treating me pretty good. I got a not bad set-up with them as it is. And there’s some complications you don’t know about that I can’t tell you about.”
“But you will think about it.”
“Sure I will.”
“I’d like to have you aboard, Nolan.”
“I know you would. I’d like to be aboard, Wag. The only thing I don’t like about you, Wag, is it makes me so fucking tired watching you take it easy.”
“Well, I am taking it easy, Nolan, damnit.”
“Then what are you shaking your goddamn foot for, Wag?”
Wagner’s legs were crossed and he was shaking his foot. He stopped. He grinned at Nolan. “You buy in and I’ll take it easy. You’ll see.”
“Well, I want to be sole owner of the place, Wag, but I’d rather buy you out eventually, than have you die on me and leave me the damn place in your will. So quit running life like it’s the goddamn four-minute mile or something, will you?”
“Jesus, Nolan. Now you’re a philosopher.”
“It’s just my arteries hardening. It goes with senility.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Fifty.”
“You look younger. You look like you always did.”
“Not with my clothes off I don’t. I mean, I’m not going to show you, but take my word for it. I got enough scars you could chart a map on me.”
“Hey, you want to check my books over, Nolan, look into how I been running the place?”
“Let’s think about it first. If I seriously think I’ll want to buy in, then we’ll go into that. How about getting me another Scotch?”
“Sure!”
“But take your fucking time, Wag. Nobody’s holding a stopwatch over you.”
While Wagner was building new drinks, the phone rang. Fortunately it was on the bar, otherwise, Nolan supposed, Wag would’ve gone running after it like a fireman responding to the bell.
“For you,” Wagner said. “It’s that lad, Planner’s nephew.”
Nolan went to the phone. “What is it, Jon?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Nolan, but you better get over here right away. There’s some guy with a gun here who wants to talk to you.”
“Christ, kid, what the hell’s happening? You okay?”
“Yeah, I got things in control, I guess. But I’ll feel better about it with you here.”
“I’m on my way.”
He slammed the phone down, said, “Got to be going, Wag, catch you later,” and headed up the stairs two at a time.
From down below him Wagner said, “Hey, Nolan! What’s the rush?”
6
THE FLOOR was covered with comic strips. Old Sunday pages from the thirties, forties, early fifties, spread across the floor of his room like a four-color, pulp-paper carpet, but God help anybody who dared walk across that carpet; Jon’d kill ’em. Hell, some of the pages were so brittle, around the edges anyway, that heavy breathing was enough to turn precious paper into worthless flakes.
In fact, that was a problem Jon was doing his best to take care of now. He was sitting in the middle of the strip-covered floor, sitting like an Indian waiting for the pipe to be passed to him, and was painstakingly trimming the yellowed edges of the pages with barber shears, returning each strip, when properly trimmed, to its respective stack. He had already cut the pages up and sorted them, stacking each character individually—Li’l Abner, Terry and the Pirates, Joe Palooka, Alley Oop, dozens of others. Later, on another day, he would tackle the oppressive job of arranging them chronologically. Even a diehard comics freak like Jon had his breaking point, after all.
Jon was twenty-one years old. He was short—barely over five and a half feet tall—but with the build of a fullback in miniature; he’d worked his tail off to get in shape, through Charles Atlas muscle-building courses (anytime a bully wanted to kick sand in Jon’s face, Jon was ready) and continued on with isometrics and lifting weights. His hair was brown and curly—a white man’s Afro—his eyes blue, his nose turned up in a manner he considered
“But you will think about it.”
“Sure I will.”
“I’d like to have you aboard, Nolan.”
“I know you would. I’d like to be aboard, Wag. The only thing I don’t like about you, Wag, is it makes me so fucking tired watching you take it easy.”
“Well, I am taking it easy, Nolan, damnit.”
“Then what are you shaking your goddamn foot for, Wag?”
Wagner’s legs were crossed and he was shaking his foot. He stopped. He grinned at Nolan. “You buy in and I’ll take it easy. You’ll see.”
“Well, I want to be sole owner of the place, Wag, but I’d rather buy you out eventually, than have you die on me and leave me the damn place in your will. So quit running life like it’s the goddamn four-minute mile or something, will you?”
“Jesus, Nolan. Now you’re a philosopher.”
“It’s just my arteries hardening. It goes with senility.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Fifty.”
“You look younger. You look like you always did.”
“Not with my clothes off I don’t. I mean, I’m not going to show you, but take my word for it. I got enough scars you could chart a map on me.”
“Hey, you want to check my books over, Nolan, look into how I been running the place?”
“Let’s think about it first. If I seriously think I’ll want to buy in, then we’ll go into that. How about getting me another Scotch?”
“Sure!”
“But take your fucking time, Wag. Nobody’s holding a stopwatch over you.”
While Wagner was building new drinks, the phone rang. Fortunately it was on the bar, otherwise, Nolan supposed, Wag would’ve gone running after it like a fireman responding to the bell.
“For you,” Wagner said. “It’s that lad, Planner’s nephew.”
Nolan went to the phone. “What is it, Jon?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Nolan, but you better get over here right away. There’s some guy with a gun here who wants to talk to you.”
“Christ, kid, what the hell’s happening? You okay?”
“Yeah, I got things in control, I guess. But I’ll feel better about it with you here.”
“I’m on my way.”
He slammed the phone down, said, “Got to be going, Wag, catch you later,” and headed up the stairs two at a time.
From down below him Wagner said, “Hey, Nolan! What’s the rush?”
6
THE FLOOR was covered with comic strips. Old Sunday pages from the thirties, forties, early fifties, spread across the floor of his room like a four-color, pulp-paper carpet, but God help anybody who dared walk across that carpet; Jon’d kill ’em. Hell, some of the pages were so brittle, around the edges anyway, that heavy breathing was enough to turn precious paper into worthless flakes.
In fact, that was a problem Jon was doing his best to take care of now. He was sitting in the middle of the strip-covered floor, sitting like an Indian waiting for the pipe to be passed to him, and was painstakingly trimming the yellowed edges of the pages with barber shears, returning each strip, when properly trimmed, to its respective stack. He had already cut the pages up and sorted them, stacking each character individually—Li’l Abner, Terry and the Pirates, Joe Palooka, Alley Oop, dozens of others. Later, on another day, he would tackle the oppressive job of arranging them chronologically. Even a diehard comics freak like Jon had his breaking point, after all.
Jon was twenty-one years old. He was short—barely over five and a half feet tall—but with the build of a fullback in miniature; he’d worked his tail off to get in shape, through Charles Atlas muscle-building courses (anytime a bully wanted to kick sand in Jon’s face, Jon was ready) and continued on with isometrics and lifting weights. His hair was brown and curly—a white man’s Afro—his eyes blue, his nose turned up in a manner he considered
Similar Books
