The Canal Read Online Free PDF

was different. Today, he stayed
relatively calm.
    "Throw it in the trash and keep looking," he
said.
    "But--"
    "Keep looking!" Was this woman not hearing
him?
    Alan wasn't surprised, really, that a Joseph
Lombardi cigarette should turn up and foul a crime scene. Good ol'
Joe, marking his territory with his frustrating spoor. And that
about summed it up really, everything you needed to know about Joe.
The man was a joke. A waste of a heartbeat.
    Only now, Alan was doing something about
it.
    So he settled in. He'd suffer the canal, this
night, these tweezers, this woman's wounded pout. He'd put his head
down, he'd dig in, and he'd settle for nothing less than absolute
diligence. He'd scorch this crew, run them into the goddamn ground.
He'd threaten. He'd harass. And he'd do what he always did.
    He'd get the job done.

    >> CHAPTER THREE <<

    The morning light was too bright for
sleep-fragile eyes. Alan shaded his as he came into the kitchen, a
comfortable, fresh smelling place. He hadn't gotten much sleep;
there had been a lot of work to do last night. There was still a
lot of work to do. Work was like dirt in that respect -- always
plenty of it.
    His wife Susan sat at the small table,
reading the newspaper and bouncing their eleven-month-old son
Eugene on her knee. Eugene: diaper on, shirt off -- the kid rode
her like a dead man in a saddle. Hardly a year old and already over
it. Alan often complained that this wasn't normal -- where was the
curiosity, the intelligence? He wondered if maybe something was
wrong mentally with the boy. Surely there was medication that could
bring his mind into focus? Susan would tell him that he was
overreacting. "Be patient," she'd say. "Eugene's personality is
still growing." Alan wasn't so sure.
    Susan looked up from her paper. Alan admired
the perfection there, in her face, her nose in particular. Taken
from the side it was a mathematically precise triangle, a small
pyramid that biology built. You didn't see that too often, the
human face could be so awkward sometimes. Completely uneven,
everything skewed sideways, geometrically vulgar. It's why Alan had
fallen in love with Susan's nose. And Susan too, of course. It was
proof that genetics didn't have to be a slob.
    "Leftovers are in the fridge," said Susan,
"...and fix your collar." She smiled sweetly.
    Alan did as he was told, smoothing his
collar. He felt profoundly better for it. His left pant leg had
snagged on the tongue of his shoe. He made the adjustment.
    "Sorry it was another late night," he
said.
    "Nothing serious I hope."
    "Just the usual. I won't bore you with the
particulars," said Alan, going to the refrigerator. Inside, he made
his usual surveillance. Every jar, bottle, and tub had to be turned
so its label faced squarely outward. Alan checked expiration dates
daily, along with smelling the milk in its carton. Fruits and
vegetables were placed in tightly sealed plastic bags. Alan yearned
for iceberg lettuce that truly lived up to its name -- cool and
blue and crunchy like glass. Satisfied that everything was in
order, Alan turned his attention to the leftovers. They had their
own shelf, near the bottom. It was darker there. And colder. It was
not a place you wanted to linger.
    Leftovers. Chicken to be precise, a bag of
unevenly breaded filets. Alan felt some unease. Normally chicken
was one of his more ideal foodstuffs: consistent feel, uniform
color, dependably conservative flavor, skinless, available in
bloodless and boneless format. But in Susan's hands something
terrible happened. Something wicked. Chicken underwent a dark
transformation, emerging wild and deadly.
    With enormous regret he removed the bag from
the refrigerator, placed some of the cutlets on a plate, and put
them in the microwave. It was the usual conundrum -- as much as
Alan disliked Susan's cooking, he disliked wasted resources even
more. And so cruelly, he was duty-bound to eat this food --
efficiency demanded it.
    While he waited, Alan glanced at the