Devils in Exile Read Online Free PDF

on Old Navy khakis and the collared shirt he had worn to Alex’s funeral. Royce wore a charcoal jacket over dark pants, casual but put-together. Maven could see himself copping this guy’s style. He was on the lookout for somebody to model himself after.
    Royce said, “That one-year demob anniversary, that’s the kicker. That’s when you take a long, hard look at where you used to be and where you are now. That’s when you have to decide if you are hacking it away from the discipline. A lot of guys, one year out, all they want to do is re-up. Crawl back inside a tank for three more years. You’re nodding.”
    Maven said, “Guys I served with bet me I’d be back in Eden inside of a year.”
    “And you’d like to prove them wrong. Send them a fuck-you postcard from Maui or New Zealand or something. From the Playboy Mansion. But here you are. Working in a parking lot.”
    Maven sat up a little. “It’s not that bad.”
    “No, because you’re on your own, because there’s no boss to fuck with you, and because you’re not some hamster in an officesomewhere, scratching at the walls. And maybe there’s a little skim off the top every now and then. When the timing’s right, of course.”
    Maven blinked, said nothing.
    “It’s only natural.” Royce’s smile said that he was humoring Maven, but also that it was okay: he humored everybody. “I’m not looking for saints. We’ve all got crime in our hearts.” He pointed at Maven’s chest with his fork. “It’s how you manage that, where you channel it, that counts.”
    Maven nodded, after a moment. This lunch had a rhythm, and Maven could feel himself falling into it.
    Royce said, “You considering reenlisting?”
    “Not seriously.”
    “That’s a yes. What’s your current living situation? Apartment, right? Let me guess. Outside the city?”
    “Over in Quincy.”
    “Uh-huh. Nice building? Doorman? Bowl of mints in the lobby?”
    “Not quite. A converted two-family.”
    “Illegal apartment, you’re probably in the attic. Three-flight walk-up, galley kitchen, closet-sized bathroom. Split the utilities with the freaks downstairs, stoners growing marijuana in a spare closet, heat lamps threatening to burn the old place to the ground. What you pay, three fifty a month?”
    Maven squinted. “Three ninety.”
    “To answer what you’re thinking, yes, I am in real estate, but only tangentially. And, no, that is not what this”—indicating the lunch, the meeting, the interview—“is about. High school graduate, equivalent?”
    “Graduate.”
    “Grew up around here?”
    “In Gridley.”
    “South of here, right?”
    “About thirty minutes.”
    “Any family?”
    “No.”
    “Nobody?”
    Maven shook his head.
    Royce liked that answer. “What about friends, roommates?”
    Maven shrugged. “I got a buddy I work with at my other job.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s it right now.”
    “No girlfriend?”
    “Not really.”
    “Not surprised. Belt should match the shoes, by the way. At least look like you want to get lucky.”
    Maven checked: woven black leather belt, brown boots.
    “You’re too alone,” said Royce, patting the table. “Gotta get some people around you, keep your head straight. You’re what, twenty-seven? No infirmities?”
    “No.”
    “Not a scratch?”
    Maven shrugged. “I got scratched. I was lucky overall.”
    “Good. Good to be lucky. Honorable discharge, of course.”
    “Sure.”
    “You’d had it?”
    “I don’t know. Seemed like I needed to try something else.”
    “They let you go?”
    “My contract was up. I could be recalled.”
    “You will be recalled, don’t kid yourself. Hell, I’m twelve years out, they better not come back for me. You got a short window here, maybe real short, you should make the most of it. Post-traumatic stress?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Loud noises? Crowds?”
    “Getting better now.”
    Royce set down his fork and pushed back his plate to lean closer to Maven. “So.