Charlie Martz and Other Stories Read Free

first!”
    â€œCliff, you have to have patience. Soon you’ll be—”
    â€œStart one more of those sickening lectures and I’ll vomit right on the floor. Have patience . . . read . . . get interested in a hobby . . . do something constructive! What’ll I do, weave baskets or sell pencils? Stan, you got to either keep your mouth shut or get the hell out. You stopped being the big brother a long time ago!”
    His face was very red and he was getting more and more excited. Without knowing it he was trying to pull himself up from the couch. I pushed him down gently and arranged the pillows behind him more comfortably.
    â€œAs a martyr you make a good drunk, Cliff. You’re going to do something for yourself and stop feeling sorry whether you like it or not. One thing is sure, we’re not staying here. As soon as you’re a little stronger we’re going west. This burg is too cold.”
    He looked at me quickly. “Sure it’s not because it’s too hot?” He thought that was clever, and what he said next even more so.
    â€œYou look kind a pale, Stan. See a ghost, or did you almost become one? I told you monk around and you’d get more than you could handle.”
    â€œGo to sleep, Cliff.”
    â€œGo to sleep, Cliff.” He imitated my voice. “You really think you’re God Almighty, don’t you? Go to sleep, Cliff!” He did it the same way. “You’re just too goddamn smart for your own good.” He was pulling himself off the couch again. “I hope they put you to sleep! Even if you are my brother.”
    I turned out the lights and went into the bedroom without answering. He kept it up for a while, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I knew he wouldn’t have spoken that way if he were sober, but I still couldn’t help liking him a little less, and went to sleep wondering if what I was doing was worth the time and effort.
    I expected Cliff to be in a better mood the next morning. Maybe if he had gotten some sleep he would have been, but I noticed the bottle on the table was empty. Cliff was still half drunk, but now the other half of him was hungover, and he was in an uglier mood. I told him I was going out for a while and he told me to GET THE HELL OUT . . . so he could have the last word.
    I drove to Henderson’s Corner, about two miles down the road,had two cups of coffee, got cigarettes, and then went across the road to the post office.
    I bought one stamped envelope, and had to tell the clerk three times that I thought the weather stunk before I could get away from the window and over to an addressing table near the door.
    You don’t have to be too sneaky about dropping a .45 caliber bullet into an envelope. It isn’t that big. So I didn’t worry about anyone being a witness to my breaking the law. I addressed it to Carrito in care of Jade’s, the joint on Beaubien, and dropped it into the box.
    I was more than halfway home when I realized my mistake. The Grass Lake postmark would stand out like muscles on a snake dancer! For Carrito not to notice it, he’d have to be as dumb as I was when I pulled the stunt.
    I raced the rest of the way, trying to think of how to get Cliff out of town in the shortest possible time. I turned into the drive, pulled up behind the cottage, and then noticed the gray, ’49 Buick over to the left and partly among the trees. I took it for granted who the visitor was, but I didn’t take for granted he’d have a friend along. Not until . . .
    â€œOut of the car, Jack. No tricks.”
    I turned fast. The right front door opened and a young, good-looking guy in a drapey gray flannel suit was standing there with his left hand on the handle. I couldn’t see the other hand because it was inside the coat—where a shoulder holster hangs. I got out his side.
    â€œLet’s go inside, Jack.” That’s all he had to say.
    Marty Carrito