F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 by Implant (v2.1) Read Free Book Online Page B

shirt, blue blazer, and tan
slacks, but no one seemed to pay him much mind.
                 He
considered the array of partially filled glass urns before him.
                 They
leave the pots on the heaters, he thought. Barbaric.
                 Grimacing,
he reached for a medium-sized cup, foam, no less, emblazoned with the
red-and-green corporate logo, and poured himself a cup of the loi-disant
coffee.
                 He
could tell from the color, he was sure he could read the morning paper through
it, that they were stretching the grounds by adding too much water. The aroma,
make that smell--this acrid effluvium did not deserve three syllables ,
testified that it had been sitting on the burner far too long.
                 He'd
always drunk his coffee black and, even though he knew he was going to regret
this, he wasn't about to change now. He blew steam off the dark surface, sipped
. . .
                 And
shuddered. It tasted like . . . like . . .
                 Words
failed him.
                 He
watched the man in the blue flannel shirt next to him lighten his coffee with
half-and-half, then spoon in three sugars.
                 "Does
that kill the taste?"
                The man glanced up at him, apparently
startled at being spoken to. "Uh, sorta. I don't really like coffee, but I
need it to get going in the morning."
                 "Yes.
You might say I'm abstemious in all matters except coffee. What we won't do to
render ourselves properly caffeinated, ay?" He got in line at the cash
register. The flannel shirt followed him.
                 Ahead
of him, Duncan watched a steatopygous woman with rollers
wound into her orange hair dump three cans of Arizona Iced Tea and twenty
creamsicles onto the counter, then ask for two packs of Parliament, boxes,
please.
                 Half
turning to the flannel shirt, Duncan said, "I've always believed that one
can augur the course of a civilization through observation of its indigenous
cuisine, don't you agree?"
                The flannel shirt said, "What?"
                "Exactly." Then it was Duncan 's turn to pay.
                 "Anything
else?" said the Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter.
                 "Sorry,
no, " Duncan said. "My doctor won't allow me more
than one medium-size kerosene a day."
                 "Yes,
sir," the man said and took his money. "Have a nice . . . day."
                 Outside
he walked south, crossed Constitution and strolled up the Mall, gingerly
sipping the coffee-like substance as he approached the Capitol.
                 Here
it was Wednesday, a no surgery day. He should have been relaxed, but a fine
tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in the cup. He knew it
wasn't the caffeine.
                 Admit
it, he told himself. If you were wound any tighter you'd implode.
                 But
why shouldn't you be? This is an important day. Even more important for a
certain congressman.
                 He
distracted himself by admiring the scenery.
                 He
rarely got downtown anymore. Too bad. It had rained last night, and now a fine
mist hazed the air and the grass coruscated in the early morning sunlight. Starlings
managed to make themselves heard over the growing thunder of the stampeding
herd of arriving federal workers.
                 He'd
forgotten how beautiful the Mall could be before the tourists arrived.
                 The
last time he'd ventured this way had been a big mistake. He'd come down in May
during the annual invasion by busloads of eighth graders from everywhere east
of the Rockies . The National Gallery had been crawling
with roving, cachinnating packs of barely bridled hormones wrapped in scabrous,
whelk-laden skin to whom the epitome of true art