Read Online Ghost Radio by Leopoldo Gout - Free Book Online Page B

potato chips and drinking liquor so noxious I could feel my liver corroding before it even reached my stomach.
    On this particular occasion, I found a chair in a corner of the kitchen, next to an artist who wrote and drew a comic about a zombie superhero. I pretended to be interested.
    â€œZombo is like a classic superhero, with foibles, anxieties, and problems. You know the whole Stan Lee thing,” he told me.
    â€œWhat are his superpowers?” I asked.
    â€œWell, he’s immortal because he’s already dead. He lives in a grave and only comes out at night. He defends democracy and he protects his girl.”
    â€œWhy would a zombie care about democracy?”
    â€œBecause he’s a modern vigilante.”
    â€œOh, of course,” I said, suppressing a laugh.
    A woman dressed head to toe in black, with full lips painted the same color, approached.
    â€œSo what’s Zombo up to these days?” she asked with a smile. She had a subtle accent I couldn’t place.
    â€œDefending the world from injustice.”
    â€œAnd protecting democracy from its enemies?” she added, giving me what seemed like a conspiratorial look.
    â€œHave you met Joaquin? He’s a disc jockey.”
    â€œA disc jockey?” she asked, considering me coolly.
    I let the question go unanswered. I didn’t want to talk about my job.
    â€œI knew a disc jockey once. Killed himself by jumping in front of a train,” Alondra said.
    I didn’t know what to make of this comment. Hostility? Ridicule? I wasn’t sure.
    Unable to think of a rejoinder, I asked her name.
    â€œAlondra,” she said. It sounded like a challenge.
    â€œAre you also an expert on zombies?” I asked, hoping to sound witty.
    â€œI’m an expert on a lot of things. But zombies aren’t a favorite.”
    Zombo’s creator grasped Alondra’s sarcasm and his face fell. I seized the moment.
    â€œFrankly, my main problem with Zombo is that he has a really stupid name,” I ventured.
    He stared at me in confusion; he was obviously trying to hold in the anger that would make him look like what he was: a ridiculous, easily offended cartoonist. He decided to laugh instead.
    â€œIt’s meant to be stupid,” he said limply.
    â€œHis name’s the least of his worries. Believe me. I’ve read most of his adventures,” Alondra said, moving closer to me.
    â€œWell, it’s a work in progress.”
    â€œProgressively decomposing. But for a zombie, that might be a good thing.”
    Crestfallen, the artist got up and limped away.
    I already liked everything about Alondra: her face, the black dress she wore trimmed with antique lace, her hair, her hands; the accent that seemed ripped from the soundtrack of an old Superman cartoon.
    â€œSo, what do you do?” I asked.
    â€œGuess,” she said, a hint of playfulness dancing in her eyes.
    â€œWell, you dress like you’re in a Goth band, which means you’re not.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œToo sarcastic for an actress.”
    â€œMuch too sarcastic.”
    â€œToo independent to have come here on someone’s arm.”
    â€œYes, my arms are free.”
    â€œAnd since this is a party for underground-comics people, you must be one of them.”
    â€œNice deduction, Sherlock.”
    I gave her a courtly bow.
    â€œThe guest list kind of tipped my hand.”
    I nodded.
    â€œWhat might you have guessed without that?”
    â€œSerial killer?” I blurted out.
    She laughed and some of her armor slipped away.
    The conversation shifted, becoming easier, looser.
    We talked about comic books and hip-hop, politics and food, Web sites and the crime rate in Mexico City. She told me a little about the trajectory that had carried her to the Federal District.
    â€œYou hungry?” she wanted to know.
    â€œHardly at all now. I ruined my appetite with a rancid bag of something I found lying around here,” I