Read Online Jordan in the Time of Cold War by Seth Harwood - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Seth Harwood
Ads: Link
watched her side rise up and down as she breathed.
"You know I owe him money."
"I know," she said. "So go on and do whatever you're going to do."
"It's not till later. He doesn't need me now." I stood up and walked into the bedroom and shut the door. Barkley, Stockton, Delilah: they could all do without me. Even the Mailman. Especially the Mailman.
It was technically her apartment, but when I first came in I gave her the next two months rent right up front. Just like that, to let her know where I stood. Now I walked to her closet and bent down, looked in the back behind all her shoes at the typewriter case where I kept my few things—the ones worth any real money.
The typewriter case had a lock with three numbers. I'd programmed them to 666 because I was smart like that. That's how much I wanted things to go well.
Far as Delilah knew, I had just a typewriter in there. Exactly like me to use one—me the writer. But she believed it anyway and so never touched the case. If she did, she'd know the weight wasn't right and then she'd want to know what else was inside, something that wouldn't be good for either of us.
In the case was my old man's .38, the one he taught me to shoot back in the alleyway behind our house. Bricks, bottles, beer cans, that's where I learned.
Delilah would've not been good with me keeping a gun, not in the apartment or anywhere else. Another one of our differences.
I opened the top and took out the actual typewriter, an ancient Remington where the whole carriage lifted up when you used shift. Underneath, wedged into the bottom under the keys, was the gun. I popped the cylinder and gave it a spin. Six bullets, the full load. If things went well, I'd only need one. But you never knew how things would go.
Delilah tried the knob and then knocked. "Why's this door locked?"
"Just a minute." I didn't move to let her in. My eyelids felt tired, like someone had stolen the energy right out of me, taken away what was supposed to make me sit up straight and be in the world.
I could hear the TV, an announcer talking about the starting lineups for the game.
"What's in there? You holding out on me? Is that…?" She was off onto something else, looking for the next big high.
"I'll be right there."
After a few minutes, she gave up. I could hear the TV click off and then the flick of our lighter. The handle of the .38 had gone warm in my hand. I suppose that's what I'd wanted. I pushed the typewriter case back into the closet and tucked the gun into her dresser's top drawer, underneath what was left of my clean underwear.
In the living room, she was on the loveseat again, nodding off into her high. She looked up at me for a few seconds, then stopped. I wanted to turn the TV on again, but didn't. Instead I lit a cigarette and went to the kitchen to make coffee. It was going to be a long night.
Later, after the third game of the triple-header had ended—my last bet drew me even on the day when the Celtics won—I went back into the bedroom and put the gun down the back of my pants. She was there when I turned.
"What's that?"
"What?"
She cocked her head to the side and squinted. "Jeff, do not start this shit with me."
"It's a gun. There. How about that?"
"A gun in my apartment?"
Something about the way she said it, taking full ownership for her place, pissed me off. I wanted to walk out right then, but knew I'd need her for an alibi later. "You know, baby. Just something I had to have on hand for that odd time. I was actually keeping it in a locker outside the apartment until yesterday."
She tilted her head. I don't suppose either of us believed me. I definitely could've put more into selling the lie. She stayed quiet. I wanted her to go back in the other room, toot out on the opium again, and nod into a high. If we'd had something stronger that week, something like H or dust, this might have been a smaller problem.
"Know what?" I asked her.
"What?"
"I'm leaving." I grabbed my jacket off the
"You know I owe him money."
"I know," she said. "So go on and do whatever you're going to do."
"It's not till later. He doesn't need me now." I stood up and walked into the bedroom and shut the door. Barkley, Stockton, Delilah: they could all do without me. Even the Mailman. Especially the Mailman.
It was technically her apartment, but when I first came in I gave her the next two months rent right up front. Just like that, to let her know where I stood. Now I walked to her closet and bent down, looked in the back behind all her shoes at the typewriter case where I kept my few things—the ones worth any real money.
The typewriter case had a lock with three numbers. I'd programmed them to 666 because I was smart like that. That's how much I wanted things to go well.
Far as Delilah knew, I had just a typewriter in there. Exactly like me to use one—me the writer. But she believed it anyway and so never touched the case. If she did, she'd know the weight wasn't right and then she'd want to know what else was inside, something that wouldn't be good for either of us.
In the case was my old man's .38, the one he taught me to shoot back in the alleyway behind our house. Bricks, bottles, beer cans, that's where I learned.
Delilah would've not been good with me keeping a gun, not in the apartment or anywhere else. Another one of our differences.
I opened the top and took out the actual typewriter, an ancient Remington where the whole carriage lifted up when you used shift. Underneath, wedged into the bottom under the keys, was the gun. I popped the cylinder and gave it a spin. Six bullets, the full load. If things went well, I'd only need one. But you never knew how things would go.
Delilah tried the knob and then knocked. "Why's this door locked?"
"Just a minute." I didn't move to let her in. My eyelids felt tired, like someone had stolen the energy right out of me, taken away what was supposed to make me sit up straight and be in the world.
I could hear the TV, an announcer talking about the starting lineups for the game.
"What's in there? You holding out on me? Is that…?" She was off onto something else, looking for the next big high.
"I'll be right there."
After a few minutes, she gave up. I could hear the TV click off and then the flick of our lighter. The handle of the .38 had gone warm in my hand. I suppose that's what I'd wanted. I pushed the typewriter case back into the closet and tucked the gun into her dresser's top drawer, underneath what was left of my clean underwear.
In the living room, she was on the loveseat again, nodding off into her high. She looked up at me for a few seconds, then stopped. I wanted to turn the TV on again, but didn't. Instead I lit a cigarette and went to the kitchen to make coffee. It was going to be a long night.
Later, after the third game of the triple-header had ended—my last bet drew me even on the day when the Celtics won—I went back into the bedroom and put the gun down the back of my pants. She was there when I turned.
"What's that?"
"What?"
She cocked her head to the side and squinted. "Jeff, do not start this shit with me."
"It's a gun. There. How about that?"
"A gun in my apartment?"
Something about the way she said it, taking full ownership for her place, pissed me off. I wanted to walk out right then, but knew I'd need her for an alibi later. "You know, baby. Just something I had to have on hand for that odd time. I was actually keeping it in a locker outside the apartment until yesterday."
She tilted her head. I don't suppose either of us believed me. I definitely could've put more into selling the lie. She stayed quiet. I wanted her to go back in the other room, toot out on the opium again, and nod into a high. If we'd had something stronger that week, something like H or dust, this might have been a smaller problem.
"Know what?" I asked her.
"What?"
"I'm leaving." I grabbed my jacket off the
Similar Books
