Beat the Reaper: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

and “14:30,” forty minutes a day of parade class, parade show once a month. There was a core of dipshits who took it all seriously, and went out for the sports teams and so on, but everyone else smoked pot in the bathrooms and snuck out to the Pizza Hut on the highway to hook up with the girls from the girls’ school, which was on the other side of the tennis courts and the woods. The bathrooms at the Pizza Hut were coed.
    You had to wait in line.
    I chose Adam Locano to make friends with because he was so popular, not because of his mafia connections. I wasn’t even sure those existed until later, when I asked him how he got his nickname, which was “Skinflick.”
    I’d heard it was because he’d made a porn movie with his babysitter when he was twelve.
    “I wish,” he told me. “It was a hooker in Atlantic City. Dude, I don’t even remember it, I was so drunk. Then some asshole from my dad’s social club stole the tape and made copies for everyone. It sucked.”
    Bells went off, and I knew I’d stepped knee-deep into mafia. But before then I couldn’t be sure, because Locano was different from the other mob kids.
    Like me, he was fifteen. Unlike me, he was pudgy, with puffy, diagonally creased nipples and a Droopy Dawg face with jowls and eye bags. His lower lip was too fleshy. Also unlike me, he was cool . He made looking like he did a point of pride, managing to appear—even in the dumbass uniforms we had to wear on parade—like he’d been out all night drinking. In Las Vegas. In 1960.
    Another part of his charm (and another part I could only wonder at) was that he seemed to speak his mind with absolute freedom. He’d talk casually about whacking off or taking a crap, or about how he was in love with his first cousin, Denise. The second he got angry or frustrated he said so—including, inevitably, when he was annoyed at how much better I was at sports or fighting than he was.
    I did my best to avoid those kinds of situations, but, being kids, and particularly kids at a so-called military academy, they came up. And I was permanently impressed by how gracefully Skinflick dealt with them. He would bellow in rage, then laugh, and you knew he’d been honest in both responses. On top of which, despite the way he acted, and his claim that he had read only one book cover to cover in his life, he was the smartest kid I’d ever met.
    He was also self-assured enough to be friendly with all kinds of people—geeks, cafeteria workers, everybody—and this made it possible to get close to him.
    Not that I didn’t have to work for it. I cut down on the Old Europe mannerisms and started dressing shaggy-preppy, with Vuarnets and a coral necklace. I slowed my speech down and lowered it, and spoke as seldom as possible. Every loner high school kid should be given a deadly serious incentive to fit in. It cools you up fast.
    I also started dealing drugs. I had a connection through a nerd I’d known at my old high school, before my grandparents were killed and all my friends had stopped speaking to me because they didn’t know what to say. The nerd’s older brother was making a business of it, and got me eight-ounce bags of weed and full-on ounces of cocaine for a good rate. I think the two of them thought I was self-medicating.
    I ended up having to sell for below cost anyway—it turns out buying friends is not the world’s most unique idea—but it worked. It was through pot that Skinflick and I met.
    He passed me a note in class one day that said, “Brother, can you spare a dime?”
    I am surely God’s original asshole—a monkey in the Mayan ruins, shitting on what I can’t understand, worse than a Neanderthal. But of all the shameful things I’ve done, the easiest for me to understand is falling in love with Adam Locano and his family when I was fifteen years old.
    Years later, the Feds tried to break me down with it: with how only a complete dipshit could go from finding his grandparents killed by mob