The Ninth Step Read Online Free PDF Page A

the bar. Smoking cigarettes was prohibited, but Smitty’s used a smoke machine on the tiny dance floor. Helen figured the propylene glycol fog was probably as carcinogenic as tobacco smoke, but right now she really didn’t care. It was eighties night at Smitty’s, and Culture Club was singing about karma and its chameleon-like qualities.
    All was forgiven and bartender Chuck was treating her right: No sooner did she make one Absolut with a lemon zest disappear than he replaced it with a fresh one. She was drinking too fast and knew she’d better slow down. It was early yet, and it had been a long week.
    The man sitting at the end of the bar had jet-black hair,slicked back with some kind of greasy pomade. Mr. Slick-Back sported the hollow-eyed gauntness of a chronic alcoholic, and Helen saw in his eyes what she saw in her own when she woke up in the morning and looked in the mirror. She was drawn to him. They had been playing the game of averted glances for some time now. He was what this Helen wanted. The other Helen, the one who coasted through her day with just enough blood alcohol to keep from getting sick, just enough to keep the schizonucleosis at bay, that Helen would have been repulsed by this greasy caricature. But the secret Helen, the one she kept hidden from the rest of the world, the one who came out only when the booze was flowing freely, this Helen saw her brother and her lover.
    The man finally approached her. Maybe he recognized her too.
    “May I?”
    Helen nodded at the vacant stool.
    “My name is Cornell Smith and—”
    “Let’s not do names.”
    “I can play that game.”
    Let’s not do names?
Helen thought as she slid off her stool.
Oh yeah, I’ve got a load on.
    “Let’s just dance.”
    Cornell followed Helen onto the dance floor, watching the way her rear bounced ever so nicely. “God damn,” he said.
    And they danced.

9
HE HOPED THE THREAT OF IT
WOULD BE ENOUGH
    If her eyes hadn’t been glazed over, her makeup smeared, and her hair tangled, the attractive intelligent woman who had entered the bar a few hours ago might still be recognizable as Helen Patrice, but Helen Patrice was gone, and had been since her fifth drink.
    The raunchy opening guitar licks of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” rumbled through the speakers. The heavy electronic drumbeat kicked in, fueling Helen’s alcohol-soaked mind. She and Mr. Slick-Back played tandem air guitar, thrusting and gyrating, crowding the other dancers off the cramped dance space.
    The shoulder strap of Helen’s camisole top slipped down her shoulder, low enough to expose her breast. She had taken off herbra thirty minutes ago in the ladies’ room and shoved it in the garbage bin.
    Helen covered herself and readjusted the shoulder strap. Mr. Slick-Back reached out and flicked the strap back off her shoulder, exposing her breast once again. Most of the patrons had stopped whatever they were doing and watched. Helen was unaware, but Mr. Slick-Back was playing it up for the onlookers. He leaned in and playfully bit the top of Helen’s exposed breast. She cried out in surprise.
    From behind the bar, Chuck watched the spectacle and shook his head. He reached under the counter and grabbed the Louisville Slugger stashed there. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. He hoped the threat of it would be enough.

10
THE ART OF THE SNIPER BID
    A ghost haunting familiar ground, Edgar’s white Toyota Camry cruised the scenic coastal highway. The headlights shone in the dark.
    In the car, Judy nibbled on Edgar’s ear, and he squirmed with feigned annoyance. Judy kept it up, and Edgar glanced at the time on the dashboard.
    “Hold on.”
    Edgar pulled up the web browser on his cell phone. He logged into his eBay account and navigated to the auction page. There were ninety seconds of bidding left. He took the time to scroll through the photos and item details one last time. It was exquisite. Truly a one-of-a-kind puzzle box. And all those