CHAPTER 15

 

“I THOUGHT I TOLD you to stay sober.”

“Reader. Hey, Reader. Where y’at, m’man!”

“Yeah. Where y’at’s right, Eddie. You are a fucking Yat, arentcha? I told you to keep off the sauce, you fucking alki.”

“Hey...hey, man. I’m not drunk, Reader. I had me a few beers t’clear my head. I’m on top of things.”

“Yeah.” Reader looked around the room. Beer bottles everywhere, on the floor, in the kitchen sink, one in a potted plant over by the window. He saw another room like this in his head. A room in his youth. Bottles in that room, too, only they were usually whiskey bottles. The day his daddy died, his own hunting knife sticking out of his stomach. Lying on the floor, twitching, blood-shot eyes looking up at his son, pleading, begging, afraid to move. Reader knowing at fifteen what was going through his father’s head. If I keep from moving, breathing, this didn’t happen--I’m not dying. There were whiskey bottles all around that day. He remembered picking up one, the one his father last drank from, and taking a slug. He remembered the cops and one cop in particular who thought nobody saw him. Remembered watching the cop pick up a bottle that was three-quarters full, and stick it inside his shirt. That was the same cop who stuck up for him. The one who helped convince the others that the killing Reader did was justifiable.

“Look at the woman,” he’d said. “Fucker killed the kid’s mother, what you expect? Looks like he kicked her to death. I’m this kid, I’da done the same thing. You too.” This he said to the others, uniformed cops at first and later to the guys in suits. Prosecutor, too, in some room uptown.

That cop helped him get that first rap knocked down. The prosecutor wanted to give him life. Thanks to the cop and his testimony on the stand, he ended up getting sentenced to a year in a Mickey Mouse detention unit and from there to a series of foster homes until he turned eighteen. One home in particular he remembered.

“You got any coffee?” he asked, going into the living room. “I mean coffee, not that other shit.”

Eddie stumbled after him, rubbing the stubble on his chin. His hair was greasy and dirty, but short. At least he’d done that right, got it cut like he’d told him, Reader thought.

“Fuck an A, Reader. Community dark roast. I’ll put it on.”

He heard Eddie stumble back to the kitchen and thought he heard the word “bastard,” but he let it slide.

***

Eddie sat and studied what Reader was laying out. This was the first time he knew there were others involved. He knew Frenchie all right. Guy was okay maybe, but a bit of a lush. He didn’t consider his own predilection for drink in that assessment, nor did he even stop to wonder why a smart guy like Reader was surrounding himself with guys with a weakness for booze.

Fucking Reader was planning to double-cross the guy it looked like. He saw how the wind blew. He didn’t doubt for a minute he’d do the same to him. He’d have to be on his guard every minute. Maybe he’d better get another gun just in case. He wondered what else Reader had “forgotten” to tell him.

Reader stretched his lips back, teeth and gums showing, at the instant Eddie looked up and the smaller man jumped.

“What?” Reader stood up, looked around the room.

Eddie stared at him a minute. “Nothin’. I...it...you...you looked like one of those damned rings you usta get in gum machines. We called them ‘Doctor Death’ rings. Christ! You shoulda seen your face!”

Reader sat back down and showed his teeth again. He spoke softly.

“Eddie, I am Doctor Death.” He gave a little snort through his nose.

Eddie made up his mind to get a second gun for sure. Strap it up under his arm. Motherfucker like this, he thought, you needed to be extra sharp yourself. Don’t get caught with your pants down.

It’d be hard, but he wasn’t going to touch another drop until this deal was done. Reader was smart. Scary-smart.

He lifted his arms a little and felt warm drops of perspiration roll down. Fuck me, he thought. What have I got into?