White Tiger on Snow Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page A

sauntered over, having decided to play the moment casually cool. “I didn’t know what to write.” I handed him the book and waited for—who knows? A hug, maybe. Instead, he accepted it indifferently, like a ticket stub, and gave me a quizzical look, as though trying to place my face. Then, as if seized by a fury, he lurched backward, twisting the cheap paperback in both hands. His eyes rolled up, white, like a slot machine. Jackpot.
    “Hey, are you OK?”
    “Yes,” he said, then went rigid and fell like a tree, banging his forehead on the padded coffee table. He bounced once and landed on the floor, knocking his skull on the cushions there, then commenced shaking and flopping while foam bubbled from his lips.
    “You bastard!” I yelled. My first day on the job, and the client was throwing a seizure. I’d been around enough to know what this was, but not enough to remember if it was fatal. His arms and legs shot out like a puppet’s, and his head rattled, tongue wriggling like a fish trying to escape the net. I knew he could choke if he swallowed it, so I wrenched my book from his fist and jammed it between his jaws. He bit down hard, chewing the cover while his eyeballs strained their veins.
    Ambulance. I ran to the phone. It was dead. No doubt the bill had gone unpaid while he’d been in rehab. I pulled out my cell. No signal in these hills. I ran back to the body and began searching for his phone. I tore through the pockets and found it: a Ziploc bag of white powder. I fell to my knees, eyes shut.
    “Oh God,” I prayed, “save this fucking moron.”
    Then, miraculously, the storm cleared. He was no longer shaking; in fact he was breathing nicely, bubbling snot through his mustache. I felt his pulse. I didn’t know what normal was, or how to take a pulse really, but I was fairly sure he had one. Now there was nothing to do but wait and see what kind of brain damage he’d suffered. With a little luck, no one would even notice.
    I dropped into the couch, banging my ass bone on the cushionless frame, and caught my breath. Slick with sweat, I realized how scared I’d been, and immediately, as if some wire in my brain had jiggled loose, I wondered where Derek’s cigarettes were. Then I noticed the plastic baggie in my hand. What was in there anyway? Speed, coke, dope? Some new drug that only rich and famous people knew about? Whatever it was, it had to be good. The proof lay right at my feet, snoring peacefully. I gazed at the pretty powder sparkling in my palm once more. Then I hauled myself up and I flushed it.
    Back in the living room, Derek was groaning. He rolled over, spit out the rare, half-eaten copy of my book, and abruptly puked all over it.
    “What happened?” he moaned.
    “You had a seizure. I’m guessing it’s not the first?”
    He nodded, eyes closed. “It’s a medical condition.” He coughed up a bit more of my writing. “Get me a glass of water.”
    “Get it yourself.” This time I put a cushion on the couch before I sat back down. He stood carefully, as though we were in a rowboat, and felt his pockets.
    “What are you looking for?” I asked.
    “Nothing. Cigarettes.”
    “ ’Cause if you’re looking for that baggie, I flushed it.”
    “What?” He instantly recovered. “Holy shit, why? That was . . . ” He paused.
    “What? Splenda for your tea? Baby powder for your chapped ass?”
    He slumped in a chair. “It was a thousand bucks, for one thing.”
    “Who gave it to you, your agent?”
    “No. It wasn’t Yoel.”
    “No wonder you were both so excited to see my work. You were wasted.”
    “That was for real. He totally respects you even when he’s not wasted.”
    “Whatever. You know they’re going to urine-test you at the studio tomorrow.”
    “Is that what you’re worried about?” He laughed. “I got it covered.” He strode into the kitchen and opened the freezer. “What the . . . ” Murmuring, he stuck his head in the icy hole, as if there were more