The 25th Hour by David Benioff Read Free Book Online Page A

around,’ Agent Brzowski told Monty, seating himself on the sofa. The other three agents strolled around the apartment. One of them crouched down by Doyle’s spot next to the radiator and stroked the dog’s fur. One looked out the window to the street below. The third inspected the photograph of the RCA Victor building, his hands behind his back.
    ‘You take this picture?’ he asked. When Monty said yes the agent whistled. ‘Nice picture. What kind of camera you got?’
    Brzowski leaned back in the sofa, hands behind his head, still smiling. He listened to the conversation with interest. Naturelle headed for the bedroom but Brzowski called out to her. ‘Ma’am? It’s Miss Rosario, right? I’m going to have to ask you to stay with us for a few minutes, okay? Can’t have you wandering around out of sight.’
    Monty leaned against the kitchen’s doorframe, willing his face to appear relaxed, free of worry. He knew how federal sentencing compared to state; state attorneys often threatened federal prosecution the way mothers scare children with stories of bogeymen. He knew it didn’t matter to a federal court whether there had been prior convictions. Even with his clean record, if he got bit he was going to stay bit. But the agents weren’t searching the apartment; they were looking it over as if they were appraisers from a real estate office.
    ‘Hmm,’ said Brzowski, sitting up straighter. ‘This sofa is not very comfortable.’
    Monty stared at the agent and then exhaled. They were fucking with him. He was fucked.
    ‘Maybe it’s your posture,’ said the agent petting Doyle. ‘Posture’s very important. You’ll wind up with a bad back.’
    ‘No,’ said Brzowski. ‘It’s this sofa. It’s very uncomfortable. It’s lumpy.’
    The other agents laughed and Naturelle looked at Monty. He shook his head at her and rapped the kitchen door with his knuckles. ‘Get it over with,’ he said to Brzowski.
    The agent still acted bemused. ‘I just don’t get it. It looks like such a nice sofa. How much did you pay for this sofa, Miss Rosario?’ He stood and peered down at the cushion, stroking his chin, miming confusion. ‘Maybe it’s the padding?’
    ‘Could be the padding,’ said another agent.
    Brzowski reached down and picked up the center cushion, turned it over in his hands, found the zipper. ‘Probably the padding.’ He unzipped the cushion and reached inside, pulled out handfuls of white fiber filling and let them fall to the floor like blown cotton. ‘Yeah, there’s something lumpy in here, Mr Brogan. It’s a good thing I found this, you know. It’ll make your sofa a whole lot more comfortable to sit on.’
    He pulled a package the size of a bottle of wine from the cushion, a bundle of plastic wrap and masking tape. Stray strands of fiber clung to the package like hair from a widow’s scalp. Brzowski raised his eyebrows in feigned shock while the other agents oohed and clucked.
    ‘Mr Brogan, I do believe you’re fucked.’
    Naturelle lies naked on her side, curled next to him, running her fingers through his hair. His back is to her, his eyes wide open. The wind blows through the windows and she shivers, presses closer to him. Monty’s skin is always warm; in the depths of winter he keeps the windows open. The street noises are a lullaby for him; he grew up in a first-floor apartment.
    Naturelle wonders if she will be happier when he is gone and hates herself for wondering. She remembers mornings when she woke up shivering, their naked, crooked bodies huddled together. She would reach into the bowl of fruit kept on the nightstand, a tradition in her family, and feed him plums, or figs, or nectarines. Those were the moments she believed he really might love her, as he licked the juice from her fingers.
    ‘Are you okay?’ she asks. He says nothing and she says again, ‘Are you okay?’
    ‘I’m great,’ he says. ‘Everything is wonderful. Best night of my life.’
    ‘I just want