Книга Thicker Than Water — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

But really it’s your mind gradually getting a grasp of the character, and the details filling themselves out as you write. It happens gradually, but you can notice it suddenly. In that sense, I’ve been surprised."

"Finally, if the Felix Castor books were ever filmed, who would you like to see directing and starring in the movies?

I just want to be there when they cast Juliet, that’s all.

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THICKER THAN WATER

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ALREADY DEAD

by

Charlie Huston

I SMELL THEM BEFORE I SEE THEM.

All the powders, perfumes and oils the half-smart ones smear on themselves. The stupid ones just stumble around reeking. The really smart ones take a Goddamn shower. The water doesn’t help them in the long run, but the truth is, nothing is gonna help them in the long run. In the long run they’re gonna die. Hell, in the long run they’re already dead.

So this pack is half-smart. They’ve splashed themselves with Chanel No. 5, Old Spice, whatever. Most folks just think they have a heavy hand at the personal scent counter.

I close my eyes and inhale deeper, because it could just be a group of bridge and tunnelers in from Jersey or Long Island. But it’s not. I take that second breath and sure enough, there it is underneath: the sweet, subtle tang of something not quite dead. Something freshly rotting. I’m betting they’re the ones I’m looking for. And why wouldn’t they be? It’s not like these things are thick on the ground. Not yet. I walk a little farther down Avenue A and stop at the sidewalk window of Nino’s, the pizza joint on the corner of St Marks.

I rap on the counter with the ring on my middle finger and one of the Neapolitans comes over.

—Yeah?

—What’s fresh?

He looks blank.

—The pizza, what’s just out of the oven?

—Tomato and garlic.

—No way, no fucking garlic. How ’bout the broccoli, it

been out all day?

He shrugs.

—Fine, give me the broccoli. Not too hot, I don’t want to burn the roof of my mouth.

He cuts a slice and slides it into the oven to warm up.

I could eat the tomato and garlic if I wanted to. It’s not like the garlic would hurt me or anything. I just don’t like the shit.

While I wait I lean on the counter and watch the customers inside the joint. The usual crowd for a Friday night: couple drunk NYU kids, couple drunk greasers, a drunk squatter, two drunk yuppies on an East Village adventure, a couple drunk hip-hoppers, and the ones I’m looking for.