Drawing Dead Read Free Page A

guys are very cooperative, they even tell you stuff you don’t want to know, but other guys you have work with to get them to open up. The fat guy behind the counter at Fatman’s Emporium of Comic Book Arts was that kind of guy. He had an amused, shifty-eyed look that Freddy had often noticed in small-business owners who were meeting him for the first time. Didn’t take him seriously. When Freddy asked about Paine and Disraeli, the fat guy—Freddy figured he had to be Fatman—lost interest in him just like that. Just shook his head and went back to reading his comic book like nobody was there.
    Freddy’s first idea was to drag the guy across the counter and bounce his head on the floor, but years of experience had taught him that it was usually safer and nearly as effective to employ more civilized, gentle tactics. He felt for the knot in his orange-and-black tiger lily tie and made sure it was tight and centered, then turned to survey his surroundings, looking for inspiration.
    Fatman’s Emporium was a thirty-by-forty-foot labyrinth of shelves loaded with more comic books than Freddy had ever known existed. He was the only customer in the store. He wandered through the maze, stopping now and then to flip through a row of comics. Each comic was wrapped in a plastic bag and had an orange price sticker on the upper-right-hand corner. There was a familiar cover up on the top shelf:
Captain America #100
. Freddy reached up and took down the comic. The price sticker read: “$80.00—Near Mint.” Freddy thought about his mom throwing away his comic books the first time he had gone away—a lousy six months in the joint, and she throws all his junk away. He untaped the top of the plastic bag and removed the comic.
    â€œHey, no reading the merch.” Fatman was right there, grabbing the comic away from him. Freddy held on and pulled back, ripping Captain America in half, right across his red-white-and-blue shield. Fatman stared in horror at the shredded comic. “Look what you did,” he said, his already high voice rising, his big cheeks turning red. “You’re gonna pay me for this, fella. That’s eighty bucks you just tore up.”
    Freddy felt bad about tearing Captain America in half, since he had wanted to read it, but Fatman’s shrill reaction was giving him an idea. He picked out another comic,
Batman #163
, with a picture of the Joker on the cover, and tore it in half lengthwise.
    â€œJesus Christ! What are you doing?” Fatman grabbed Freddy’s arm and started pulling him away from the shelves. Freddy twitched his arm and sent Fatman spinning against the opposite wall. He destroyed
Daredevil #5, #6,
and
#7
while Fatman was trying to get back on his feet. When Fatman came at him again, Freddy unleashed one of his size-fourteen wing tips and let Fatman have a good one on his right shin. The best wing tips were the big black ones from Sears; they weighed a ton and made his feet sweat, but when he kicked a guy, the guy went down.
    Freddy destroyed
Batman #280
while the fat guy was trying to get his act together, curled up on the floor holding his shin, drooling and moaning, tears running from his squeezed-shut eyes.
    â€œPlease, stop,” he finally managed to gasp as Freddy paged through a late-1950s copy of
World’s Finest
, tearing away the pages one at a time. Freddy looked down. Fatman had managed to open one eye. Freddy tore off one last page, dropped the remains of the comic on the floor.
    Fatman asked, “What do you want?”
    Freddy smiled. This was more like it. “I was asking if you knew where I could find a couple guys, that’s all. Paine and Disraeli.”
    The fat guy was shaking his head. Freddy reached for another comic book.
    â€œWait, please. I don’t remember—you got to help me out here. How come you think I know them? I mean, maybe I do. Lots of guys come in and out of here. What do they look