Devils in Exile by Chuck Hogan Read Free Book Online

whatever the hell they want, drink like the night will never end, and then fall asleep to forget. They don’t respect Tomorrow Man because they don’t think through the fact that Tomorrow Man will be them. So then they wake up, new Today Man, groaning at the disrespect Yesterday Man showed them. Wondering why does that guy—myself—keep punishing me? But they never learn and instead come to settle for that behavior, eventually learning to ask and expect nothing of themselves. They pass along these same bad habits tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and it becomes psychologically genetic, like a curse.
    “Looking at you now, Maven, I can see exactly where you fall on this spectrum. You are a man constantly trying to fix today what Yesterday Man did to you. You make up your bed, you clean those dirty dishes from the night before, and pledge not to start drinking until six, thinking that’s the way to keep an even keel. But in reality you’re always playing catch-up. I know this because I’ve been there. The thing is—you can’t fix the mistakes of Yesterday. Yesterday Man is dead, he’s gone forever, and blame and atonement aren’t worth a damn. What you can do is help yourself today. Eat a vegetable. Read a book. Cut that hair of yours. Leave Tomorrow Man something more than a headache and a jam-packed colon. Do forTomorrow Man what you would have wanted Yesterday Man to do for you. Does that sound like an action plan?”
    Maven nodded. This was like watching a magician shuffle and reshuffle the deck, pulling Maven’s card again every time.
    “Is this a program you think you could get with?”
    “Probably, yeah,” said Maven. “I should.”
    Royce uncrossed his legs and sat forward, again glancing at the revolving doors. “You’re earnest, Maven. A rare quality these days.” Three guys in business wear walked past towing golf bags and carry-ons. “Those guys are about your age, right? Doing all right for themselves, looking to get eighteen holes in before dinner. See, me, I rotated out in the midnineties. Boom time. The Internet boom, the dot-com boom. Boom, boom, boom . In the NASDAQ nineties, there was money everywhere. I mean, I struggled at first, sure. But there were opportunities. But now you come back, you rotate out of this bitch-mother of a war, and they drop a recession over your head like a black hood. Now everyone’s ahead of you. Everybody your age either has a college degree or else years invested in the job market. They have employment equity, because they’ve been enjoying the fruits of your labor, working here in this nice safe bubble of Fortress America. Now you come back, and it’s like, ‘Thanks, kid. Let me shake your hand. Damn proud of ya. Now take a place at the back of the line.’”
    Maven watched the golfers with a mixture of anger and envy.
    Royce said, “Why, after all you’ve done, would you ever want to wait in a line?”
    Maven looked back. He wanted to hear more. But Royce’s eyes were trained on the hotel entrance now, and not looking away.
    Maven turned and looked in the same direction as Royce.
    The man in the sage green jacket entered the lobby, grip in hand.
    Maven instinctually turned away. Royce produced a slim mobile phone, one-touch dialed it, and brought it to his ear. “Ready-up,” he said, then closed the phone again.
    The man in the sage green jacket walked to the elevators behindthe registration desk. Royce stood, and Maven rose and followed him around the opposite corner, past restroom doors, into the stairwell.
    Royce said, “Let’s see how your wind is, soldier.”
    They ran up each floor, half-flight by half-flight, Maven sucking air after eight, feeling pain after twenty, going totally out of breath at the top. He stood doubled over before a fire door numbered 29, Royce blowing air too, but upright and smiling.
    A small window looked into the carpeted hallway. Maven straightened behind Royce, watching as the man in the sage green jacket turned