a short-sleeved top that exposed her stomach. She had put on her best black underwear, too, in case anything developed. She had cashed her alimony check. There was money in her purse. The kids were at her mother’s until tomorrow afternoon. She had a night, and half a day, when she could do anything or nothing, however she pleased.
    Across the room she knew he had been looking at her and finally she let her eyes meet his. He looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but handsomer. Fabio, maybe. Big muscles, long hair. His pale eyes had a dangerous look, she thought, and it excited her. She had seen him before on her night out, and she had watched him as he moved through the bar. Watched how careful other men were around him. Watched how many of the women looked after him as he walked past. She had, she knew, been thinking of him when she put on the good black underwear. She wondered if he was gentle in bed, or rough. She felt the sudden jolt along her rib cage as she realized he was walking toward her.
    “Hi,” he said. “What are you drinking?”
    She liked the way he came on to her. He didn’t ask if she was alone. A man like him wouldn’t have to worry about whether she was alone. If he wanted her, he’d take her.
    She told him what she was drinking, trying to keep her voice down. She liked the throaty sound one of the actresses made on one of her soap operas, and she practiced it sometimes with a tape recorder when she was alone.
    He wedged his body into the crowded bar, making room beside her where there had been none. “Seven and ginger,” he said to the bartender, “and a Long Island iced tea.”
    He leaned one elbow on the bar and looked straight on into her eyes. She swiveled on her barstool, as if to talk with him better, and managed it so that her knee would press against his thigh.
    “I’ve seen you before,” he said to her.
    They had to lean very close to each other to be heard over the clamor of the hot room.
    “I’m out about once a week,” she said, “looking for the right guy.”
    “Maybe you’re in luck,” he said.
    “Maybe I am.”
    She tilted her head back a little and lowered her eyelids and gave him an appraising look.
    “You must be single,” he said. “I had something like you at home, I wouldn’t let you out.”
    “Divorced,” she said.
    “Because?”
    “Because my husband was a jerk.”
    “Was?”
    “He’s still a jerk,” she said, “but he ain’t my husband anymore.”
    “Kids?”
    “Two. My mother’s got them until tomorrow afternoon.”
    He nodded as if that answered the final question. He was wearing a dark blue polo shirt and white pants and boat shoes with no socks. Everything fitted tightly over his obvious musculature, and when he raised his glass to drink, his bicep swelled as if it would burst the short sleeve.
    The disk jockey said something into the microphone which nobody could hear, and played a record. She couldn’t hear it but she knew it was slow because the few people on the floor were touch-dancing.
    “Dance?” he said.
    She slid