The Fiend Read Online Free PDF Page A

Charlie. She’d walked out leaving a note in the middle of the bed: “I’m not coming back and don’t try to find me. I’m sick of being disgraced.”
    Charlie worked at the paper supply company as a stock boy. He liked his job. He felt at home walking up and down the narrow aisles with shelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with such a variety of things that even Mr. Warner, the owner, couldn’t keep track of them: notebooks, pens, pencils, party decorations and favors, brooms and brushes and mops, typewriter ribbons and staplers and stationery, signs saying No Trespassing , For Rent , Private , Walk In , erasers and bridge tallies and confetti and plastic lovers for the tops of wedding cakes, huge rolls of colored tickets to functions that hadn’t even been planned yet, maps, charts, chalk, ink, and thousands of reams of paper.
    The contents of the building were highly inflammable, which was one of the main reasons why Charlie had been hired. Though he carried matches for the convenience of other people, he hadn’t smoked since the age of fourteen when Ben had caught him trying it and beaten the tar out of him. Mr. Warner, the owner, had been so delighted to find a genuine nonsmoker, not just someone who’d quit a few weeks or months ago, that he’d given Charlie the job without inquiring too closely into his background. He knew in a general way that Charlie had had “trouble,” but there was never any sign of it at work. Charlie arrived early and stayed late, he was pleasant and earnest, always ready to do a favor and never asking any in return.
    In the alley behind the building Charlie found one of his co­workers, a young man named Ed Hines, leaning against the wall with an unlit cigarette in his hand.
    â€œHey, Charlie, got a match?”
    â€œSure.” Charlie tossed him a packet of book matches. “I’d appreciate having them back, if you don’t mind. There’s an address written on the cover.”
    Ed grinned. “And a phone number?”
    â€œNo. Not yet.”
    â€œYou gay old dog, you!”
    â€œNo. No, it’s not like that actually—” Charlie stopped, real­izing suddenly that Ed wouldn’t understand the truth, that there was a family at 319 Jacaranda Road who were neglecting their pretty little girl, Jessie.
    Ed returned the matches. “Thanks, Charlie. And say, the old man’s in a stew about something. You better check in at the front office.”
    Warner was behind his desk, a small man almost lost in the welter of papers that surrounded him: order forms, invoices, sales slips, bills, correspondence. Some of this stuff would be filed, some would simply disappear. Warner had started the business forty years ago. It had grown and prospered since then, but Warner still tried to manage the place as if he per­sonally knew, as he once had, every customer by name, every order from memory. Many mistakes were made, and with each one, Warner got a little older and a little more stubborn. The business continued to make money, however, because it was the only one of its kind in San Félice.
    Charlie stood in the doorway, trying to hold his head high, the way Ben kept telling him to. But it was difficult, and Mr. Warner wasn’t watching anyway. He had the telephone perched on his left shoulder like a crow. The crow was talking, loud and fast, in a woman’s voice.
    Mr. Warner put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Charlie. “You know anything about some skeletons?”
    â€œSkeletons?” The word emerged from Charlie’s throat as if it had been squeezed out of shape by some internal pressure. Then he went dumb entirely. He couldn’t even tell Mr. Warner that he was innocent, he had done nothing, he knew nothing about any skeletons. He could only shake his head back and forth again and again.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?” Warner said irritably. “I mean those