The Haze Read Free Page A

know that. So you can trust me, Mr. Connors. I’m not stupid like that, take your money and walk away.”
    â€œI’ll have the five for you tomorrow.”
    Back to the book by the woman writer. Things heating up. The old lady serial killer, her name is Varla, nice exotic ring to it, Polish or gypsy or something, she’d decided she wanted to kill a young lady who worked in a bookstore, a young lady who’d done harm to her new manfriend, the retired professional killer, Little Mo Connors.
    â€œThat’s my daughter, my own flesh and blood. You can’t kill her.”
    â€œIt’s the only way you’re going to get out of the home. She’s the impediment. Once she’s gone, you’re free.”
    â€œAm I?”
    â€œI’m doing you a favor.”
    They staked out the bookstore. It was summer, tables out on the sidewalk at the Italian place across the street. They took a table, the two old killers, and watched the bookstore. It was close to lunch time, the restaurant getting busy, so they had to order. Fettuccini alfredo for her, tortellini for him.
    â€œBad for my blood sugar,” he said. “But what the hell. Screw my blood sugar.”
    â€œThere she is, coming out the front door.”
    â€œChrist, she’s coming this way. She’ll see us. She’ll know what we’re up to. We should move.”
    Varla put a hand on his leg below the table. An electric thrill he hadn’t felt in years.
    â€œDad, what’re you doing here?”
    â€œReading a book, what does it look like?”
    â€œThe woman novelist, I told you you’d like her. She’s right up your alley.”
    â€œI want out of here,” he told her. “That’s my goal, to escape this hellhole.”
    â€œDad, this is a beautiful place. The food is good, people love you here. I was just talking to Javier and he was going on and on about what a funny guy you were, all the stories you been telling him.”
    â€œHe keeps me doped up.”
    â€œThose are blood pressure pills, Dad. If you don’t take them, you could have a stroke.”
    â€œWho do I have to kill to get out of this hellhole?”
    â€œI brought you some more books. Another one by the woman writer. I’m glad you like her so much. I thought you would.”
    â€œI met somebody. Her name is Varla.”
    His daughter smiled at him.
    â€œJavier told me. She sounds wonderful. When can I meet her?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œVarla, your gal pal.”
    He’d said too much, given away a secret. The haze did that, it confused him, kept him loopy. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to or why. He wasn’t sure if he was remembering shit he did or shit he read or some other kind of shit entirely. Shit he made up while he sat at the window and looked out at the snow and the palm trees. He stopped talking. Refused to say another word.
    His daughter left. Good riddance.
    He searched his room for his pistol. Took out each pair of underwear, every T-shirt, scooted the bureau away from the wall, felt the floorboards for a secret shelf, a hidey hole like he’d used back in his day for all his weapons. Killers threw the guns away off bridges into rivers. But that was in books. That was bullshit. Buying new guns was a hassle. So he avoided it, held on to the ones he’d used. So what if some cop came around and took his gun and ran a ballistics test on the slugs. So what? He’d get sent to prison. Big deal. He was in prison already. Everyone told him how great it was, the food was good, like that mattered. Like it wasn’t a box with a single, tiny window.
    He didn’t find the gun. But he knew it was there. He was tired of looking.
    He put on his pajamas and got into bed to read. It was the middle of the afternoon. Big snowflakes coming down, white as the birds standing in the lawn. He opened the book he’d been reading, found his place.
    Varla and Little Mo were