Read Online Everybody Dies by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lawrence Block
Tags: thriller
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do you feel now?"
"Old."
"Really? I'd think you'd be feeling like a young lion. How old were the guys you beat up?"
"I wouldn't say I beat them up. I surprised them and I lucked out. How old? I don't know. Say thirty-five."
"Kids."
"Not exactly."
"Still, that's got to feel good, Matt. Two young fellows and you knock them on their asses? Even if luck had a little to do with it- "
"More than a little."
"- it still goes in the books as a win."
We talked some more, and he steered the conversation to our Sunday dinner date, suggesting we meet at the Chinese vegetarian place across from the Coliseum. "Months since we ate there," he said, "and I'm in the mood for some of that famous ersatz eel of theirs."
"Out of business," I said.
"You're kidding. Since when?"
"I don't know, but I saw the sign in their window sometime early last week. 'Restaurant Close. Go Somewhere Else. Thanks You.' Not quite the way they'd put it in the English as a Second Language class, but the message was crystal clear."
"Elaine must be distraught."
"Try inconsolable. We found a vegetarian place in Chinatown, there are a few of them down there now, but the one on Fifty-eighth was a favorite of hers and it was right around the corner. It's going to leave a hole in her life."
"It'll leave a small one in mine. Where else am I gonna find eel made from soybeans? I don't care for real eel, only the phony kind."
"You want to try the place in Chinatown?"
"Well, I'd like to have that eel dish one more time before I die, but that's a long way to go for it."
"I'm not even sure they've got eel on the menu. The joint on Fifty-eighth's the only place I've ever seen it."
"In other words we could drag our asses all the way downtown and I'd wind up having abalone made out of gluten?"
"It's a risk you'd be running."
"Or lamb chops made out of library paste. Eel aside, I'd just as soon stick to real food, so let's forget about Chinatown. God knows there are enough Chinese places in the neighborhood."
"Pick one."
"Hmmm," he said. "Where haven't we been in a while? How about the little place on Eighth and Fifty-third? You know the one I'm thinking of? The northeast corner, except it's not right at the corner, it's one or two doors up the avenue."
"I know the one you mean. The Something Panda. I want to say Golden, but that's not right."
"Pandas are generally black and white."
"Thanks. You're right, though, we haven't been there in ages. And as I recall it was pretty good."
"They're all pretty good. Six-thirty?"
"Perfect."
"And can I trust you to stay out of fistfights between now and then? And ginmills?"
"It's a deal," I said.
There's a gun shop on Centre Market Place, around the block from the old Centre Street police headquarters. They've been there forever, and they carry a wide range of weapons, along with a full stock of police gear and training manuals. I went there to buy a shoulder holster, and as an afterthought I picked up a box of shells, the same hollow-point ammunition as the five in the Smith. Anybody can buy a holster, but I had to show a permit to buy the shells. I'd brought mine, and showed it, and signed the register.
They had Kevlar vests, too, but I already owned one. In fact I was wearing it, I'd put it on before I left the house.
It was a warm day to be wearing a bulletproof vest, with the humidity a few percentage points beyond the comfort range. I didn't need a jacket on a day like that, but I was wearing my navy blazer. I had the little Smith jammed under my belt, and I needed the jacket to keep it from showing, even as I'd need it to conceal the shoulder holster.
They gave me the shells and the holster in a paper bag, and I walked around carrying it, looking for a place to have lunch. I passed up a slew of Asian restaurants and wound up on Mulberry Street, on the two-block stretch that's about all that's left of Little Italy. I sat in the rear garden at Luna and ordered a plate of linguini with red clam sauce. While they
"Old."
"Really? I'd think you'd be feeling like a young lion. How old were the guys you beat up?"
"I wouldn't say I beat them up. I surprised them and I lucked out. How old? I don't know. Say thirty-five."
"Kids."
"Not exactly."
"Still, that's got to feel good, Matt. Two young fellows and you knock them on their asses? Even if luck had a little to do with it- "
"More than a little."
"- it still goes in the books as a win."
We talked some more, and he steered the conversation to our Sunday dinner date, suggesting we meet at the Chinese vegetarian place across from the Coliseum. "Months since we ate there," he said, "and I'm in the mood for some of that famous ersatz eel of theirs."
"Out of business," I said.
"You're kidding. Since when?"
"I don't know, but I saw the sign in their window sometime early last week. 'Restaurant Close. Go Somewhere Else. Thanks You.' Not quite the way they'd put it in the English as a Second Language class, but the message was crystal clear."
"Elaine must be distraught."
"Try inconsolable. We found a vegetarian place in Chinatown, there are a few of them down there now, but the one on Fifty-eighth was a favorite of hers and it was right around the corner. It's going to leave a hole in her life."
"It'll leave a small one in mine. Where else am I gonna find eel made from soybeans? I don't care for real eel, only the phony kind."
"You want to try the place in Chinatown?"
"Well, I'd like to have that eel dish one more time before I die, but that's a long way to go for it."
"I'm not even sure they've got eel on the menu. The joint on Fifty-eighth's the only place I've ever seen it."
"In other words we could drag our asses all the way downtown and I'd wind up having abalone made out of gluten?"
"It's a risk you'd be running."
"Or lamb chops made out of library paste. Eel aside, I'd just as soon stick to real food, so let's forget about Chinatown. God knows there are enough Chinese places in the neighborhood."
"Pick one."
"Hmmm," he said. "Where haven't we been in a while? How about the little place on Eighth and Fifty-third? You know the one I'm thinking of? The northeast corner, except it's not right at the corner, it's one or two doors up the avenue."
"I know the one you mean. The Something Panda. I want to say Golden, but that's not right."
"Pandas are generally black and white."
"Thanks. You're right, though, we haven't been there in ages. And as I recall it was pretty good."
"They're all pretty good. Six-thirty?"
"Perfect."
"And can I trust you to stay out of fistfights between now and then? And ginmills?"
"It's a deal," I said.
There's a gun shop on Centre Market Place, around the block from the old Centre Street police headquarters. They've been there forever, and they carry a wide range of weapons, along with a full stock of police gear and training manuals. I went there to buy a shoulder holster, and as an afterthought I picked up a box of shells, the same hollow-point ammunition as the five in the Smith. Anybody can buy a holster, but I had to show a permit to buy the shells. I'd brought mine, and showed it, and signed the register.
They had Kevlar vests, too, but I already owned one. In fact I was wearing it, I'd put it on before I left the house.
It was a warm day to be wearing a bulletproof vest, with the humidity a few percentage points beyond the comfort range. I didn't need a jacket on a day like that, but I was wearing my navy blazer. I had the little Smith jammed under my belt, and I needed the jacket to keep it from showing, even as I'd need it to conceal the shoulder holster.
They gave me the shells and the holster in a paper bag, and I walked around carrying it, looking for a place to have lunch. I passed up a slew of Asian restaurants and wound up on Mulberry Street, on the two-block stretch that's about all that's left of Little Italy. I sat in the rear garden at Luna and ordered a plate of linguini with red clam sauce. While they
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