seconds, enough to worry Stiv.
SIX
J EETER ROCHE’S HOME was in a refurbished twelve-unit Victorian apartment house in Stevenson Alley. Recently painted a pastel blue, the building had a FOR SALE sign on the front door. Stiv rang the bell and was let in through the security gate. Going inside, he had a glimpse of his reflection in the lobby’s mirror. His posture was that of a man who was ill at ease. Plastic frame sunglasses hid his eyes. His hips and legs were toothpicks, smaller than his chest and shoulders. His hair was slick and black. His complexion was gray from the Allen Hotel lifestyle. “You look like shit,” Stiv said to the mirror.
He went upstairs to the fifth floor. A potted palm tree stood sentry in the hall next to a window. The door to Jeeter’s apartment was ajar, and without knocking, Stiv slouched into the place. He tramped through a vestibule reeking with incense into an airy, spacious living room. Five dormer windows let in lukewarm light from the noisy alley.
The walls were packed with bookshelves; paperback novels spilled onto the floor. A Random House dictionary sat on the coffee table, along with a moth-eaten softback copy of Boris Pasternak’s
Doctor Zhivago.
Beached on a brown lizard-skin sofa were Jeeter Roche and Chiclet Dupont. Jeeter’s pupils were the size of silver dollars. Psychedelic mushrooms, Stiv guessed.
Jeeter savaged Stiv with a dismissive glance. Speaking in a queeny deadpan, the voice he used when relating to an inferior, he tappedChiclet on the knee with a nail-bitten finger and said, “What the fuck is going on? You didn’t tell me Stiv Wilkins was coming over. What’s up with that? You trying to get me all freaked out and shit? I am unprepared for this. I do not feel in control.”
Chiclet fidgeted, a twitch that was exaggerated by the two five-milligram Valiums she’d just taken. She was in the zone where she was getting high, but not fast enough, and protested with vigor. “I did too tell you, Jeeter, damn it. You weren’t fucking listening.”
Stiv removed his motorcycle jacket and swung it over his shoulder. His steel-toed engineer boots scuffed the hardwood floor. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, rested his weight on one leg, and challenged Jeeter with a snarl, “You got a problem with me being here? I can leave if you want.”
Jeeter’s eyes were dark with the promise of conflict. His forehead was punctuated with a rill of tension. His overdeveloped arms strained against the sleeves of a hemp-fiber yoga shirt. His feet were bare and missing two toes. He dropped the book he’d been reading, Bernard Malamud’s
The Natural
, and said, “No, man, it’s cool. I’m not sweating you. Just checking out what comes in the door, you know what I’m saying?”
“I heard that.”
“Damn right, dude. Have a seat.”
Acknowledging Stiv with a wan smile, Chiclet was curled up in the sofa’s pads. She was clad in a polyester imitation sarong and an orange suede halter-top, and her hair was dyed bright cadmium yellow. In the late morning light her unlined, pockmarked face was ashen from a lack of sleep. A tic was working overtime on her right cheek. She was busily picking at the scabs on her newly tattooed forearms.
The living room was equipped with a pair of overstuffed velveteen chairs, white woolen drapes, walnut bookshelves from IKEA, an ersatz Turkish carpet, and a solid glass side table. A boom box on the table burbled a report about the Brinks money case. The police were now saying that, pending further notice, information to the public would be limited.
Stiv brushed a book of Picasso prints from a chair, deposited himself in the cushions, and made polite talk. “Fine place you got here. Pretty swell.”
Jeeter’s face was puffy and pallid; his lips were scarlet red and glistened with saliva. He accepted the compliment with typical gracelessness. “I’ve been doing real well this year. Selling weed is booming.” He confirmed this with
SIX
J EETER ROCHE’S HOME was in a refurbished twelve-unit Victorian apartment house in Stevenson Alley. Recently painted a pastel blue, the building had a FOR SALE sign on the front door. Stiv rang the bell and was let in through the security gate. Going inside, he had a glimpse of his reflection in the lobby’s mirror. His posture was that of a man who was ill at ease. Plastic frame sunglasses hid his eyes. His hips and legs were toothpicks, smaller than his chest and shoulders. His hair was slick and black. His complexion was gray from the Allen Hotel lifestyle. “You look like shit,” Stiv said to the mirror.
He went upstairs to the fifth floor. A potted palm tree stood sentry in the hall next to a window. The door to Jeeter’s apartment was ajar, and without knocking, Stiv slouched into the place. He tramped through a vestibule reeking with incense into an airy, spacious living room. Five dormer windows let in lukewarm light from the noisy alley.
The walls were packed with bookshelves; paperback novels spilled onto the floor. A Random House dictionary sat on the coffee table, along with a moth-eaten softback copy of Boris Pasternak’s
Doctor Zhivago.
Beached on a brown lizard-skin sofa were Jeeter Roche and Chiclet Dupont. Jeeter’s pupils were the size of silver dollars. Psychedelic mushrooms, Stiv guessed.
Jeeter savaged Stiv with a dismissive glance. Speaking in a queeny deadpan, the voice he used when relating to an inferior, he tappedChiclet on the knee with a nail-bitten finger and said, “What the fuck is going on? You didn’t tell me Stiv Wilkins was coming over. What’s up with that? You trying to get me all freaked out and shit? I am unprepared for this. I do not feel in control.”
Chiclet fidgeted, a twitch that was exaggerated by the two five-milligram Valiums she’d just taken. She was in the zone where she was getting high, but not fast enough, and protested with vigor. “I did too tell you, Jeeter, damn it. You weren’t fucking listening.”
Stiv removed his motorcycle jacket and swung it over his shoulder. His steel-toed engineer boots scuffed the hardwood floor. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, rested his weight on one leg, and challenged Jeeter with a snarl, “You got a problem with me being here? I can leave if you want.”
Jeeter’s eyes were dark with the promise of conflict. His forehead was punctuated with a rill of tension. His overdeveloped arms strained against the sleeves of a hemp-fiber yoga shirt. His feet were bare and missing two toes. He dropped the book he’d been reading, Bernard Malamud’s
The Natural
, and said, “No, man, it’s cool. I’m not sweating you. Just checking out what comes in the door, you know what I’m saying?”
“I heard that.”
“Damn right, dude. Have a seat.”
Acknowledging Stiv with a wan smile, Chiclet was curled up in the sofa’s pads. She was clad in a polyester imitation sarong and an orange suede halter-top, and her hair was dyed bright cadmium yellow. In the late morning light her unlined, pockmarked face was ashen from a lack of sleep. A tic was working overtime on her right cheek. She was busily picking at the scabs on her newly tattooed forearms.
The living room was equipped with a pair of overstuffed velveteen chairs, white woolen drapes, walnut bookshelves from IKEA, an ersatz Turkish carpet, and a solid glass side table. A boom box on the table burbled a report about the Brinks money case. The police were now saying that, pending further notice, information to the public would be limited.
Stiv brushed a book of Picasso prints from a chair, deposited himself in the cushions, and made polite talk. “Fine place you got here. Pretty swell.”
Jeeter’s face was puffy and pallid; his lips were scarlet red and glistened with saliva. He accepted the compliment with typical gracelessness. “I’ve been doing real well this year. Selling weed is booming.” He confirmed this with
Similar Books
