Michael Malone - Weebly

photographic triptych of Beanie, Lance, and Arthur.
Each was fixed in black-and-white unease: the boys at
thirteen in their Alexander Hamilton Academy blazers—
Lance, tieless, his head cocked mischievously as a
popgun at the photographer; Arthur, terrified into
pomposity behind his middle-aged glasses; and Beanie,
like a victim of lockjaw, searching for a person she
doubted she'd find behind the camera. Scaper took his
stethoscope from the pocket of a linen jacket that had
probably once been white. Over Abernathy's protest he
pressed the instrument to the lawyer's thin chest, then
his back. "Just seeing how you're holding up, Winslow.
Breathe in. Out. Again. Okay. Beanie's over at the
Strummers' house, I don't know if you thought she'd left
again or what. I didn't hear about that mess (you and
her) until Arthur told me last night. Always thought
Beanie had her feet on the ground.
What do I know? Obviously nothing. Hold still." He
grabbed up the thin wrist in his enormous paw and felt
for the pulse. "She told me that poor jerk of a son of
yours drove off without saying good-bye. Two broken
bones in his hand!" He took Abernathy's blood