Read Online The Big Ugly by Jake Hinkson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jake Hinkson
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what she'd been doing wrong all those years.
The old man and Nate went along with her. She got Nate saved pretty quick. It didn't take long for some preacher to convince him that he was going to go to hell. The old man was a longer term project, but when he finally came around to seeing it Mom's way, he came in hard. Pretty soon he was as religious as she was.
I didn't really have an opinion about the religious stuff one way or another. I'd always figured that anyone claiming to speak for God was putting words in God's mouth. What I knew for sure was that my parents had pulled a fast one on me. Their big conversion felt like a betrayal, like they were suddenly switching to a whole new set of rules.
If it had stopped there, maybe we would have been okay. Maybe we could have worked our way back to each other.
Now it was too late to even try.
* * *
Downtown, I parked close to the old fire station and walked up the street to the Morgan building. It was six stories of gray brick and dirty windows. I walked up to the door, and the creep I'd seen that morning appeared at my side.
It gave me a start.
"Where the fuck did you come from?"
Without acknowledging that I'd said anything, he opened the front door. He was only an inch or so taller than me and slightly built, but he gave me the creeps, anyway. With wide, hard cheeks that slanted down to a small chin, he looked like a snake. He held the door for me and finally turned to me and did something with his mouth that was like a parody of a smile—like he was mocking the whole idea of smiling and politeness and kindness. "After you."
We walked inside, and as he took me to an elevator at the back of the darkened lobby I noticed brown stains bubbled up from spots in the linoleum. We waited for the elevator next to a dusty plaque on the wall that read: Walter H. Morgan, 1894-1969.
The elevator doors groaned open. I looked at the empty elevator and then back at him.
His face did that smile parody again.
I stepped on, and he followed me. He pushed the button for the sixth floor. I stared at the floor numbers tick upward. He stared at me.
When we stepped into the deserted hallway of the sixth floor, my heart rate spiked. I made fists with both hands.
If he noticed my trepidation, he didn't seem to care. He walked a little ahead of me without glancing back. "Last door," he said.
A light shone from the door at one end of the hall. My new friend stopped just outside of it and leaned against the wall. "Inside," he said, smiling.
I walked past him.
Grimy old shades were pulled down over the windows in the office where an elderly man stood behind a desk with a single lamp.
He motioned me forward. "Miss Bennett," he said.
"Yes."
"My name is Junius Kluge."
I walked over to the desk, and he held out a hand, so I shook it.
Kluge was as thin and hard as a railroad spike. Though he was an old man, he seemed to have aged differently than most people. His skin wasn't loose and saggy—it was tight and red, as if it had shrunk to his skull like melted plastic. His small blue eyes glinted like nails hammered deep into their sockets.
"Would you like to have a seat?" he asked.
"Sure."
I sat down in the creaky wooden chair on my side of the desk.
As Kluge settled into the chair on his side, he asked, "Forgive me for beginning with a question which will doubtless sound more than a little presumptuous, but do you know who I am?"
"No, sir."
He lowered his chin to his tie for a moment before he said, "I'm a small businessman who has dealings with various moneyed interests around the state. Not all of these moneyed interests are card carrying members of the chamber of commerce, you understand. Since you were in Eastgate, I almost certainly know some of the same people you know."
"Okay."
He nodded. "I understand that you've been looking for Alexis Kravitz."
I folded my hands on my lap. "Okay."
"Okay, yes-you-are?"
"Okay. Yes, I am. You seem to know that. Do you mind if I ask how you
The old man and Nate went along with her. She got Nate saved pretty quick. It didn't take long for some preacher to convince him that he was going to go to hell. The old man was a longer term project, but when he finally came around to seeing it Mom's way, he came in hard. Pretty soon he was as religious as she was.
I didn't really have an opinion about the religious stuff one way or another. I'd always figured that anyone claiming to speak for God was putting words in God's mouth. What I knew for sure was that my parents had pulled a fast one on me. Their big conversion felt like a betrayal, like they were suddenly switching to a whole new set of rules.
If it had stopped there, maybe we would have been okay. Maybe we could have worked our way back to each other.
Now it was too late to even try.
* * *
Downtown, I parked close to the old fire station and walked up the street to the Morgan building. It was six stories of gray brick and dirty windows. I walked up to the door, and the creep I'd seen that morning appeared at my side.
It gave me a start.
"Where the fuck did you come from?"
Without acknowledging that I'd said anything, he opened the front door. He was only an inch or so taller than me and slightly built, but he gave me the creeps, anyway. With wide, hard cheeks that slanted down to a small chin, he looked like a snake. He held the door for me and finally turned to me and did something with his mouth that was like a parody of a smile—like he was mocking the whole idea of smiling and politeness and kindness. "After you."
We walked inside, and as he took me to an elevator at the back of the darkened lobby I noticed brown stains bubbled up from spots in the linoleum. We waited for the elevator next to a dusty plaque on the wall that read: Walter H. Morgan, 1894-1969.
The elevator doors groaned open. I looked at the empty elevator and then back at him.
His face did that smile parody again.
I stepped on, and he followed me. He pushed the button for the sixth floor. I stared at the floor numbers tick upward. He stared at me.
When we stepped into the deserted hallway of the sixth floor, my heart rate spiked. I made fists with both hands.
If he noticed my trepidation, he didn't seem to care. He walked a little ahead of me without glancing back. "Last door," he said.
A light shone from the door at one end of the hall. My new friend stopped just outside of it and leaned against the wall. "Inside," he said, smiling.
I walked past him.
Grimy old shades were pulled down over the windows in the office where an elderly man stood behind a desk with a single lamp.
He motioned me forward. "Miss Bennett," he said.
"Yes."
"My name is Junius Kluge."
I walked over to the desk, and he held out a hand, so I shook it.
Kluge was as thin and hard as a railroad spike. Though he was an old man, he seemed to have aged differently than most people. His skin wasn't loose and saggy—it was tight and red, as if it had shrunk to his skull like melted plastic. His small blue eyes glinted like nails hammered deep into their sockets.
"Would you like to have a seat?" he asked.
"Sure."
I sat down in the creaky wooden chair on my side of the desk.
As Kluge settled into the chair on his side, he asked, "Forgive me for beginning with a question which will doubtless sound more than a little presumptuous, but do you know who I am?"
"No, sir."
He lowered his chin to his tie for a moment before he said, "I'm a small businessman who has dealings with various moneyed interests around the state. Not all of these moneyed interests are card carrying members of the chamber of commerce, you understand. Since you were in Eastgate, I almost certainly know some of the same people you know."
"Okay."
He nodded. "I understand that you've been looking for Alexis Kravitz."
I folded my hands on my lap. "Okay."
"Okay, yes-you-are?"
"Okay. Yes, I am. You seem to know that. Do you mind if I ask how you
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