Doyle After Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

’Hamm-­ed! Or how about Hammered!”
    Mo shot him a glare. “Shut up, ‘Ran.’ ”
    â€œDon’t call me Ran! It’s fucking Randy!”
    â€œWhat’s fucking Randy?” I asked innocently.
    Mohammed laughed at that. Randy leaned over and jabbed at his friend, who laughed again and blocked the fist. “Fuck off, ‘Ran.’ ”
    Randy gave up, and pointed at me. “New guy?”
    â€œDepends on what you mean by new,” I said. “I was feeling pretty old when I kicked the bucket. My name’s Nick. I get that you’re Mo . . . hammed. And Randy. I haven’t got any frip either.”
    â€œHey, you got—­”
    â€œNo, dude, I haven’t got any cigarettes.”
    â€œAlready been there,” Bertram said, talking around the stalk of frip. “You can harvest frip down in the swamp that way there.” He pointed a thumb over one shoulder.
    â€œI’m not going in that swamp,” Randy said, shaking his head. He looked at us like he dared us to accuse him of cowardice. “Too much weird stuff there.”
    I shrugged. “See you guys later.”
    â€œIf we don’t see you first.”
    I started through the door, but Randy stopped me with a hand on my wrist. It felt like someone touching you—­in an unfriendly way—­ same as back on Earth. Maybe not exactly the same. Close—­but it didn’t have that trace moistness that an Earthly body had. It had some warmth, texture, pressure. And there was something else about it, like another level of pushing besides the physical kind.
    â€œWe’re not done with you, newbie,” Randy said.
    I stared at him—­but spoke to Bertram. “Bertram, is it possible to pull a guy’s arm out of its socket here, same as on Earth?”
    â€œYou can get pretty much the same effect,” he allowed. “Want me to help you pull it? How about I hold it, you give it a good, hard—­”
    Randy abruptly dropped his hand. “We got to do a pocket check on any new guy. You got some money—­if you just got here, you can spare some.”
    Bertram snorted. “Town council told you two to stop that pocket-­check bullshit.”
    Mo turned him a hooded, sleepy look, supposed to be scary. “How they going to enforce that?”
    â€œWith exile. Mr. Doyle and some of us, we’d get together . . . you know how it works.”
    â€œDon’t try it,” Mo said, shaking his head slowly.
    â€œThen forget this pocket-­check thing. Can’t have you strong-­arming ­people. You don’t need any damned money, really. It’s not like you lack for anything here.”
    â€œI lack for all kinds of stuff,” Randy said.
    â€œYou should have more self esteem,” I said. “You can’t help lacking what you were born without.”
    Randy glared at me, and Bertram chuckled.
    Bertram took his frip out of his mouth and looked at it, then stuck it in a coat pocket. “You can earn some money helping raise up a house or something. You could learn how to do it. Now get out of the way. Go listen to irritating music or something.”
    â€œDon’t have no recordings here.”
    Â­â€œPeople play instruments, boy. Learn to play ’em. Do some of that rap stuff I hear about. I’d be curious to see what it’s like. Christ almighty, you two are lazy.”
    Mo shrugged. But they didn’t try to stop us when Bertram led the way into the building.
    We had to duck under the low door frame into the pleasantly musty smell of the boardinghouse. The place had lacquered dark wood floors, tattered throw rugs, well-­worn old furniture in the sitting room off the foyer; paintings of ­people from various eras hung on the walls, and what looked to be tintypes. At the back of this comfortable anteroom was an old-­fashioned hotel desk with a call bell on it.
    Bertram rang