City on Fire by Garth Risk Hallberg Read Free Book Online Page B

Street-level doors blowing open to admit the ringings of Salvation Army Santas. Goldish particles sifting through slabs of sad late light, paper pulp and cigarette ash and the shed skin of Americans. The crowds were about what you’d expect with the holiday, and even that was an illusory kind of presence. Really, these pitiable consumers hurrying past with their last-minute packages were already up in Westchester, in fuzzy slippers, watching the Yule log burn. Only the rare soul, William was thinking, was ever truly here, when out of the archway that led to the 7 train skulked a hulking punk named Solomon Grungy.
    He would have been hard to miss even without the safety pins or the blindingly white hockey uniform or the big duffelbag on his shoulder. He was six foot six and seemed paler than usual, his mouth pinched like a rabbit’s. It was with some relief that William noticed his eyes were still on the floor. And then, as if sensing danger, they weren’t. To pretend not to see him would tax credulity. How much simpler the world would be if people could admit openly to hating each other! On the other hand, this was not that world. And William still believed, questions of utopia aside, in the social graces. “Sol!” he said, straining for warmth.
    “Billy.”
    “Of all the terminals in the world …” Sol was already scanning for exits, which meant William had an edge here. Ditto the Rangers-logo jersey; Sol was aggressively punk, shaven-headed, multiply pierced and inked (was that a new tattoo on his neck?), and should have opposed on principle the fascism of team sports. But then William recalled his own clothes, the ridiculous coat that swept the floor when he walked. This would almost certainly be reported back to his ex-nemesis Nicky Chaos, whom Sol served as foot soldier, cupbearer, avatar. The trick was to stay on offense, to keep Sol from noticing. “Late with your shopping?”
    “What? Oh.” Sol glanced at the duffel as if at some jungle predator that had dropped down on him from a tree. “No, uh … hockey practice. The nearest free ice is out in Queens.”
    “On Christmas Day? I didn’t know you even played.”
    “Well, I do.” No one was ever going to accuse Solomon Grungy of repartee.
    “I guess you’ve always had the makings of an enforcer,” William said. “Just be sure you take those piercings out when you play.” No response. “But how’s tricks? How’s Nicky?”
    Now Sol grew testy; why did everyone always assume he knew how Nicky was?
    “It’s a pleasantry. I’m just asking, without the band, what you guys have been doing.”
    “Some people have to work.”
    “I don’t remember Nicky being among them. I heard he was trying to paint now.”
    “That’s just like you, Billy, to act like painting still matters, with the world going to shit all around you.” And here, falling back on Nicky’s old hobbyhorse about art versus culture, Sol seemed to relax; you could actually see a calculation lope across his face, where on most people’s it would have flitted. “But I guess Nicky’s been meaning to get in touch. What we’ve been doing is, we’re getting the band back together.”
    “Like hell you are.”
    From its inception, Ex Post Facto had been William’s baby. Well, his and Venus de Nylon’s. They’d dreamed it up that hazy summer of ’73. William had scribbled out a manifesto and a few songs, they’d enlisted a couple friends as the rhythm section, Venus had found some old bowling uniforms at a flea market and resewn them to look paramilitary, and they’d worn them down to the nightclub where a Hells Angel who lived in William’s building sometimes worked the door. They’d played those early shows as a four-piece. Only after they’d cut a record had Nicky Chaos come along. The sound needed a second guitar, he insisted, though his musicianship made Nastanovich, on bass, look like Charlie fucking Mingus. No, Nicky wanted to play guitar because William played guitar,