Cash Burn by Michael Berrier Read Free Book Online Page A

from the impact puffed into a column of light cast into the room from the window.
    Flip squinted. “Close those blinds, will you?”
    Tom hesitated. But Flip looked more like a hospital patient than a convict at the moment.
    He entered the room and left the door open. The smell of Flip and soiled surfaces and dirty dishes rose up to meet him. The stench was sour, like something a caged animal might emit. He went to the window and tried to open it for fresh air, but it was painted shut.
    “You need to talk to your landlord about these windows.”
    Flip’s eyes were slits against the sunlight. “Just drop the blinds.” He brought a hand up and turned his head and let his hand fall back to the sofa cushion next to him.
    Tom didn’t close the blinds. The sunlight warmed his back. The holster resting at his kidney grew warm too.
    “You just going to stand there staring at me?”
    “I guess you really are sick. Have you been to see a doctor?”
    “No.”
    “So what’s the matter with you?”
    “Close those blinds!” Flip’s hair was mashed flat into his head on the left, and the sofa had left an imprint on that side of his face, where it was meshed and red like something grilled. Under his eyes, shaded circles drooped, the color of old bruises.
    Flip’s mouth snarled upward. He rose from the sofa and came at Tom with an arm raised. Tom fought the reflex to reach for his weapon and stepped aside. Flip grabbed the string controlling the blinds and swung it to one side. The blinds cascaded down to angle the light away from the floor.
    Flip returned to the sofa. “What do you want, anyway? I didn’t miss a meeting.”
    “Just wanted to say get well soon.”
    Flip snorted. “Okay, now you believe I’m sick and I didn’t skip town. You can go.” He lay inclined on the sofa with one leg extended to his side, one foot on the floor. His jeans were once black but already showed gray patches on the thighs and knees. He hadn’t been out that long; he must have been wearing them every day.
    “Manny’s not going to hold that job open for you forever. You better take some vitamins, Convict.”
    That brought a squinting eye open. He held the one eye wide, Popeye style, for a minute, then let it drift closed again. “I can find another job.”
    “You’re out of work; that’s a violation.”
    “What do you want me to do?” He started cursing and Tom let him.
    “You need another copy of the conditions of your parole?”
    “You think I want to be sick? I’ll go back as soon as I can.”
    Tom moved away from the window and behind the sofa, toward the kitchen entrance. The dishes piled in the sink rose well above counter level now. A couple of flies pirouetted in the space above the putrid stack.
    Broken glass littered the floor in the corner. A brown stain decorated the wall. It looked like a jellyfish, tentacles sagging downward.
    “You need a new maid.”
    “Why don’t you get out of here?” Flip’s voice, pointed in the other direction, seemed disembodied. Tom turned and looked at the back of Flip’s round, black-stubbled head propped to one side against his fist.
    He wandered into the bedroom. The blinds in here were drawn to block out the sunlight. Sheets now covered the bed, or nearly covered it. On one corner the sheet was peeled back to reveal the gray stripes of the mattress. Imagining Flip making a bed brought a grin to Tom’s face.
    From the other room, Flip called out, “You almost done with your search, Officer?”
    He returned to the living room. “I appreciate the hospitality.”
    “Like I got a choice.” Flip still rested his head against the fist of his right hand. The bicep of his bent arm was the size of a cantaloupe. Tom felt the reassurance of the holster nestled in his back.
    “What’ve you been doing when you aren’t working or lying around here being sick?”
    “I told you last week. Nothing. No bars. Not associating with any felons.”
    “A model citizen.”
    “Yeah, that’s