Lights Out by Peter Abrahams Read Free Book Online Page A

buyin’,” the old man said. Alcohol fumes drifted into the space between them.
    Eddie didn’t recognize the man at all, but he knew the voice. “Vic,” he said.
    The old man peered up at him. “Do I know you?”
    “Uncle Vic,” Eddie said.
    The old man studied his face, then looked him up, down, up. “Shit,” he said. “You still competin’?”
    “Competing?”
    “Is why you shaved your melon. Unless you’ve gone bald or some—” Vic remembered then, and his face, hard enough, hardened more.
    “I got out yesterday,” Eddie said.
    “Just yesterday?” said Vic, puzzled. “Well, if it’s money you want, I got none. Don’t need no jailbirds around here. No offense.”
    The wind gusted across the porch, spinning a white cone before it like a seal toying with a ball. Vic, in a sleeveless undershirt and long johns, shivered.
    “I don’t want money,” Eddie said. This wasn’t what he’d expected. But what had he expected? An embrace? No; but a handshake, maybe.
    “Good,” said Vic. “ ’Cause I got none. Those fucking Falardeaus laid me off, laid off half the town. I suppose you didn’t know that.”
    “I didn’t.”
    Vic snorted. “Restructuring.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You tell me.” Vic glanced up and down Turk Street. No one was out. He looked again at Eddie. “You don’t want money?”
    “No.”
    Vic opened the door wider. “Might as well come on in.” Another gust ripped up the porch, blowing a tiny white storm inside before Vic got the door closed.
    Same house, same layout: front room, stairs on the left, bathroom down the hall, but much smaller than in memory, and all comfort gone. The shag carpet, Vic’s La-Z-Boy, framed photos of Johnny Weissmuller: gone. There was just the TV and a stained sofa sagging crooked on the warped floor. On the screen, a man in a party hat was jumping up and down. Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Eddie thought. Is this mine own countree?
    “Bank’s got the place now,” Vic said, watching him. “So who gives a shit?”
    They sat at opposite ends of the sofa. There was a half-full jug of wine on the floor. Vic pushed it around the side, where Eddie couldn’t see. He gave Eddie a sidelong look, then fastenedhis eyes on the TV. The man in the party hat was laughing till it hurt.
    “You were something in the pool,” Vic said.
    “Not that good.”
    “Yes you were. One hell of a swimmer.” He turned to Eddie. “Not as good as Jack, but one hell of a swimmer.”
    Eddie said nothing.
    “Go ahead. Say it.”
    “Say what?”
    “That you were better.”
    “I wasn’t.”
    “You beat him in the fly. Why don’t you say it?”
    The same old shit: trying to get him to rise to the challenge of Jack. A cheap coach’s trick, and so long ago, stupid then, meaningless now. They’d already fallen into their old pattern. Eddie kept silent.
    Vic began his rebuttal anyway. “So what if you did beat him in the fly? What does it prove? The fly is for animals. Freestylers need finesse.”
    The next moment Eddie was on his feet, standing over Vic. Just a stupid and meaningless trick, but he had a fistful of that stringy hair, slick and oily, in one hand and his other hand was cocked.
    “I’m not an animal.”
    “Jesus,” said Vic, “what did I say?” The good part was the lack of fear in Vic’s eyes. Eddie realized that was as close as he was going to get to a homecoming. “I was talking about swimming, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t mean nothin’.”
    Eddie let go. Sorry. He almost said it. Vic was drunk. Eddie had seen him drunk before. Fifteen years had passed and now Vic was one, that was all. Eddie walked to the window. Wind and snow. Nice. He could just stroll out into it if he wanted.
    Behind him, Vic reached for the bottle, took a swig. His hair stood up like a cock’s crest. He held the jug out to Eddie. Eddie shook his head. He’d thought a lot about his first drink on the outside. He wanted a drink, but he wasn’t sure he could