New Title 1 by Patrick Lestewka Read Free Book Online Page A

like pressed raisins. “It’s a matter of principle.”
    I am fully aware that, if it came down to it, I could kill every man in this room. The gun’s got a nine cartridge clip—two slugs for every player, tack on a buckwheat for Len. Not that I’d do it, you understand, but I could . These guys see me as a one-eyed washout eaten up by Vegas, and a poor loser to boot…and they’re right. But, time was, I ran with the best of the best. Time was, I ran with the Magnificent Seven.
    I tuck the pistol into my pants and fix the undertaker with a look meant to freeze the piss in his bladder to ice-cubes. “Here it is,” I drawl. “You want it, come get it.”
    “Terrible sportsmanship.” The mortician removes combs, tweezers, and toothbrushes from his pocket, then rolls up his sleeves. “Just… appalling .”
    He comes to get his gun.
    The little mortician dances toward me on sneaky feet and loops a tight hook into my bread basket. He feints a right hand and executes the Fitzsimmons’ shift, shoes kicking static sparks on the thick scarlet carpeting, popping a short uppercut that catches me on the chinbone. They’re not powerful shots but I don’t protect myself. I fall flat on my ass. White noise fills my skull. He grabs my shirt, hauls me to my feet, throws me against a Celestial Conveyance . I bounce off the heavy wooden coffin and go down. My prosthesis is jarred loose and rolls under a cherrywood casket.
    The mortician jumps on me swinging. I get my hands up and catch most of it on my arms and shoulders until he flags. My face, which elicits either disgust or pity in most people, doesn’t seem to faze him at all, which I find strangely comforting. I shove him off and stagger away. He finds his second wind and comes at me, lab coat billowing in wings: an albino moth. He grabs me again and drags me to a Pleasant Slumberer , pushes me in headfirst. I kick feebly, catching him in the legs and chest, but he’s wiry and relentless. He stuffs me down into the innerspring mattress; plush sateen presses against my cheek. He tries to lower the lid but I keep a foot on the edge so it can’t be closed and latched.
    “Here!” I slip the pistol through the gap. “It’s yours!”
    The mortician lets up immediately. “Hey, now, that’s the spirit.”
    He raises the casket lid but I don’t get out. I peek over the coffin lip and watch Len and the others head back to the embalming room. Rocky says, “That was just… sad .” I cross my arms over my chest and let my head sink into the silk pillow. Well, it’s nicer than a lot of places I’ve flopped.
    After awhile I get out. I retrieve my prosthesis and wander around until I find the front doors, knocking over a few urns along the way.
    Two hours after entering the mortuary I’m back outside. Nothing seems to have changed—the sun’s in the same position, a disc of brimstone pinned to the sky above Bob Stupak’s Space Needle. I don’t even have bus fare. I trudge southwards.
    Three hours later, I’m back in my room at the Lucky Sevens . I haven’t worn any sunscreen, and my face and arms are sunburned beet-red. I don’t feel a thing. Someone once told me the sense of touch was easily the most underrated of the five senses. But, for this brief moment, I’m grateful I can’t feel.
    A knock on the door.
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s the manager. You Paris?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Letter for you.”
    “Slide it under the door.”
    The envelope is stained and smudged, forwarded from the various hotels and motels I’ve occupied during my slide. It’s a miracle I got it—or else someone had a vested interest in making sure I got it.
    The first thing to catch my eye is the unsigned check.
    One five and four zeroes in a neat little row…
     
    — | — | —
     

Randy “Answer” Blondeau—Information Extraction
    New York, NY.
    November 30, 1987. 12:05 p.m.
     
    I rack my first fare of the day at 54th and Lex when two yuppie broads flag me down outside Barney’s.