Read Online The Lazarus Heart by Poppy Z. Brite - Free Book Online
Authors: Poppy Z. Brite
Ads: Link
fear of arousing suspicion and drawing the bullies' wrath his way.
He stared at the desecrated locker and saw Linda Getty slumped limp against that wall, her life pumping out of her, the blood staining her blue cop pants black. She hadn't even fucking cried, had calmly slipped the ring off her finger.
Tell her I still love her.
The ring was still tucked in his shirt pocket, and the sticky blood staining its smooth metal surface was so much like the crimson graffiti slur splashed across the locker door. Later Frank would know that if each man is given only one moment when redemption is somewhere within his reach, that moment in the locker room had been his, his one chance to change the course of his life. A handful of seconds when everything was suddenly made so clear, as simple as the resigned tone of Linda's voice coming through the pain and shock.
And then Donovan said something behind him, "You gotta be careful who you ride with, Frank," just like that, and the anger rising inside him was drowned in the fear, the cold, watery fear that had put out so many fires before and would smother a thousand more. Frank turned and faced Joe Donovan, a heavyset man with acne scars, and the words were on his lips, the right words, but when he spoke they slipped away and all that came out was, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you can't be too careful, can you?"
"No," Joe Donovan said, "you sure as hell can't, buddy." He smiled with the reaffirmation that he was speaking to one of his own, someone who understood that sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the sake of maintaining a greater purity. "It wasn't nothing personal, Frank. You know that."
"Yeah," Frank replied, "yeah, sure."
So the next day, hung over and exhausted from long hours filled with drunken nightmares where he was forced to face down Roy the psycho crackhead again and again, Frank went to see her and return the ring. When he arrived there was another woman in the room, a skinny white girl with a jewel in her right nostril and tattoos on her arms. Linda whispered something to the girl and she left them alone, glancing suspiciously at Frank as she passed him on her way out to the hall.
Linda's eyes were as glazed with the painkillers as they had been with pain the day before, her voice flat and raw, sludgy. She blinked at him and attempted to smile. Frank fished the ring from his pocket. He'd washed the blood off it, and it shone dully in the white light of the hospital room.
"Thank you," she croaked.
Frank shrugged. "No problem. Hey, they treating you all right in here?"
"Everything a girl could ask for." She did smile then, a tired and honest smile that made him glance down at the scuffed toes of his shoes.
"Well, you let me know if you need anything. I gotta get back to the station. All the goddamn paperwork from yesterday. You know how that shit goes." She nodded, then reached out and touched his hand.
"Frank, you did know, didn't you?"
He didn't answer, looked nervously from his shoes to her to the door, just wanting to get the hell away.
"No," he said, and that part was the truth, he hadn't. "Shit. I'm sorry. I thought everybody knew."
"You just rest and get better, okay?" he said. The girl came back then and stood in the doorway, silently announcing that his time was up.
"Thanks," Linda croaked again. "You saved my ass out there." "Hey, just doing my job, right?"
"See you soon," she whispered as the drugs pulled her back down toward unconsciousness, releasing him, his duty done. Frank made it all the way to the elevator before he started shaking so badly that he had to sit down.
He often dreams about Roy the psycho crackhead these days. A very simple dream, a short-subject sort of dream where he's watching from somewhere outside himself but still close enough to smell the gunpowder and his own terrified sweat.
The details are always so much clearer than anything was that afternoon in the projects, edited and retouched for his viewing pleasure. The loud,
He stared at the desecrated locker and saw Linda Getty slumped limp against that wall, her life pumping out of her, the blood staining her blue cop pants black. She hadn't even fucking cried, had calmly slipped the ring off her finger.
Tell her I still love her.
The ring was still tucked in his shirt pocket, and the sticky blood staining its smooth metal surface was so much like the crimson graffiti slur splashed across the locker door. Later Frank would know that if each man is given only one moment when redemption is somewhere within his reach, that moment in the locker room had been his, his one chance to change the course of his life. A handful of seconds when everything was suddenly made so clear, as simple as the resigned tone of Linda's voice coming through the pain and shock.
And then Donovan said something behind him, "You gotta be careful who you ride with, Frank," just like that, and the anger rising inside him was drowned in the fear, the cold, watery fear that had put out so many fires before and would smother a thousand more. Frank turned and faced Joe Donovan, a heavyset man with acne scars, and the words were on his lips, the right words, but when he spoke they slipped away and all that came out was, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you can't be too careful, can you?"
"No," Joe Donovan said, "you sure as hell can't, buddy." He smiled with the reaffirmation that he was speaking to one of his own, someone who understood that sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the sake of maintaining a greater purity. "It wasn't nothing personal, Frank. You know that."
"Yeah," Frank replied, "yeah, sure."
So the next day, hung over and exhausted from long hours filled with drunken nightmares where he was forced to face down Roy the psycho crackhead again and again, Frank went to see her and return the ring. When he arrived there was another woman in the room, a skinny white girl with a jewel in her right nostril and tattoos on her arms. Linda whispered something to the girl and she left them alone, glancing suspiciously at Frank as she passed him on her way out to the hall.
Linda's eyes were as glazed with the painkillers as they had been with pain the day before, her voice flat and raw, sludgy. She blinked at him and attempted to smile. Frank fished the ring from his pocket. He'd washed the blood off it, and it shone dully in the white light of the hospital room.
"Thank you," she croaked.
Frank shrugged. "No problem. Hey, they treating you all right in here?"
"Everything a girl could ask for." She did smile then, a tired and honest smile that made him glance down at the scuffed toes of his shoes.
"Well, you let me know if you need anything. I gotta get back to the station. All the goddamn paperwork from yesterday. You know how that shit goes." She nodded, then reached out and touched his hand.
"Frank, you did know, didn't you?"
He didn't answer, looked nervously from his shoes to her to the door, just wanting to get the hell away.
"No," he said, and that part was the truth, he hadn't. "Shit. I'm sorry. I thought everybody knew."
"You just rest and get better, okay?" he said. The girl came back then and stood in the doorway, silently announcing that his time was up.
"Thanks," Linda croaked again. "You saved my ass out there." "Hey, just doing my job, right?"
"See you soon," she whispered as the drugs pulled her back down toward unconsciousness, releasing him, his duty done. Frank made it all the way to the elevator before he started shaking so badly that he had to sit down.
He often dreams about Roy the psycho crackhead these days. A very simple dream, a short-subject sort of dream where he's watching from somewhere outside himself but still close enough to smell the gunpowder and his own terrified sweat.
The details are always so much clearer than anything was that afternoon in the projects, edited and retouched for his viewing pleasure. The loud,
Similar Books
![[Roger the Chapman 06] - The Wicked Winter](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/617064/thumbs/152x264/roger-the-chapman-06-the-wicked-winter.jpg)
