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Authors: Darren Shan
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from my bed until eleven or twelve. Lights out.
I traveled all over the city, though most of my time was spent near the center. It was a different world from the quiet southwest. The streets were full by seven-thirty every morning, clogged with every make of car under the smog-obscured sun. Driving was a nightmare. The city wasn’t designed for modern traffic. The roads were built around the buildings, twisting and intersecting at random. They were narrow, badly lit, many in poor condition. Gangs of kids amused themselves every day by rearranging street signs, shuffling them around like paper cards. If you didn’t know an area, the rule of thumb was to take a cab.
People were constantly trying to improve the city’s image. New buildings, fresh coats of paint, massive renovations, new roads, roundabouts and overpasses. On the outskirts it was working. But here, in the middle, it was a waste. No matter how fast they worked, others worked faster—squatters, gangs, dealers, pimps. They took over new buildings, defaced freshly painted walls, tore down streetlamps, chipped the roads away with pickaxes. This was their city. They liked it as it was.
Brief respites from the insurance world came courtesy of Ford Tasso, who turned up every so often and dragged me out into the field, taking me along on one assignment or another, testing my skills, teaching me a few tricks of the trade. I loved those trips, the men in dark coats and shaded glasses, the slit eyes, the cold guns, the casual stories of death, robbery and old criminals. I felt at home in Ford’s company.
I got to know Adrian like a brother. We spent most of the days together and—once I’d settled in and found my stride—often much of the nights, hitting the club circuit. He never seemed to tire, though he worked the same hours I did. He must have napped in the car while I was with customers, though I never caught him.
One night, while we were relaxing in one of the Skylight’s massage parlors, I asked what his secret was. He twisted around, wiped his long hair out of his eyes and said, “Cartoons.”
I propped myself up on an elbow. “What?”
“I watch a lot of cartoons.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We’ve all got to laugh. Laughing is vastly underrated. Clears the lungs for a start. Did you know there’s a supply of bad air in the lungs, a load of crappy gas which accumulates in the lower sacs? That’s what causes cancer and loads of other illnesses. Check the statistics—most cancer casualties are people who rarely laughed. Laughter’s good for your health. Plus it keeps your blood flowing freely. Clowns don’t have heart attacks.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s in the journals.”
“What journals?”
“That’s the secret of my vitality,” he said, ignoring my question. “I watch cartoons and laugh. I fit in at least two or three hours’ worth a day. Any sort, old or new, good or bad. You don’t have to watch them the whole way through. A couple of minutes here, a couple more there. They all add up.” He lay back and smiled at the ceiling. “You should try it sometime. Man wasn’t meant to be serious.”
I thought he was kidding me. Adrian liked to spin yarns and you had to take his words with a generous pinch of salt. But a few weeks later we were on the town and got lucky. Picked up two beautiful exchange students, tall, lithe, golden and eager to experience the wonders of the New World. We normally retired to the Skylight on such occasions, but we were closer to Adrian’s apartment that night.
They were both called Carmen (so they said). Mine was clumsy in bed—she’d had too much to drink and couldn’t concentrate. We messed around for a while, but when she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, I felt let down. I heard giggling and the low sound of a TV coming from Adrian’s room. Grinning, I sneaked over to the door and quietly opened it a crack.
Inside Adrian was laughing and rubbing his
I traveled all over the city, though most of my time was spent near the center. It was a different world from the quiet southwest. The streets were full by seven-thirty every morning, clogged with every make of car under the smog-obscured sun. Driving was a nightmare. The city wasn’t designed for modern traffic. The roads were built around the buildings, twisting and intersecting at random. They were narrow, badly lit, many in poor condition. Gangs of kids amused themselves every day by rearranging street signs, shuffling them around like paper cards. If you didn’t know an area, the rule of thumb was to take a cab.
People were constantly trying to improve the city’s image. New buildings, fresh coats of paint, massive renovations, new roads, roundabouts and overpasses. On the outskirts it was working. But here, in the middle, it was a waste. No matter how fast they worked, others worked faster—squatters, gangs, dealers, pimps. They took over new buildings, defaced freshly painted walls, tore down streetlamps, chipped the roads away with pickaxes. This was their city. They liked it as it was.
Brief respites from the insurance world came courtesy of Ford Tasso, who turned up every so often and dragged me out into the field, taking me along on one assignment or another, testing my skills, teaching me a few tricks of the trade. I loved those trips, the men in dark coats and shaded glasses, the slit eyes, the cold guns, the casual stories of death, robbery and old criminals. I felt at home in Ford’s company.
I got to know Adrian like a brother. We spent most of the days together and—once I’d settled in and found my stride—often much of the nights, hitting the club circuit. He never seemed to tire, though he worked the same hours I did. He must have napped in the car while I was with customers, though I never caught him.
One night, while we were relaxing in one of the Skylight’s massage parlors, I asked what his secret was. He twisted around, wiped his long hair out of his eyes and said, “Cartoons.”
I propped myself up on an elbow. “What?”
“I watch a lot of cartoons.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We’ve all got to laugh. Laughing is vastly underrated. Clears the lungs for a start. Did you know there’s a supply of bad air in the lungs, a load of crappy gas which accumulates in the lower sacs? That’s what causes cancer and loads of other illnesses. Check the statistics—most cancer casualties are people who rarely laughed. Laughter’s good for your health. Plus it keeps your blood flowing freely. Clowns don’t have heart attacks.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s in the journals.”
“What journals?”
“That’s the secret of my vitality,” he said, ignoring my question. “I watch cartoons and laugh. I fit in at least two or three hours’ worth a day. Any sort, old or new, good or bad. You don’t have to watch them the whole way through. A couple of minutes here, a couple more there. They all add up.” He lay back and smiled at the ceiling. “You should try it sometime. Man wasn’t meant to be serious.”
I thought he was kidding me. Adrian liked to spin yarns and you had to take his words with a generous pinch of salt. But a few weeks later we were on the town and got lucky. Picked up two beautiful exchange students, tall, lithe, golden and eager to experience the wonders of the New World. We normally retired to the Skylight on such occasions, but we were closer to Adrian’s apartment that night.
They were both called Carmen (so they said). Mine was clumsy in bed—she’d had too much to drink and couldn’t concentrate. We messed around for a while, but when she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, I felt let down. I heard giggling and the low sound of a TV coming from Adrian’s room. Grinning, I sneaked over to the door and quietly opened it a crack.
Inside Adrian was laughing and rubbing his
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