Blue Eyes Read Online Free PDF Page A

Coen a fruit punch with rum and sweet limes. Child insisted they drink from the same bowl. Coen felt dizzy by the third sip. On Child’s couch each discovered the other was a ping-pong buff.
    â€œUse a Butterfly?” Child said.
    â€œNo. Mark V.”
    â€œFast or slow?”
    â€œFast,” Coen said. “Where do you hit?”
    â€œAt home. I hate the clubs.”
    Coen seemed unnerved. “You have a table here?”
    Hugging his gown Child walked Coen through bedrooms, a sitting room, and a hall of closets. A high-breasted girl in another flannel gown swore at Child from one of the rooms. She sat on a round bed drinking punch and jiggling some earphones. “Who’s the Sammy?” she said, pointing to Coen. “A new customer? Is he a live one? Vander dear, am I going to perform on trapeze?” She threw the earphones at Child. He ducked and nudged Coen out of the room.
    â€œMy niece,” Child said. “She has an active imagination. She thinks I live in a brothel.” They stopped in a corklined room with soft blue lights and a regulation ping-pong table. Coen admired the luminous green paint on the table. Child put a Butterfly in his hand. He could hear the girl sing a school song. “Carbonderry, my Carbonderry,” she said. He hefted the ping-pong bat. Child fed him a fresh ball and volleyed in his flannels. Coen chopped with the Butterfly. Child smirked.
    â€œWho taught you that? Dickie Miles? Reisman? Do you want hard rubber, a pimple bat?”
    â€œNo. I’ll play with this.”
    With the ball coming off blue light, Coen had to squint. He wondered when Child would begin talking about his daughter. He had trouble with Child’s serves. Swaddled in herringbone he couldn’t smash the ball. The necktie was making him gag. Child helped him undress. Coen played in boxer shorts. Uneasy at first, he grew accustomed to the undertable currents on his kneecaps. Child had a greater repertoire of strokes. His loops got away from Coen. His flick shots would break near Coen’s handle. Coen slapped air. Child attacked his weak side, forcing Coen into the edge of the table. Twice the Butterfly flew out of Coen’s hand. The girl was singing again. “Carbonderry, my Carbonderry.” Her mocking, nasal cries upset Coen’s ability to chop. The ball made a thick sound against his bat. Child had a lead of 18-2 when the girl came in. Seeing Coen sweat in stockings and shorts amused her. “Darling, isn’t this the bloodhound who’s going to bring Carrie back? He has cute nipples for a cop.” She approached Coen’s half of the table. “Did he tell you I’m his niece?” Coen looked away from her open collar. The girl was taller than him, and her bosoms hovered close to his neck. “He really is an uncle, you know. Nobody believes it. Vander doesn’t have favorites in his cast.”
    Child pushed little dents into the Butterfly with a finger. “Shut your mouth, Odile.”
    â€œVander, couldn’t you use the bloodhound in a bigger way? He’s naked enough. And marvelous with a paddle in his fist. Get him to swish it, darling. I want to see.”
    Child threw his bat. It struck her on the shoulder, and she shaped a perfect scream with the muscles in her jaw. Her nostrils puffed wide. In pain, her bosoms had a glorious arch. Moaning, her body grew lithe. The girl’s physicality astonished Coen. She could shrink a room with any of her moves. She ran out with Child. He heard them chatter in a corridor. Child came back much less interested in Coen. “Odile’s an actress,” he said. “Don’t be taken in by her rough talk. She has pornography on her mind.” Child scored three quick points and collected the bats. He brought Coen into his study. “My daughter went to school with Odile.”
    â€œBlood cousins?” Coen asked.
    â€œYes, blood cousins,” Child said,