Read Like a Knife for Free Online

"Seven years we were married, seven years for good luck." Rennie shook his head and smiled sadly. "I have no luck with women, Nicky. No luck at all."
    Nick said nothing. A ten-year-old fragment of conversation floated up from his memory.
    "Don't get too close to him, Nicky boy," the soft Irish lilt was saying in his head. "You think he's tame, you think he's civilized, but he ain't." Danny Walsh leaned in, whispering low. The smell of his beery breath wafted out with every puffy word. "He's tiger wild, and he don't like being crossed. Don't matter who you are. Ask him about his first wife if you don't believe me-go ahead, ask him. See what he says."
    They'd been in a bar in Amsterdam; Danny was chasing the IRA dream: surface-to-air missiles that could take down British helicopters. Nick was in Amsterdam to make an initial assessment and possibly negotiate a deal. It was his first overseas assignment; he was young, just barely twenty-two, and though he'd been working for Rennie since he was sixteen, he still had something to prove to an old salt like Danny who liked to tease.
    "Why don't you tell me yourself, Danny?"
    "Because I can see by your face you wouldn't believe me." Danny smiled. 'That tiger's got you, boy-o, tight and fast. Do you love the old man, Nick? Do you love him like your da?" And Danny had laughed long and hard. But he'd told the story at last, after much coaxing, and a few more pints of Grolsch pilsner. "She was Cuban, Nicky, from the old crowd before Castro. And they take their politics real serious. Spier had a big deal going with one of their fancy brigades in Miami, and she found out he was selling to Fidel, too. So she told her father, and Spier lost the job."
    "So you're saying he killed her?" Nick bristled, and Danny had shrugged ironically.
    "She killed herself, Nicky, from the shame of it all." He winked. "At least that's the story they gave out." He leaned back in the booth and sighed. "She was lovely, was Mrs. Spier-dark and slender. I heard he did it himself, you know. Didn't they find traces of phenobarbital in her blood? He gave her enough to make her woozy, took her up to the roof, and helped her fly."
    The limousine lurched, and Nick's memory jolted to a stop. They were at a traffic light. Frank made a left and another left, and they were back on the expressway again, heading east this time. The gentle rhythm of Spier's voice ticked on, and Nick realized he'd been speaking all along. Tears shone in the older man's eyes. They turned the icy blue into something almost warm. "You don't understand, Nicky. I am trying to tell you, but you do not understand." Spier was half laughing now, and something like joy blazed through the tears. "Shelly-she was like an oasis, full of water, fertile and ripe." He leaned forward and gripped Nick's arm. "It's a miracle, Nicky. A miracle. Like Abraham in the desert."
    But Nick hardly listened. Images swam in his head. Shelley's swollen, bloody face as she stood in his doorway. The picture the cop had shown him the day before-her beautiful body twisted and broken, her glorious hair soaked in a blood-stained puddle. Suddenly he couldn't stand breathing the same air as Rennie Spier.
    "Stop the car." Nick knocked on the partition, and Martin opened it. "Pull over, stop the car."
    Spier gave Martin a curt shake of the head.
    "Sorry, Nicky," Martin said.
    But Nick had had enough. He lunged through the partition and grabbed Frank around the neck, squeezing his windpipe against the back of the seat. The car careened over the shoulder and back onto the road.
    "What the hell's the matter with you?" Martin fought to pry Nick's arm away and also steer the car.
    "Pull over. Do it!"
    "All right, Nicky, Jesus." Martin steered the wheel so the car skittered to the shoulder. It stopped with an abrupt squeal.
    Nick shot out of the car so fast he tripped and had to scramble to keep his balance.
    "Hey, Nick, wait a minute!" Martin's feet crunched on the loose gravel as he raced