The Heart Goes Last Read Online Free PDF Page A

roofless rooms. The smell of smoke oozes from the singed, mouse-riddled furniture.
    When he comes back out there’s a man peering into his car, with larceny in mind no doubt. The guy looks scrawny enough and doesn’t appear to be holding a weapon, so Stan could tackle him if need be. Still, best to stand well back.
    “Hey,” he says to the dingy grey shirt and balding skull. The guy whips round.
    “Just looking,” he says. “Nice car.” Ingratiating smile, but Stan isn’t fooled: there’s a cunning flicker in the sunken eyes. Maybe a knife?
    “I’m Conor’s brother,” he says. “He used to live here.” Something shifts: whatever he was planning, the guy won’t try it now. That means Con must still be alive, with even more of an evil reputation than he had two years ago.
    “He’s not here,” says the guy.
    “Yeah, I can see that,” says Stan. There’s a silence. Either the guy knows where Conor is, or he doesn’t. He’s trying to assess what it’s worth to Stan. Then he will either lie and try to lead Stan astray, or not. A few years ago Stan would have found this situation more frightening than he does now.
    Finally the man says, “But I know where.”
    “So, you can take me there,” says Stan.
    “Three bucks,” says the guy, holding out his hand.
    “Two. Once I see him,” says Stan, keeping his left hand in his pocket. He has no intention of paying for a blank space with no Conor in it. He has no intention of paying anyway, since he doesn’t have two bucks on him. But Con will have two bucks. Con can pay. That, or kick the guy’s teeth in, what’s left of them.
    “How do I know he wants to see you?” says the guy. “Maybe you’re not his brother.”
    “That’s the chance you take,” says Stan, smiling. “Do we drive?” This could be hazardous – he’ll need to let the guy sit in the front seat with him, and there might still be a weapon. But he has to risk it.
    They get in, each of them wary. Down the street, around the corner. Along another street, this one with a few ratty kids kicking a deflated soccer ball. Finally, a trailer park, or at least some parked trailers. Couple of slitty-eyed guys at the entrance, one brown, one not, blocking their way. So, a fortress of sorts.
    Stan stops the car, lowers the window. “I’m here to see Conor,” he says. “I’m Stan. His brother.”
    “That’s what he told me,” says the guy beside him, covering his ass.
    One of the guards kicks the left front car tire half-heartedly. The other talks briefly on his cellphone. He peers through the window, then talks some more – a description of Stan, no doubt. Then motions him to get out of the car.
    “Don’t worry, we’ll watch it for you,” says the phone-wielder, reading Stan’s mind, which features at the moment a car with no tires left on it and not much of anything else. “Just go through. Herb’ll take you.”
    “Pray he’s the brother,” the second man says to Herb. “Otherwise you’ll be digging two holes.”
    Conor’s out behind the farthest trailer, in a weedy open space that might once have been a house lot. He looks taller. He’s lost weight; he had a slob period there for a while, but now he’s trim. He’s shooting at a beer can on a stump; no, a stack of bricks. The rifle is an old air gun Stan remembers from his boyhood. It used to be his, but Conor won it off him in an arm-wrestling tournament. Con’s idea of a tournament was simple: you played until he won, then you stopped. It wasn’t that he was bigger than Stan, but he was more devious. Also he was considerably more violent. His Off switch never worked too well when he was a kid.
    Ping! goes the pellet against the can. Stan’s guide doesn’t interrupt, but he moves around to the side so Conor can’t help seeing him.
    A couple more pings: Con’s making them wait. Finally he stops, leans the airgun against a cement block, and turns. Fuck, he’s even shaved. What’s got into him? “Stan the man,”