Lucky Alan : And Other Stories (9780385539821) Read Online Free PDF

feet.
    “Who sent you?” the King said.
    “You, you, you,” Clea said. “It was you.”
    “We weren’t so much sent as drawn,” I said. “You gave us the gift of your work, and now we’re here, a gift in return.”
    “Take us,” Clea said.
    “No, thank you,” the King said. His eyes shifted nervously from Clea, settling on me.
    “We anointed you the King of Sentences,” I told him. “We’re the ones who did that. Nobody else.” I didn’t want to bully him with news of how scarcely his name circulated, how stale and marked-down the assembly of his hardcovers on used-bookstore shelves.
    “I didn’t tell you to come.”
    “No, but you are responsible for our presence.”
    “Let me be clear. I have nothing for you.”
    “Take us home.”
    “Not on your life.”
    “We came all this way.”
    He shrugged. “When’s the next train back?”
    The sentences that emerged from his mouth were flayed, generic, like lines from black-and-white movies. I tried not to be disappointed in this stylistic turn. He had something to teach us, always.
    “We don’t care. We don’t have tickets. We came for you.”
    “I don’t fraternize. This kind of intrusion is the last thing I need.”
    “Lunch,” I begged. “Just lunch.”
    “I eat only what my housekeeper prepares. A disproportion of sodium could murder me at this point.”
    Clea hugged herself with pleasure. I heard her murmur the line, cherishing it privately, “… disproportion … sodium … murder me.” The King craned on his Nike toes, checking that the cop was still outside.
    “Forget lunch. An hour of your time.”
    “We’re to hover in the post-office lobby for an hour? Doing what, exactly?”
    “No, let’s go somewhere,” Clea said. “A hotel room, if you won’t have us in your house.”
    “Or the bar,” I said, offering a check on Clea’s presumption. “The bar in the lobby of a hotel, a public setting. For a cocktail.”
    The King laughed for the first time, a cackle edged, like a burned cookie, with bitterness. “What largesse. You’d take me to one of our town’s fine hotels. They’re as superb as the restaurants. Motel 6 or Econo Lodge, I believe those are your options.”
    “Anywhere,” Clea panted.
    The King’s weary gaze again shunted: Clea, myself, the disinterested postmistress, the chief outside, who now ground a butt into the curb with his heel and turned his head to follow the progress of some retreating buttocks. The King’s voice edged down an octave. “Econo Lodge,”he said. “On Lower Brunyon. I’ll find you there in fifteen minutes.”
    “We don’t have a vehicle.”
    “Too bad.”
    “Can we ride with you?”
    “No way, José.”
    “How do we get there?”
    “Figure it out.” The King of Sentences departed the P.O. and skulked around the corner and out of view, presumably to his car. I couldn’t have entirely imagined the extra little kick in his step as he went. The King had been energized, if only slightly, by meeting his subjects. It was a start, I thought.
    On the sidewalk we teetered with excitement, blinking in the glare that now filtered through the gnarled clouds. The chief looked us up and down again. We offered charming smiles.
    “Can I give you folks a lift back to the station?”
    “No, thanks, we’re looking for Lower Brunyon. Care to point us in the right direction?”
    “Why Lower Brunyon?”
    “The Econo Lodge, if you must know. Is it walking distance?”
    “Longish, I’d say. Why not let me escort you?”
    “Sure.”
    We sat behind a cage. The backseat smelled of smoke, perfume, and vomit, raising interesting questions about the definition of police work in Hastings-on-Hudson. Thechief took corners smoothly, in the prowling, snaky manner of a driver unconcerned about regulating his speed.
    “You two in the regular habit of doing junk like this?”
    “What do you mean by ‘junk’?”
    “Putting yourselves in the hands of a customer like your friend in