Read Online The Road Out of Hell by Anthony Flacco - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Flacco
Ads: Link
don’t fall down out of their own weight!” He stopped moving and looked down at Sanford. “Tell me, Sanford, why do you read that pulp stuff?”
“No reason,” Sanford replied. “I just like it. This one is a whole book, even though it’s pretty short. The writer is called ‘An Old Scout,’ because he used to be—”
‘“An Old Scout?’ That’s his name?” Uncle Stewart grinned broadly at that. Sanford felt a whiff of relief; at least he didn’t look mad. “You’re trying to tell me that you’re reading a book by somebody named ‘An Old Scout,’ are you? What kind of shit is that?”
“It’s not. There’s a whole series of—”
“I was happier to see you reading those cheap detective novels. At least they have little tips and things that you can learn from. What does this teach you—how to skin a buffalo?” Uncle Stewart laughed out loud at the notion. But his laughter was a sure sign that he was in an unusually good mood. Sanford seldom saw him laugh unless someone was down and bleeding.
Uncle Stewart began to berate Sanford’s reading habits again, but the remarkable thing was that this time, he didn’t actually seem upset. He went through all the motions of scolding Sanford, but he appeared to feel too good for his heart to be in it. Whatever had put him in such a good mood was clearly a powerful force. Sanford sensed that if he just played along, he might get through the night without any more trouble.
Uncle Stewart continued his train of thought while he amused himself with a giddy series of clownish dance steps. He held out his arms and twirled like a happy girl who has just returned home from the big dance. “Sanford, if you have to read detective novels, try sticking to the good ones. Now, Agatha Christie has a new one called The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It’s brilliant! That’s literature, my friend, let me tell you! You know why? Don’t answer. I’ll tell you why some dumb writer who calls himself An Old Scout’ isn’t fit to use Agatha Christie’s bedpan.” Stewart kicked at him playfully, not hard enough to hurt. “Genius is why! Genius! Do you have any idea what I mean? When you read a great mystery by an actual writer, you get tips worth using because they’re coming from somebody smart enough to outfox the cops!”
“What do you need to outfox the cops for?”
Uncle Stewart snorted at the question, then let out a girlish giggle. “Never hurts to know. Listen to this: in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the author makes you chase the perpetrator through the plot like a hound on a hunt, keeping you guessing: Who done it? Who done it? But then what does she do at the end?”
“I haven’t read—”
“She changes the game on you and reveals that it’s the narrator who is the killer! Hee-hee! The narrator! And the whole time, she was right there under your nose! So that’s women for you! See what I mean? Sanford? Do you see what I mean? Sanford? Sanford? Do you see what I mean, Sanford?”
“I see! Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do. Because the work of death is hard, Sanford! And when I say that it’s hard, I mean that it is fraught with difficulties! Why, a person needs instruction, or at least inspiration; and if you can’t get either one of those, then you had damn well better have good information! I’m talking about the kind of information that you only get from the best. A genius! There are so many issues. For example, have you ever thought about how difficult it is to get rid of a body? Human body. Your size. Say a hundred pounds.”
“What? No.”
“Don’t shrug it off. Do not! Do not do that! That is not smart! You have to be smart! People are everywhere. Picking things up, looking underneath them, digging around to build things. You put a body somewhere that you can’t imagine anybody ever wanting to go, six months later somebody is putting in a housing development and your little gift gets dug up by the boys on the basement crew and you
“No reason,” Sanford replied. “I just like it. This one is a whole book, even though it’s pretty short. The writer is called ‘An Old Scout,’ because he used to be—”
‘“An Old Scout?’ That’s his name?” Uncle Stewart grinned broadly at that. Sanford felt a whiff of relief; at least he didn’t look mad. “You’re trying to tell me that you’re reading a book by somebody named ‘An Old Scout,’ are you? What kind of shit is that?”
“It’s not. There’s a whole series of—”
“I was happier to see you reading those cheap detective novels. At least they have little tips and things that you can learn from. What does this teach you—how to skin a buffalo?” Uncle Stewart laughed out loud at the notion. But his laughter was a sure sign that he was in an unusually good mood. Sanford seldom saw him laugh unless someone was down and bleeding.
Uncle Stewart began to berate Sanford’s reading habits again, but the remarkable thing was that this time, he didn’t actually seem upset. He went through all the motions of scolding Sanford, but he appeared to feel too good for his heart to be in it. Whatever had put him in such a good mood was clearly a powerful force. Sanford sensed that if he just played along, he might get through the night without any more trouble.
Uncle Stewart continued his train of thought while he amused himself with a giddy series of clownish dance steps. He held out his arms and twirled like a happy girl who has just returned home from the big dance. “Sanford, if you have to read detective novels, try sticking to the good ones. Now, Agatha Christie has a new one called The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It’s brilliant! That’s literature, my friend, let me tell you! You know why? Don’t answer. I’ll tell you why some dumb writer who calls himself An Old Scout’ isn’t fit to use Agatha Christie’s bedpan.” Stewart kicked at him playfully, not hard enough to hurt. “Genius is why! Genius! Do you have any idea what I mean? When you read a great mystery by an actual writer, you get tips worth using because they’re coming from somebody smart enough to outfox the cops!”
“What do you need to outfox the cops for?”
Uncle Stewart snorted at the question, then let out a girlish giggle. “Never hurts to know. Listen to this: in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the author makes you chase the perpetrator through the plot like a hound on a hunt, keeping you guessing: Who done it? Who done it? But then what does she do at the end?”
“I haven’t read—”
“She changes the game on you and reveals that it’s the narrator who is the killer! Hee-hee! The narrator! And the whole time, she was right there under your nose! So that’s women for you! See what I mean? Sanford? Do you see what I mean? Sanford? Sanford? Do you see what I mean, Sanford?”
“I see! Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do. Because the work of death is hard, Sanford! And when I say that it’s hard, I mean that it is fraught with difficulties! Why, a person needs instruction, or at least inspiration; and if you can’t get either one of those, then you had damn well better have good information! I’m talking about the kind of information that you only get from the best. A genius! There are so many issues. For example, have you ever thought about how difficult it is to get rid of a body? Human body. Your size. Say a hundred pounds.”
“What? No.”
“Don’t shrug it off. Do not! Do not do that! That is not smart! You have to be smart! People are everywhere. Picking things up, looking underneath them, digging around to build things. You put a body somewhere that you can’t imagine anybody ever wanting to go, six months later somebody is putting in a housing development and your little gift gets dug up by the boys on the basement crew and you
Similar Books
