Nightlife by Brian Hodge Read Free Book Online

Catalina. ”
    So. Not only did the giant have a softer voice than expected, he could also spout ancient Latin proverbs. Curiouser and curiouser.
    “Got a new treat for you two, fresh in stock.” Tony was already setting it up, cutting lines on the flat side of a cigarette case held in one hand. “Six keys, just in.”
    Both Justin and Trent did double takes. The powder was a first-time sight for them both. The stuff was a pale green. “What the hell is this ?” Trent asked.
    “They’re calling this shit skullflush. New strain of powder, just up from South America, my friends tell me.” The lines were ready. “Maestro!”
    Lupo pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, rolled it into a tube, tighter than a New York joint. He handed it to Trent.
    “You like this,” Tony said, “I can let it go for a grand an ounce, forty bucks a gram. That’s a fucking steal, man. Bargain-basement opportunity.”
    Trent did a line through the rolled bill. Drew back sharply, eyes bulging. “Now I know why.” He leaned back against the stall, shaking his head gently. “Whooooaa . . .”
    Justin eyed him for a moment, wondering if this was quite as good an idea as it had seemed a moment ago. Thoughts were muddled, though, sobriety sacrificed in the name of fun and new beginnings. He looked at the waiting green lines. What the hell. Free was free.
    He took the tube. Bent at the waist. Powered up a line into his right nostril.
    Drew back even more sharply than Trent.
    “What the hell do you have that cut with?” he snapped. “Ajax?”
    It felt like someone had clubbed him across the lower back of his head. From the inside. The pain flared, then ebbed to a dull molten core running from nasal cavities to brain. His eyes watered.
    “It does have a punch,” Mendoza said. He held up the cigarette case another couple inches. Six more lines were waiting.
    “No thanks,” Justin muttered. Free or not, this stuff was bad news. “I’ve got a Killian’s out there with my name on it. Thanks anyway.”
    His eyes flicked about, Tony to Lupo and back and forth again. Faces wavered. They seemed a little too attentive, scrutinized a bit too much. Eyes, eyes . . . leering in. Into flesh, past flesh, into soul. Or was it just imagination? Paranoia blues.
    “You get used to it,” Trent said, taking the tube back. “If it’s all the same, Tony, I’ll have his. No sense letting it go to waste, right?” He leaned over to hoover into his other nostril, then back again for the first, and back again.
    I’ve gotta get out of here. . . .
    Past Lupo, past the stall door. Black-and-white checkerboard, chess game come to horrifying life. There, by the door, a knight moving over two and up one. No. No. Just an ordinary guy, no chess piece come alive. Normal.
    Glimpse into the mirror as Justin passed. A frightening caricature of his own face, while in the background Trent groaned ecstatic anguish. Frightened face, painted in fluorescent light. His nose starting to run. The mucus green, stained with the powder. Disgust at himself. Worried that April would see him like this, and disgust would be contagious. He furiously wiped it away, stumbled out into the club proper.
    The ambience was at once screaming in his face and receding away. Lights had become kaleidoscopic patterns, the music a pair of cymbals clanging with his head in between.
    “Tampa hospitality,” he mumbled.
    Justin was in the flow of bodies now, passing faces looming into peripheral vision with the swell and fade of images seen through a wide-angle lens. Liar, Mendoza was a liar. Whatever this stuff was, it sure wasn’t cocaine. Justin made it to the chrome corral and hung on to the railing for dear life.
    Motes of light flashed before his eyes. Strains of music soothed his ears, music that had nothing to do with what was blasting from the speakers. Stravinsky, possibly, the dark majesty of The Firebird. It had been years since Justin could recall hearing it, and now it was returning in