A Life in Men: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

keeps a low profile and steers clear of his old haunts. It isn’t just the cops, but some former associates, too, who might still like to fry his ass for him. Dealing is no longer safe.
    Earl’s Court is proving easier than Yank expected. Still, he nudges Nicole—you’ve got to fold your hand at the peak of luck, before things turn sour—and gestures toward the back of the station, where they quickly swipe their Tube passes in the turnstiles and disappear into the crowd of commuters, jumping onto an approaching train.
    “So I think our resident faggot’s making off with my jazz tapes,” Yank announces conversationally, lingering near the door despite plenty of open seats. “They’re disappearing one every couple of weeks, like I’m not gonna notice. He took my Stan Robinson the other day. Cheap little fucker—he oughta be paying more rent, since he’s got his own room.”
    “But it’s a
common
room,” Nicole protests. “You and Joshua practically ash your cigarettes on poor Sandor while he’s sleeping on the couch.”
    “Still,” Yank says, hoping to send the girl a message, “he can afford more, he’s got a
job
.” Then he chuckles to himself. “Least he says he does. I don’t know about you, but I never heard of door-to-door art salesmen where I come from. You ask me, the Flying Dutchfag’s just a few blocks over from where we’re standing right now, in some public toilet with a dick up his ass, calling it commission.” He snorts. “
Art salesman.
Art of bending over, more like it.”
    “Can we go to West Kensington?” Nicole asks, interrupting.
    They’re on the District line anyway.
    “What for?”
    “What do you mean, ‘what for’?” she says back. “For the same thing we’re going to be doing all day.”
    He knows she can be this way: bristly and smart assed. She’s not a big talker, which suits him fine, but unlike most quiet girls she seems to keep her mouth shut not out of docility but out of an intense secretiveness. She’s also better at keeping her guard up than most of those who actually
should
, probably because she’s not high all the time—or maybe because her secrets aren’t that interesting.
    “Whatever, Kemo Sabe,” Yank says, rising to get off at the West Ken stop.
    They stand there on the platform. He’s been here before: it’s a sleepy station, often unmanned. Today, though, there’s a guy on duty. It’s not the kind of place you can operate out in plain sight—since they’re the only ones here, the guy’s got nothing else to look at but them. Yank turns to Nicole and says, “Well, better move on.”
    She says, “I just want to look around.”
    To say this seems crazy would be an understatement. Look at
what
? Even if she were one of those London history buffs, he’s not aware of this station’s having any kind of interesting history. He gives her a look: She is wasting his time. Doing some kind of female thing, acting out with inexplicable petulance to sabotage his agenda. Without another word, she disappears into the station, wandering out toward the road, out of his range of vision. Yank walks back toward the platform. Whatever. Not his problem.
    The next train is approaching by the time Nicole comes running back. “Yank, wait!” she calls, and his eyes dart around automatically to see if anyone’s paying attention, feels for the hundredth time like kicking himself for failing to make up a new alias when he met Joshua and Sandor. “Come on,” Nicole pleads, catching up with him and tugging his arm. “There’s a pub next door—we should toast to the Pilgrims! Yesterday was Thanksgiving at home, you know.”
    Home.
Her use of the word doesn’t sit right.
    “Fuck the Pilgrims,” he says. “This isn’t a social outing, girl. I don’t want a goddamn drink.”
    Though, of course, he does. Every day without H is a complex juggling act of filling his body with substitute substances to quell the craving just
enough
to make it to the day after