Practical Demonkeeping Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jenny—”
    “It’s over. Get on with your life, Robert. I’m hanging up now. Good-bye.”
    “But—” She hung up. “Nobody lives like this,” Robert said to the dial tone.
    Get on with your life . Okay, that’s a plan. He would clean up this place and clean up his life. Never drink again. Things were going to change. Soon she would remember what a great guy he was. But first he had to go to the bathroom to answer an emergency call from Ralph.
     
    The smoke alarm was screaming like a tortured lamb. Robert, now back on the couch, pulled a cushion over his head and wondered why the Breeze didn’t have a sleeper button on his smoke alarm. Then the pounding started. It was a door buzzer, not the smoke alarm.
    “Breeze, answer the door!” Robert shouted into the cushion. The pounding continued. He crawled off the couch and waded through the litter to the door.
    “Hold on a minute, man. I’m coming.” He threw the door open and caught the man outside with his fist poised for another pounding. He was a sharp-faced Hispanic in a raw silk suit. His hair was slicked back and tied in a ponytail with a black silk ribbon. Robert could see a flagship model BMW parked in the driveway.
    “Shit. Jehovah’s Witnesses must make a lot of money,” Robert said.
    The Hispanic was not amused. “I need to talk to The Breeze.”
    At that point Robert realized that he was naked and picked an empty, gallon wine bottle from the floor to cover his privates.
    “Come in,” Robert said, backing away from the door. “I’ll see if he’s awake.”
    The Hispanic stepped in. Robert stumbled down the narrow hall to The Breeze’s room. He knocked on the door. “Breeze, there’s some big money here to see you.” No answer. He opened the door and went in and searched through the piles of blankets, sheets, pillows, beer cans, and wine bottles, but found no Breeze.
    On the way back to the living room Robert grabbed a mildewed towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around his hips. The Hispanic was standing in the middle of a small clearing, peering around the trailer with concentrated disgust. It looked to Robert as if he were trying to levitate to avoid having his Italian shoes contact the filth on the floor.
    “He’s not here,” Robert said.
    “How do you live like this?” the Hispanic said. He had no discernible accent. “This is subhuman, man.”
    “Did my mother send you?”
    The Hispanic ignored the question. “Where is The Breeze? We had a meeting this morning.” He put an extra emphasis on the word meeting . Robert got the message. The Breeze had been hinting that he had some big deal going down. The guy must be the buyer. Silk suits and BMWs were not the usual accouterments of The Breeze’s clientele.
    “He left last night. I don’t know where he went. You could check down at the Slug.”
    “The Slug?”
    “Head of the Slug Saloon, on Cypress. He hangs out there sometimes.”
    The Hispanic tiptoed through the garbage to the door, then paused on the step. “Tell him I’m looking for him. He should call me. Tell him I do not do business this way.”
    Robert didn’t like the commanding tone in the Hispanic’s voice. He affected the obsequious tone of an English butler, “And whom shall I say has called, sir?”
    “Don’t fuck with me, cabron . This is business.”
    Robert took a deep breath, then sighed. “Look, Pancho . I’m hung over, my wife just threw me out, and my life is not worth shit. So if you want me to take messages, you can damn well tell me who the fuck you are. Or should I tell The Breeze to look for a Mexican with a Gucci loafer shoved up his ass? Comprende , Pachuco ? ”
    The Hispanic turned on the step and started to reach into his suit coat. Robert felt adrenaline shoot through his body, and he tightened his grip on the towel. Oh, yeah, he thought, pull a gun and I’ll snap your eyes out with this towel. He suddenly felt extremely helpless.
    The Hispanic kept his hand in his coat. “Who are