Drink for the Thirst to Come by Lawrence Santoro Read Free Book Online

everything there was. Everything he’d wanted to say but didn’t for five long years, maybe longer. That was that.
     
    Snudfall stopped. They struck out for the Monadnock stump. An easy half-mile and they were there. The bongs behind them, every fifteen minutes, still buzzed with screams but they were behind.
    The Monadnock was a gutted shell. The Heath and Hollows people? People. Mex’s mostly. Chris was used to Mex’s. Like home.
    First, the people wanted to string them up, him and the girl, grab their worth. Like at the Center when newbies oozed in all strange. “ Al carillón, al carillón ,” they shouted.
    “Señor Temoco!” Chris yelled. “We got Daley business with Señor Temoco!”
    Down they were put for a few dark minutes, everyone muttering, plinking hard. Then there came Señor. Heard him before he saw him, a little squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak and the Mex’s parted sharp. Out of the shadows rolled Señor, a fat man on a chair, a legless fat man on a chair with wheels, big wheels, rolling on the paths across the pulver that had been packed down smooth for him. Squeak-squeak. The chair was topped with torches dripping burning fat or tallow. Puddles of liquid fire trailed back the way he came.
    Chris laughed when he caught on. He wanted to slap someone’s back—the Boss’s back for a matter of fact—and shout out, “Why hell, that’s the best I’ve heard since The Day! You’ll know him by his bearing! His Goddamned burned out bearing!”
    Squeak-squeak, squeak… And the Señor stopped and was looking, his eyes bright flames behind ridges of fat. He looked at the girl, plinked Chris, looked at the girl again and licked a lip.
    “Señor Temoco,” Chris said.
    “ Jefe ,” the Señor said, little sharp gleams behind the eye fat.
    “ Jefe ,” Chris said, “I’m here from the Boss, my Daley from the Center, to pick up a thing he says you got. A box he says. This big.” He showed.
    “This is arranged, yes,” Jefe said.
    From behind Señor Temoco’s chair came a guy. The guy carried a small wooden box. A box like the Boss had said. The box buzzed a long drawn-out humm that never drew breath.
    Chris smiled and made his trade. The smile was not deep.
     
    “’Spected you yesterday.” The Boss looked at him like he’d forgotten something. “What’s your name?”
    “Harp. Chris Harp.”
    “Harp.” The boss looked him up and down. At the mud, the blood, the pipe-smacked face, gone to shit. “Fun out there, Angel?”
    “Some.”
    “And?”
    “Box.” Chris handed the buzzing thing to the Boss. He’d kept it clean all the way back.
    “Yeah.” He handed it to Lenny. “Leonard?”
    “Yeah,” Lenny said.
    “Something for our Angel Harp here.”
    Lenny tucked the box under his arm. Passed Chris a hand of smoke, a full pack of suck. Marlboro. Cellophane, tab and all. Twenty weeds sealed. A week of suck.
    “Lenny,” Boss said.
    “Right,” and he was off with the box.
    “Wonder what that is, do you?”
    Chris looked after Lenny. The old kicker was gimping toward the old United stadium half-a-mile ’burbward, No-one’s place.
    “The future, Boss?”
    The Boss smiled. Put his hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hell, probably not. Just bees. Some say they’re necessary. Well, you gotta try, right? You’re wondering, ‘Was it a good trade?’”
    Chris kept eyes on Lenny until he disappeared into the dark and pulver mist. “Not so much.”
    “Stop by my table tomorrow. Have a bite.” Boss said. “Fresh meat.”
     
    The Icehouse was dark and stinking. He’d missed night thistle. Better grunts coming, anyway!
    He’d missed TV Johnny. That hurt.
    He climbed his tier. Second from the top. His muscles ached. Near fifty. Still looked forty. Good. He still could climb but fifty’s coming. Me, an old guy! Imagine that! Still. Climbing was… nothing to it. He stepped on the Mex’s meaty paw. Guy grunted like he’s gut-kicked. Fuck him. This might could be his last night of being