Free Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller by David C. Cassidy Page A

blown a hole in the door that was simply too big to repair. The man started on about the screamer again, his stick-thin legs poking out of those ridiculously baggy shorts he always seemed to wear, about how he was gonna fix that screamin’ whore, fix her good. The man was still rambling when Kain thanked him and headed out the door.
    It was getting on in the evening, just before eight, and he decided to head to Rosa’s in the north end of town. He had a sandwich, ham and cheddar on rye, and some vegetable soup. Though still hungry from the day’s exertions, he passed on dessert, and as he sat thinking about where he might bed for the night, suffered a nasty craving for a cigarette. He almost always wanted one after a meal, but tonight it was strangely unsettling. He hadn’t had a puff in nearly five years (and wasn’t about to, thank the Project for small miracles), yet here he was still wanting one, longing for that soothing kick—and thinking of Brikker. The man smoked Gold Armor (“ Seriously smooth—like a coat for the throat! ” their ads brazenly boasted), they both did (a shared trait Brikker had once told him made them more alike than Number Three dared admit), but in the end, it was Brikker alone, sucking them back like the vampire he was. With Kain, the smokes had never agreed with the drugs. He always threw up.
    At the counter, two crusty sods perched on stools yakked, although it was really an argument in disguise, in that time-honored manner old men seemed to favor: opinions flying, spirits rising, a hint of anger lurking behind strained civility. One of them was going on about how that idiot Kennedy was going to get our boys killed over nothing in Vietnam. The other countered that something had to be done to stop the Red Spread, as he called it, and if that meant a little American blood, so be it. Despite some poignant harrumphs and some spirited Awww-you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talkin’-about’s , they seemed to be going nowhere fast.
    The waitress who had served him emerged from the swing doors at the far reach of the diner. She asked one of the men—the guy who had no trouble spilling blood, so long as it wasn’t his—George, she called him—to settle down. He huffed a bit, then sipped his coffee. His friend apologized.
    The woman was pretty, with blonde hair tied back. She moved gracefully, a slight bounce in her step, but she held a silent seriousness that seemed to betray her bright eyes. Still, she possessed a classy look, like a Varga Girl in Esquire, and once she had caught him looking.
    She set down two plates at the booth next to the jukebox, stopping to chat with the cute couple huddled there on the one side. The three of them laughed at a joke. The young man dug into his pocket and slipped her a coin, drew her close with a motion of his finger, whispered something in her ear, and then she nodded, mouthing Sure with a wonderfully delicate smile. At the jukebox, she popped in the coin and scanned the selections, and then fingered a couple of buttons. She looked back at the booth, and the girl gushed as Elvis crooned “Love Me Tender.” It was a classic to be sure, one of Kain’s favorites, and the waitress winked at the boy when the girl was looking up at him and not at her, as if to say, Great choice, kid, she’s putty, now.
    She faded into the kitchen when the cook ( Rosa, Kain thought, it had to be Rosa ) called out Fries! in a voice as prickly as cactus. At that, a man entered the diner and made a beeline for the counter. He brushed up against one of the old-timers, the one who thought JFK an idiot. The patron looked up and started to say something, but his face stiffened. His chum looked no less anxious, suddenly. Clearly they knew him.
    The interloper was lanky and unshaven. His jacket and jeans were stained in black grease. He held an unmistakable anger.
    The waitress returned with a plate of fries. She didn’t look up, but as she slid the plate onto the counter in front