Wolf Flow Read Online Free PDF

matched the 'Vette; Charlie looked at her, those high-heeled fuck-me shoes clicking up the cement path to the building's front door. Maybe it had been Mike's idea to get her the car, so he'd have some kind of matched, Barbie-Gone-Bad ensemble on his hands; it had certainly been his money. It was nice enough, if that's what you liked: bubble butt just covered by an elastic-looking black skirt. She got a can like that from spending three days a week pumping a Nautilus machine. Same with her hard little tits shot forward by her winged-back shoulders-that's what the butterfly machine did for girls, gave them that arched back like the invisible man was trying to snap their spines with the point of his knee.
        Tough little face, though he couldn't see it from this angle; she was already fiddling with her key at the front door's lock. He'd just remembered what she'd looked like when he'd met her at Mike's place. One of those doll faces with a mean red mouth. Figure a flat 100 IQ points, fifty of them given to shopping, the rest to the kind of sex that left marks.
        If that was what Mike had wanted to spend his money on-everything was past tense with Mike from now on-then fine. Except anyone could've seen it, like a cancer on an X-ray, as though it were fated-that he'd wind up getting greedy and stupid. Just to keep up with her. You sleep with greedy and stupid little twats, it rubs off.
        These little rock-and-roll numbers, with the big hair-the ones that Charlie always figured were supposed to look like they'd just gotten out of bed, where they'd been fucking their brains out-they weren't anything he himself went for. What he liked was to sit in the coffee house at Powell's, maybe while he was waiting to connect with Aitch for some kind of business, sit right up close by the big windows that faced on the sidewalk on Burnside, sit there with a decaf latte and gaze at the windows of the ballet studio, up on the third floor of the building across the street. Like on a real rainy night. And catch quick heartbreaker glimpses of those little dance student types, with their sweet faces and their hair pulled back into those little crocheted bun things-chignons, they were; he'd asked somebody once about it. The dancers knocked him out, and they didn't even know it. And he wasn't likely to meet one in his line of work. Though he'd read about some famous ones, like back in New York, who'd been all strung out on shit. He would've had mixed feelings about supplying somebody like that, getting to know them on that basis. That would really suck, he decided. In the meantime, if he caught any lowlifes from the transient hotel hanging around in the doorway of the ballet studio's building, littering the place up with their cigarette butts and dog bottles, he'd lean on them and tell them to take a hike.
        "Jesus," said Aitch. "Look at this airhead."
        Mike's girlfriend hadn't noticed them watching her. She was having a hard time getting into the apartment building. Probably already blitzed, Charlie figured, coming home from some party with her equally mindless little friends. Carrying the refreshments with her in her little spangly purse. Something else that she'd gotten from Mike. She finally managed to get the building's front door open-she was really fucked up; Charlie glanced back to the Corvette at the curb and saw a sideswipe scrape along the right front fender, looking like a fresh wound-and dropped the key into the metallic bag. Dumb shit-Charlie shook his head-she'd have to go through the whole routine of digging it out again when she got upstairs.
        The apartment was in the front of the building. The two of them sat in the Cadillac, watching and waiting, until they saw the light go on in the window.
        Charlie looked from the corner of his eye, without turning his head. Aitch sat there, gazing up at the square of light, one of his little smiles on his face.
        
***
        
        She