Read Online The Lime Pit by Jonathan Valin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Valin
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the
arm. "You run down any more old men tonight?"
"What're you talking about?" he said in a
loud, gravelly voice.
"Hell, I'm talking about that two bucks you owe
me for those two beers of mine you drank."
Mike's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "I remember you.
You're the boy that was sucking around with that old faggot."
"That's it," I said cheerfully. "Now
how about my two bucks?"
"Go to hell," Big Mike said.
"Give the man the two bucks, will you, mister?"
Hank said from behind the register. "You took the beer. I saw
you do it."
"And who the hell are you?" Mike roared.
"You can't even have a drink in this faggot bar without some
fairy sucking up to you."
"Don't call me that," Hank said.
That was it. That was all big Mike had been waiting
for. He froze like a guard dog before he pounces and stared with dull
hatred at Hank. "What did you say to me, faggot?"
"He said not to call him that," I said.
Big Mike whirled with impossible quickness and threw
a deft right hand at my head. At the time you never know how
something so swift and violent can miss its mark. Either you move or
you fall--it's that simple. I moved, ducking in under Mike's right
shoulder. He was a little off balance, but he'd be squared around in
a second. And I wasn't going to wait. I threw a hard right jab and
caught him full in the solar plexus.
"Oh," Mike groaned and fell backward onto
the floor. As I started in after him, Hank slapped his arm across my
chest.
"Easy, Harry," he said. "He's had
enough."
"I want my two bucks," I said between my
teeth.
"Here," one of Mike's friends said. "Here,
I'll give you the two bucks."
"I want it from him!" I said, kicking Big
Mike hard in the ass.
"Harry," Hank said. Big Mike groaned.
"I'll get it for you," the one called Al
said. He bent over Mike and pulled his wallet from his trousers.
"Here," he said, tossing it to me. I pulled two singles
from the billfold and threw the wallet on the floor.
"Don't you ever bring that asshole in here
again," I said to Al. "You hear?"
"Goodnight, Harry," Jo cooed.
I walked down to the restaurant level, plucked Hugo
by the arm, and walked quickly into the warm night air.
"Boy," he said to me, as we turned for the
parking lot. "Looks like I picked me the right man."
8
MORNINGS AFTER are generally a bad time for me.
Either the blood sugars are too low or my heart isn't pounding
energetically enough or the dreamy rhythms of night are still playing
in my ears. For half an hour after I've opened my eyes, I blunder
through the apartment like a sleepwalker and try to fend off that
first uncensored rush of memories. But the dead faces, the maimed
ones, the friends whom violence has borne away, always crowd in. And
that Saturday morning was no different. Tough black Roscoe
Bohannon--dead three years-and beautiful Lauren Swift--dead
one--an enemy and a friend, were there when I opened my eyes. Night
travelers, lost in the daylight, they drifted like motes in the clear
noon sun and wouldn't be chased away until I'd lifted myself from bed
and plunged into a shower.
Then the routines began. The morning coffee on the
living room couch. The sound of the Zenith Globemaster, which I play
constantly so that I'll always be in earshot of a human voice. The
waxy feel and inky smell of newsprint. My half-hour passed, and I
found that I could make a sentence, the first of the day: Get in
touch with Hugo Cratz.
I walked over to the phone on the rolltop desk
beneath the living room window and dialed Hugo's home. The previous
night filtered back to me as I listened to it ring. The turquoise
blue discoloration of the first knuckle of my middle finger reminded
me of the fight with Mike. And then I remembered the pleasure in
Hugo's voice as we'd walked out to the car. He'd been too pleased,
too self-satisfied, too nonchalant. He was up to something, I was
sure of it. Formulating some scheme that would keep him from leaving
town. At first, it might delay him for an afternoon. Then a day.
arm. "You run down any more old men tonight?"
"What're you talking about?" he said in a
loud, gravelly voice.
"Hell, I'm talking about that two bucks you owe
me for those two beers of mine you drank."
Mike's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "I remember you.
You're the boy that was sucking around with that old faggot."
"That's it," I said cheerfully. "Now
how about my two bucks?"
"Go to hell," Big Mike said.
"Give the man the two bucks, will you, mister?"
Hank said from behind the register. "You took the beer. I saw
you do it."
"And who the hell are you?" Mike roared.
"You can't even have a drink in this faggot bar without some
fairy sucking up to you."
"Don't call me that," Hank said.
That was it. That was all big Mike had been waiting
for. He froze like a guard dog before he pounces and stared with dull
hatred at Hank. "What did you say to me, faggot?"
"He said not to call him that," I said.
Big Mike whirled with impossible quickness and threw
a deft right hand at my head. At the time you never know how
something so swift and violent can miss its mark. Either you move or
you fall--it's that simple. I moved, ducking in under Mike's right
shoulder. He was a little off balance, but he'd be squared around in
a second. And I wasn't going to wait. I threw a hard right jab and
caught him full in the solar plexus.
"Oh," Mike groaned and fell backward onto
the floor. As I started in after him, Hank slapped his arm across my
chest.
"Easy, Harry," he said. "He's had
enough."
"I want my two bucks," I said between my
teeth.
"Here," one of Mike's friends said. "Here,
I'll give you the two bucks."
"I want it from him!" I said, kicking Big
Mike hard in the ass.
"Harry," Hank said. Big Mike groaned.
"I'll get it for you," the one called Al
said. He bent over Mike and pulled his wallet from his trousers.
"Here," he said, tossing it to me. I pulled two singles
from the billfold and threw the wallet on the floor.
"Don't you ever bring that asshole in here
again," I said to Al. "You hear?"
"Goodnight, Harry," Jo cooed.
I walked down to the restaurant level, plucked Hugo
by the arm, and walked quickly into the warm night air.
"Boy," he said to me, as we turned for the
parking lot. "Looks like I picked me the right man."
8
MORNINGS AFTER are generally a bad time for me.
Either the blood sugars are too low or my heart isn't pounding
energetically enough or the dreamy rhythms of night are still playing
in my ears. For half an hour after I've opened my eyes, I blunder
through the apartment like a sleepwalker and try to fend off that
first uncensored rush of memories. But the dead faces, the maimed
ones, the friends whom violence has borne away, always crowd in. And
that Saturday morning was no different. Tough black Roscoe
Bohannon--dead three years-and beautiful Lauren Swift--dead
one--an enemy and a friend, were there when I opened my eyes. Night
travelers, lost in the daylight, they drifted like motes in the clear
noon sun and wouldn't be chased away until I'd lifted myself from bed
and plunged into a shower.
Then the routines began. The morning coffee on the
living room couch. The sound of the Zenith Globemaster, which I play
constantly so that I'll always be in earshot of a human voice. The
waxy feel and inky smell of newsprint. My half-hour passed, and I
found that I could make a sentence, the first of the day: Get in
touch with Hugo Cratz.
I walked over to the phone on the rolltop desk
beneath the living room window and dialed Hugo's home. The previous
night filtered back to me as I listened to it ring. The turquoise
blue discoloration of the first knuckle of my middle finger reminded
me of the fight with Mike. And then I remembered the pleasure in
Hugo's voice as we'd walked out to the car. He'd been too pleased,
too self-satisfied, too nonchalant. He was up to something, I was
sure of it. Formulating some scheme that would keep him from leaving
town. At first, it might delay him for an afternoon. Then a day.
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