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

“What’re you, my mother?”
    “Just asking. I’ll stick out here. Read some of these magazines.”
    When they call Roy in a few minutes later, he hands his forms to the secretary and makes his way down a short, wood-paneled hallway. A door at the end is open. He pauses.
    “Come in,” he hears a voice call out. “Come inside, please.”
    Dr. Klein waits for Roy inside his office, standing in front of athick mahogany desk. He’s short, thin. Hairy. Curly mop up top, glasses perched on the pert nose. Dress shirt, slacks, no jacket. Rolex on the right wrist. Slight bulge in back pocket where his wallet would be. Roy decides not to pickpocket the doctor. Degrees and plaques line the walls, interspersed with family photos and whimsical caricatures. The carpet is a dark, fruity red, like it’s been soaked in wine.
    “How do you find stains?” Roy asks.
    The doctor is confused. “I’m sorry?”
    “On the carpet. It’s so dark. How do you find the stains?”
    Dr. Klein grins and holds out his hand for Roy to shake. “I don’t worry about that much,” he says. “We don’t have a lot of food in here.”
    Roy wants to tell him that it’s not just food. Stains can come from anywhere. Bleach. Blood. Urine. But he maintains. Shakes the doctor’s hand. Takes a seat like he knows he should.
    Dr. Klein sits down across from Roy, turning a chair to face his new patient. “I’m glad you came today, Roy. I understand your old therapist moved away.”
    “Wasn’t a therapist,” Roy mutters. “Just my shrink.”
    “It’s about the same thing, isn’t it?”
    “No. Doc Mancuso gave me my pills. That’s the end of it.”
    “I see,” says Dr. Klein. “So you didn’t talk things over with him.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like … your problems, your thoughts. Trying to get to the heart of things.”
    Roy sighs, leans into the chair. “My partner—my buddy Frankie—he said he knew you, said I could come to you, and you could get me the pills I need. Doc Mancuso had me on ahundred and fifty milligrams of Anafranil and seventy-five of Zoloft. If you can’t do that, this session’s over before it’s fucking started.”
    Klein smiles. “You certainly get right to the point.”
    “And you skirt it. Can you get me the pills or not?”
    “Yes,” says the doctor.
    Roy relaxes. “Then let’s get that prescription pad out.”
    “I tell you, Roy, I don’t usually prescribe medicine until I’ve had a little chat with the patient first.”
    “How long’s that take?”
    “You’ve got somewhere else to be?”
    “I’ve always got somewhere else to be.” Roy’s feeling good now, not worrying about the carpet as much. Not worrying about the vomit. Much. He’ll be getting the pills soon, and that helps.
    “A few minutes of your time, then. I’ll keep it short.”
    “Good,” says Roy. He sits back in the chair. It’s comfortable. Padded. Like the recliner at home. “You wanna talk about my mother?”
    “Do you?”
    “No, but that’s how Doc Mancuso started things out. My mother, my father, my sisters.”
    “Are you close with them?”
    “They’re dead. All of ’em. You give me a family member, I’ll tell you they’re dead.”
    Dr. Klein shuffles in his seat. “That’s—that’s not necessary.” He picks up the thin file folder on his desk, runs a finger down the side. “Says here you’re an antiques dealer.” Roy nods. “Do you enjoy that line of work?”
    “ ’Sokay.”
    “Business good?”
    “Up days and down days.”
    “You know,” Dr. Klein begins, stepping out of the chair, “I bought this piece a few years back at an estate sale. Chippendale, they told me, but I think I may have been—what’s the term?—snookered. Can you tell if it’s—”
    “I’m off the clock, doc. Can we get on with this?”
    Klein sits back down. “Fine,” he says. Upset, maybe? Roy can’t read him. “Married?”
    “I was.”
    “What was her name?”
    “Heather.”
    “And