Serpents in the Cold by Thomas O'Malley Read Free Book Online Page B

in tall grass as if it were an enchanted place instead of a dumping ground for the factories just off the bay.
    Dante blew into his hands and turned back around to face the darkness of the stalls. Now in winter, the place smelled of human feces mingled with cheap cigar. There had been people here, bums or kids perhaps—teenagers drinking and smoking, doing what teenagers did. He turned down the narrow hallway between the bathrooms and the locker rooms. Two windows were partially boarded up, the light forcing its way through the uneven plywood slats. He turned to the last window in the hallway and tore off a slat of wood that was nailed weakly to the window frame. It allowed in more light, enough for him to feel secure before opening the door to the men’s locker room.
    He called out to the darkness as the door creaked open, and stepped inside. There were two high windows, and he went to one and pried off its shutters also. This one was nailed more securely. He put his hat back on and used both hands until the daylight glimmered through. Several blankets were crumpled in among sheets of newspaper and soot-stained towels. He pulled at one of the blankets, and the fetid stench of human shit that wafted up made him wince. He pulled out his lighter, moved its flame around with a shaking hand until he saw something in a tin coffee can. Around it were a few empty beer cans, a wine bottle, a woman’s sweater, soiled underthings. He picked up the sweater—it was nothing Sheila would have worn. He grabbed the can, walked back into a square of daylight, and, trembling, emptied the contents of the can onto a wooden bench beneath the window.
    The shakes were coming stronger now and he licked at his lips. Wouldn’t it be nice to have it all laid out for him, a clean fix and some clean works, a quick taste in the darkness before he made it back out to Cal. Just a taste, something to help him carry on the rest of the day. He bit his lip and erased the thought. If there was any good time to fold, it wasn’t now.
    Just a bunch of coins, a pouch of dry tobacco and rolling papers, a pencil, what looked to be a tooth, and a silver lighter. He raised it to the open window, and the morning light reflected off the silver. He flicked it open and the spark caught and flamed. He pocketed it, stood back in the doorway, and looked out over the beach, the distant view of Moon Island beneath a darkening sky, and then the open Atlantic with its waves ragged and threatening. He lowered his hat and headed back to the beach.
      
    CAL PAUSED AND looked back the way he’d come, his footsteps small, dark divots in the blanket of white. He tracked them to the parking lot, where, even after the recent snowfall, he could make out the deep frozen rills left by the big trucks and tractor-trailers. He turned back and watched the waves crash and foam under the wooden pylons and against the sheet of rippling ice that last night would have been thicker, blacker, reaching farther out into the bay. He trudged across the frozen grass to the marine salvage and boatyard and stood looking at the beach.
    Dante was standing there, staring at him. He called out to Cal, his voice fighting against the wind. “I found nothing.”
    Two planes passed overhead in quick succession. Dante lowered his head and lit another cigarette.
    “It’s like nothing ever happened here,” Cal said. “Beginning to think Fierro was right. She wasn’t killed here.”
    Cal gestured for Dante’s cigarette, took a drag, and handed it back. “It’s too cold to stand around and bullshit. Let’s get going.”
    In the car they sat in silence, the engine of the Chevy running. Cal watched Dante roll the lighter about in his hands and he resisted the impulse to tell him to stop. “We’ll hit some of these streets next.”
    “I need to go Somerville,” Dante said, but wouldn’t look at him. The lighter seemed to move more frenetically from hand to hand.
    “What the fuck’s in