A Better Goodbye Read Online Free Page A

good for the only smile he got.
    â€œYou’re on time, one-thirty, she should be too,” Coyle said. “She’s the one that wanted it like this, but I’m the guy putting out the money to make it happen. You, a motel room—”
    â€œYou could call her, you know.”
    â€œAnd act like she’s got me on a leash? Fuck that.”
    â€œMaybe we better talk about what you want me to do. Get your mind off your problems.”
    â€œYou brought your trucker’s license, didn’t you?”
    â€œYeah.” Nick was damned if he would show it unless Coyle asked.
    â€œI wasn’t sure you’d have one. You must get out of that shitty apartment more than I think.”
    â€œCoyle, the truck . . . ”
    â€œYou sure you’ve driven one of these?” Coyle slapped the side of his Mack. It had a five-speed Maxidyne, three hundred and twenty-five horses, and handled like a car as long as you were careful backing up and taking corners. “They can roll on you.”
    â€œI’ll be fine,” Nick said. “As long as you loaded it right.”
    This time they both smiled. Then Coyle pulled a key from his pocket, slid it into the lock on a bay door, and rolled the door up like a Venetian blind. Inside, cases of cans and bottles—half Bud, half Bud Light—were stacked and waiting to be unloaded. “Good enough for you?” Coyle said.
    â€œTell me my first stop and I’ll get rolling.”
    â€œRight there.”
    Coyle pointed at a building with BOWLING painted on it in large, faded blue letters. Beneath it was more: “Air Conditioning—Open Bowling 3 Games—8AM to 5PM.” There was a door with an orange vinyl sofa and a dilapidated easy chair beside it. Over the door was an arrow aimed at the door with the words “Mr. T’s Bowling” on it.
    â€œThey like to bowl around here, huh?” Nick said.
    â€œFuck, no,” Coyle said. “Lanes haven’t been used for years. It’s a bar and coffee shop now. Nights they have music.”
    â€œYeah? What kind?”
    â€œThat punk shit.” Coyle thrust the key at Nick. “Don’t lose this. Door’ll lock by itself when you pull it back down.” He took a sheet of paper folded in quarters from his hip pocket. “Here’s the other addresses you’re going to, size of the delivery, all that good shit.”
    Nick studied the note while Coyle rattled on like he was certain his replacement couldn’t read. “Only four stops besides this one, no big-assed unloads and everything’s in Highland Park. You oughta be back here by three forty-five, four at the latest. Any problems—you got a cell phone, right?”
    â€œThere a reason why I should?” Nick asked.
    â€œIt’s the fucking twenty-first century.”
    â€œMaybe I want to see how the century works out before I get carried away.”
    â€œJesus Christ on a crutch.”
    â€œRelax, Coyle. It’s right here.”
    Nick gave Coyle a glimpse of his cell phone, then stuffed it back in his Levi’s. He loved messing with Coyle. Push the right button and you could spin his head around. Just as Nick was about to do it again, he spotted a dirty red Jeep Cherokee pulling into the lot. “This your ride?” he asked.
    â€œShe’s my ride all right,” Coyle said, leaning on “ride” just hard enough to make it sound dirty. As he walked toward the Cherokee, he looked back at Nick and said, “I’ll give you a call so you can listen to her scream when she comes.”
    â€œWhat if she yawns instead?”
    Coyle gave Nick the finger and kept walking. The woman picking him up flashed a big smile that made her prettier than she had first seemed behind her sunglasses. “Hi, Ray,” she said, just loud enough for Nick to hear.
    Nick hadn’t heard many people call Coyle by his first name. He wondered if Coyle’s wife