Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues Read Online Free PDF

already. I said fuck off.”
    By way of answer, Frankie throws his boots on the carpet, dirty side down. Before they’ve even hit the fibers, before they’vemade a mark, Roy is out of the chair. On his knees by the door, grunting, grabbing for the boots. Holding them aloft, away from the carpet. Inspecting for dirt, for a stain. His fingers probe every strand, searching for filth and grime.
    Frankie is down next to him, hand on his partner’s back. Roy feels like he’s going to vomit right here, right on the carpet. The stain will never come out. The thought makes him gag, stings his throat.
    “What happened to Dr. Mancuso?” Frankie asks, his voice low. Kind.
    Roy can’t get it out. His throat is closed. The noises coming out are tight coughs, clipped breaths. Frankie sits on the floor, grabs his partner’s head. Takes the boots away, shows Roy the clean carpet. Looks in his eyes.
    “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay. Tell me what happened to Doc Mancuso.”
    Roy takes a breath. It goes down hard. “He left,” Roy says. Panting.
    “Left the practice?”
    “Left town. He left town.”
    Frankie nods. “He go far?”
    “Chicago.” Easier now. Air coming through.
    “Far enough. When?”
    Roy thinks back. “Eight weeks ago. Give or take.”
    “Jesus, Roy …” Frankie stands, pulling Roy to his feet. One hand beneath the bigger man’s armpit, trying to help him balance as they rise. “So you been outta pills for how long?”
    Roy isn’t sure anymore. He stopped counting a while ago. “A month, maybe.”
    “So we gotta get you a new doc, that’s all.”
    Roy shakes his head. The motion makes him dizzy. “Doc Mancuso—”
    “—isn’t around anymore. I know you got along good with him, but that’s … that’s not an option anymore. We can’t—you can’t do this. You gotta be well. You gotta function. We got jobs to do.”
    “You do ’em,” says Roy, turning away.
    “
We
do ’em. You still run this thing. Might not look like it now, but you’re tops of the pops. Two-man operation, pal.”
    Roy can’t think about running games. He can only think about getting back in his recliner. Sitting down. Safe there. He stands, shuffles across the room.
    “Okay,” Frankie says after some thought, “I know a guy.”
    “A guy.”
    “A doctor. Good guy.”
    “Diverter?” Roy asks.
    Frankie stands, shakes his head. “Nah, he’s a straight arrow. He’s the guy I took my ma to when she was having them visions.”
    “I’m not having visions—”
    “Not saying you are. But he’s a shrink like any other shrink, and he can give you the pills you need.”
    Roy doesn’t want to argue. Arguing means talking. Talking means saliva. Saliva means bile, and bile means vomit. He nods instead.
    “Go take a shower,” Frankie insists. “I’ll make a few phone calls, see what I can set up.”
    On his way into the bathroom, Roy turns around and finds his partner on the phone. “Frankie,” he says.
    “Yeah?”
    “You wipe that thing down when you’re done with it?”
    “Go take that shower, Roy.”

    Roy sits in the passenger side of Frankie’s new sports car, wedged into the leather bucket seat. The options alone cost more than Roy’s entire Caprice. The music blasting over the premium sound system is loud but tolerable. Old standards. Ella scatting at eighty decibels.
    “Secretary said there ain’t a lot of crap to fill out,” Frankie tells Roy as they pull into the parking lot. “But we gotta get there a few minutes early.”
    “You give my real name?”
    “Yeah, sure. You’re the real you, ain’t ya?”
    Fourth floor, suite 413. Dr. Harris Klein and Associates. Inside the sparse, white-walled lobby, Roy fills out a series of forms. Name, address, medical history. Under occupation, he writes “Antiques Dealer.” This is the standard front. There are enough ugly pieces of art in his home to qualify for the distinction.
    “You want me to go in with you?” Frankie asks.