Read Online Monday Night Man by Grant Buday - Free Book Online

look dignified, wearing a brown corduroy coat with black patches on the elbows and a white shirt buttoned up to his beard.
    Wally fills their cups with coffee as flat-black and bitter as only he can make it. They all order veal cutlets except Rupp.
    â€œAte at the track.”
    Horst knows he’s lying. Rupp’s blown his last buck, but is embarrassed to admit it. Here’s where Horst and Rupp differ. Horst would rather eat than bet; Rupp would rather bet than eat.
    Rupp changes the subject. “That guy upstairs still snoring?”
    Horst rolls his eyes.
    â€œI’ll give you a tip,” says Rupp. “Rob him. Then wipe shit on the walls. He’ll leave.”
    Horst stares. “Shit?”
    â€œSure! Would you stay you come home and find shit on your walls?”
    â€œRupp, where the hell you come up with this stuff?”
    â€œI read a lot.”
    â€œWhat about sleeping pills?” says Gull.
    Horst turns on him. “Christ kid! I get addicted to sleeping pills? I got a right to a decent night’s sleep.”
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    Rupp pours himself a handful of sugar, slaps it into his mouth, then chases it down with coffee. “So go read him your rights.”
    Wally grabs up the sugar dispenser. “This was full!”
    Horst says, “Hey Wally. You sleep all right?”
    â€œSleep fuckin’ good. Whisky and three aspirin every night.” Wally heads for the kitchen.
    â€œI hate that fucker,” says Horst.
    â€œWally?”
    â€œThe guy upstairs.”
    â€œYou said you never even talked to him.”
    â€œI don’t need to talk to him to hate him.”
    â€œYou hate everything,” says Rupp, sneaking another mouthful of sugar.
    Horst frowns. Does he?
    When they finish eating, Wally asks if they want pie.
    â€œGot apple?”
    â€œRaisin.”
    They have raisin pie. The crust is pale, cold, and the filling sags out the sides. Rupp steals another mouthful of sugar.
    They head to the Alhambra, on Commercial Drive, the SoHo of Vancouver. It’s packed. As they wait for a table, Rupp locks his eyes onto a blonde in a black Spanish dress and gold hoop earrings. Rupp looks like a bird dog, staring with the hunger of the starved. If he had a tail, it’d be sticking straight out. The woman’s hand goes to her neck, as if something’s crawling there. She glances back, spots Rupp, then says something to the guy with her, who looks like he thinks he’s James Dean, wearing a singlet, black hair stroked straight back, and short sideburns. Horst nudges Rupp to stop staring, then gazes innocently at the walls. They’re done up with all sorts of Spanish artifacts, daggers, brass plates, pictures of sunbaked villages, plus a couple of yellowed restaurant reviews showing the owner, a big-bellied guy with oily hair and a handlebar moustache.
    A table finally comes free — except there’s only three chairs.
    See! thinks Horst. Fuckin’ Gull. If Gull wasn’t here I’d have a seat! He looks around. Spotting a chair he points, questioningly — but the woman next to it shakes her head and pulls the chair closer. Horst walks across the bar and spots another chair.
    â€œThis seat free?”
    The kid next to it doesn’t answer. He’s involved in a very serious draw on his cigarette and is not to be interrupted. He’s wearing a Panama hat, as if Vancouver is the tropics.
    Horst repeats: “This seat free?”
    The kid, all of Gull’s age, finally finishes exhaling smoke. He butts his cigarette, sniffs, then, not bothering to turn his head, says: “Nope.”
    Horst stares, jaw hard. The kid ignores him. Horst returns to where Bunce and Rupp and Gull are sitting, and stands. First Horst puts his hands in his pockets, then he pulls them out and folds his arms across his chest; he stands on one foot, then the other, and finally ends up shoving his hands back into his pockets again. He