Nine Volt Heart Read Online Free PDF

have to be brave when I read him.
The last couple of books—”
    “I mean Tim O’Brien the bluegrass musician. Odd Man In ?”
    “Right. Of course. My father and I heard him perform once.
He has a lovely tenor voice.”
    Two people in hoodies and jeans passed us, doing a
double-take when they recognized me. But, hey, this was Seattle. People are
cool. If Mark Lanegan or Ben Gibbard can buy Cheerios at the Wallingford QFC, I
can walk down the street unmolested.
    However, Seattle is a small town. It happens that a lot of
people live here, but otherwise it has all the other problems of a small
town—like, everyone knows your business. You can’t escape the people you don’t
want to see. For example, Ephraim Vance, my estranged A&R man and former
producer at Albion Records, sat in the window of a bistro where Crave used to
be on Twelfth Avenue, holding hands with Dominique, who had been my wife in a
previous incarnation. I did an about-face so fast that I almost knocked Susi
over.
    I said, “Let’s go. I’m bushed. I can’t sleep yet, but I
don’t feel like prowling the streets.”
    “Do you want to come to my house? We can talk and I could
show you the plan we’re presenting tomorrow.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “The same place in Leschi. My car is parked over on Pine
Street.”
    It gave me pause, making me wonder if I’d met her before and
forgotten it. But I don’t forget. I’m a far better man than my father.

8 ~ “Tickin’ Bomb”
    JASON
    J UST BEFORE DOMINIQUE MANAGED
to get me to marry her, I had planned to break up because, among other things,
she is a slob, dropping every single thing right where she is done with it,
expecting others to pick up after her. Needs a maid to clean a five-room condo,
and makes fun of me because I hang up the towels in a hotel room.
    So I was nervous about this woman Susi, who was as friendly
as a pen pal or a best friend’s cousin. In spite of her smile and warmth and
wit, I wasn’t ready to be in her actual house, brought down to the reality of
dust kittens and dishes in the sink, or teddy bears and lace. Having lost most
of my will earlier in the day, along with my baggage, I agreed to go to her
house and got in her car. Classical KING-FM played Berlioz when the engine
turned over, but the radio was the sole luxury in her little economy car, which
was as soulless as a rental that gets vacuumed by the lot boy every day. No
crystal or dreamcatcher hanging from the mirror. No take-out wrappers on the
floor. No detritus clutter in the backseat. In the dark, driving to her house,
I shivered whenever she spoke, her voice plucking at the strings of my soul,
each individual tone harmonious and rich beyond kenning, as Ian’s Scottish
grandmother would say, yet fractured, letting the luminescence of her soul
shine through amidst the jagged edges.
    When Susi switched on the light inside her house and smiled,
damn if I could tell which action illuminated the room. She was cute but not
all the way to beautiful. Whatever else you want to say about Dominique, she is
movie-star beautiful. However, if I were dying of thirst and had to choose
between water and Susi’s smile, it would be hard to choose, very hard.
    In the light, I could see that it wasn’t a blush of
embarrassment, but a burn scar running the long length of her neck. A matching
scar ran up her hand and disappeared into the sleeve of her starched shirt. All
of which made me take a deep look at her. The burn on her face had been
repaired, but a trace of the damage could be seen in the stiffness along one
side and small unrepaired scars on her lips. To cover the remains, she had
taken great care to apply makeup that looked like no makeup at all. Amid the
natural asymmetry of her face, one beautiful brow escaped in an arch of
perpetual surprise or pleasure, while almond-shaped grey eyes gazed at me in
friendly interest. I tried to imagine the pain that she had endured from those
burns. Yet she could still offer that