Read Online The Kill Riff by David J. Schow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David J. Schow
Ads: Link
pile of supplies and groceries he'd hauled into the cabin from the Bronco.
He had sneezed almost instantly upon forcing the stuck door open. There was quite a lot of dust.
The cabin's walls were of split logs. It had a brick fireplace. A large central room branched off into a tiny kitchen area with about two feet of counter space. In the opposite comer was a tiny five-by-five room with a wooden door. The cabin stood above the hillside on concrete pillars and had a good board floor and a hurricane-proof roof. The roof was currently supporting about two tons of leaves and pine needles.
Sometime, perhaps last summer, a tree branch had blown through the north window on the uphill side. It still hung above a scatter of dusty glass shards. Lucas was glad he'd brought a boxful of domestic cleanup gear.
The outhouse, twenty-five paces to the southeast of the rear door, was a spectacular mess. The wooden seat had warped and split and was totally unserviceable.
Lucas began enumerating a list of things to bring down from San Francisco.
The first night, by firelight, after he'd done a general cleanup and installed the industrial-strength hasp on the door of the tiny room, he'd unscrewed the collar nut of his folding army spade and reversed the blade, using the tip to pry up five of the central floorboards in the main room.
Digging down three feet, he uncovered the crate.
He heaved it out of the earth, shoveled the dirt back into the hole, and nailed the floor planking back into place. The exterior of the crate was no different from that of a recently exhumed coffin. The wood was molder-ing, corrupted. The long-rusted nails protested removal with grating screeches; their heads, once levered up, broke off in the claw of Lucas' hammer. He split the wood along the grain and pried it away like a sculptor chipping away everything that doesn't look like an elephant.
The footlocker was filthy, but less corrupt. The hasps and metalwork were corroded and dull. He brushed away free dirt. The lock was a loss, and he used the hammer and a screwdriver to break it.
The hinges gave way and crumbled apart when he opened the lid, which fell back and crashed to the floor.
Inside, the ten-mil plastic insulator was yielding to the touch, like a fresh mushroom. Styrofoam peanuts charged with static clung to it. When Lucas used his Buck knife to slit the sleeve open, he fancied he could hear a vacuum hiss. The packing material had remained fresh and crepitant.
He cut the sleeve wider and pulled it open. Demons flooded out of the footlocker to wrap him up in their embrace.
5
GARRIS WAS BUMMED.
He could see his reflection, minuscule and distorted, in the tiny blue plastic window of the computerized cash register. He had just keyed in and turned it on; it hummed accusingly at him. Next to an incomprehensible numeral code in neon blue, his abbreviated image looked harried. As the manager of On the Brink , one of the Bay City's most self-important rock shops, he had a lot to answer for.
Releases This Week had been taped to the top of the register. New Stones-not a compilation or tour album. Sting single. Pat Benatar. New live Slayer, from Metal Blade Records. Maybe new Prince. New Peer Gynt, for upstairs. None of them were in yet. A cursory examination of the A&M order proved that Flash had fucked up. The stock numbers were in the wrong columns. The amounts were wrong. Everything was wrong.
"Okay, new rule," Garris sighed to the empty store. "No more dope smoking in the stockroom while we're doing record orders."
The cash drop had been short for two days running, and some coin rolls had mysteriously evaporated. Garris suspected Diamond Ed had been dipping the till to (a) upholster his mad money stash for cocaine or (b) meet his rent because he'd blown his wad on blow already.
Last
He had sneezed almost instantly upon forcing the stuck door open. There was quite a lot of dust.
The cabin's walls were of split logs. It had a brick fireplace. A large central room branched off into a tiny kitchen area with about two feet of counter space. In the opposite comer was a tiny five-by-five room with a wooden door. The cabin stood above the hillside on concrete pillars and had a good board floor and a hurricane-proof roof. The roof was currently supporting about two tons of leaves and pine needles.
Sometime, perhaps last summer, a tree branch had blown through the north window on the uphill side. It still hung above a scatter of dusty glass shards. Lucas was glad he'd brought a boxful of domestic cleanup gear.
The outhouse, twenty-five paces to the southeast of the rear door, was a spectacular mess. The wooden seat had warped and split and was totally unserviceable.
Lucas began enumerating a list of things to bring down from San Francisco.
The first night, by firelight, after he'd done a general cleanup and installed the industrial-strength hasp on the door of the tiny room, he'd unscrewed the collar nut of his folding army spade and reversed the blade, using the tip to pry up five of the central floorboards in the main room.
Digging down three feet, he uncovered the crate.
He heaved it out of the earth, shoveled the dirt back into the hole, and nailed the floor planking back into place. The exterior of the crate was no different from that of a recently exhumed coffin. The wood was molder-ing, corrupted. The long-rusted nails protested removal with grating screeches; their heads, once levered up, broke off in the claw of Lucas' hammer. He split the wood along the grain and pried it away like a sculptor chipping away everything that doesn't look like an elephant.
The footlocker was filthy, but less corrupt. The hasps and metalwork were corroded and dull. He brushed away free dirt. The lock was a loss, and he used the hammer and a screwdriver to break it.
The hinges gave way and crumbled apart when he opened the lid, which fell back and crashed to the floor.
Inside, the ten-mil plastic insulator was yielding to the touch, like a fresh mushroom. Styrofoam peanuts charged with static clung to it. When Lucas used his Buck knife to slit the sleeve open, he fancied he could hear a vacuum hiss. The packing material had remained fresh and crepitant.
He cut the sleeve wider and pulled it open. Demons flooded out of the footlocker to wrap him up in their embrace.
5
GARRIS WAS BUMMED.
He could see his reflection, minuscule and distorted, in the tiny blue plastic window of the computerized cash register. He had just keyed in and turned it on; it hummed accusingly at him. Next to an incomprehensible numeral code in neon blue, his abbreviated image looked harried. As the manager of On the Brink , one of the Bay City's most self-important rock shops, he had a lot to answer for.
Releases This Week had been taped to the top of the register. New Stones-not a compilation or tour album. Sting single. Pat Benatar. New live Slayer, from Metal Blade Records. Maybe new Prince. New Peer Gynt, for upstairs. None of them were in yet. A cursory examination of the A&M order proved that Flash had fucked up. The stock numbers were in the wrong columns. The amounts were wrong. Everything was wrong.
"Okay, new rule," Garris sighed to the empty store. "No more dope smoking in the stockroom while we're doing record orders."
The cash drop had been short for two days running, and some coin rolls had mysteriously evaporated. Garris suspected Diamond Ed had been dipping the till to (a) upholster his mad money stash for cocaine or (b) meet his rent because he'd blown his wad on blow already.
Last
Similar Books
