Dancer in the Flames Read Online Free

because there was only one door left. Drago opened it as the ball left Mariano Rivera’s hand.
    ‘I want a lawyer, Boots,’ he said. ‘It’s my right.’
    Rivera’s cutter was ankle-high over the outer half of the plate when the batter’s upper-cut swing interrupted its downward arc. The fly ball that resulted would have been a routine out in almost any other stadium. But this was Fenway Park and the foul pole in right field was only 302 feet away. Boots felt his heart jump as Nick Swisher raced toward the warning track.
    ‘Gimme a break here,’ Boots said, pumping his fist. ‘Gimme a fuckin’ break.’
    But there was no break to be had. The ball traced a gentle, rainbow arc that finally dropped it into the seats one row beyond Swisher’s outstretched glove. The game was over.
    Initially, Boots froze, his body rigid, his mouth open, staring straight ahead. Then a gurgling sound issued from the back of his throat, as though he were choking on his own phlegm. He watched Shoppach circle the bases, watched him leap into the arms of his jubilant teammates while the Yankee players walked off the field. A close-up of Mariano Rivera revealed an anguish that bordered on despair. He could not have pitched better and he knew it.
    Suddenly, Boots whirled in a half-circle and kicked Drago’s legs out from under him. Frankie threw out his hands as he crashed to the floor, but he wasn’t strong enough to break his fall. His face slammed into the carpet hard enough to bounce. An instant later, Boots Littlewood dropped on to his back.
    ‘Gimme your hand,’ Boots shouted. ‘Gimme your hand.’
    Boots jerked Drago’s right arm behind his back and fastened one end of a pair of cuffs to his wrist. Then he reached for Drago’s other hand, still shouting, ‘Gimme your hand. Gimme your hand.’ But Drago’s back was very broad and he was carrying an extra hundred pounds as well. Though he didn’t resist, his hands wouldn’t come together, no matter how hard Boots yanked. Still Boots persisted, until finally he grew tired, until finally he heard Frankie Drago’s plea.
    ‘Boots, it was an accident. I swear. An accident.’
    ‘Shut up, Frankie.’ Boots had zero interest in hearing another version of the same event, a version guaranteed to be as self-serving as all the others. He jumped to his feet, yanked out a roll of bills, counted off two hundred dollars in tens and twenties, finally dropped to his knees and shoved the money into Drago’s pocket.
    ‘There, ya fuck,’ he said. ‘Now we’re even.’

THREE
    A n hour later, Boots Littlewood entered Angie Drago’s kitchen to find Officer Enrique Torres seated across from Frankie Drago at a table in the center of the room. The table was covered with a plastic tablecloth depicting scenes from Ancient Rome, the eruption of Vesuvius being the most prominent. Drago’s coffee mug sat dead center over the rim of the volcano and Boots had to wonder if he’d placed it there deliberately, perhaps to contain the explosion that threatened to engulf him.
    ‘Hank,’ Boots said, ‘you mind givin’ us a little privacy?’
    ‘No problem.’
    Boots waited for the door to close behind the uniformed cop, then crossed to the sink. He found a mug in the drain basket, filled it with coffee from a gleaming percolator, added milk and sugar, finally took Torres’s seat at the table. Drago watched Boots carefully, knowing that his own future was on the line. Make a mistake here and a series of very bad things would happen to him. Drago had spent four years upstate in the 1990s following a conviction for armed robbery and assault. In fact, prison was where he’d finally wised up, where he’d stopped dreaming those crime-czar dreams. Neighborhood bookie, he’d admitted to himself, far better suited his talents and his nerve.
    ‘You asked for a lawyer,’ Boots said. ‘Are you takin’ that back, Frankie?’
    ‘Yeah, I am.’
    ‘So, what do ya want?’
    Drago took a deep breath as he