Free No Such Creature by Giles Blunt Page A

said hoarsely. “The Butcher was here. Right here. In my room. In this very room.”
    “The Alcatraz guy?”
    “S’blood, boy. I could have reached out and touched his cleaver. Fuh! Sitting in that chair, talking to me.”
    Max leaned toward his night table, straining mightily, and hoisted his water glass. An interlude of gulps and slurps.
    “Blood up to his elbows. Both hands. Blood over his face. Like he’d been swimming in it. And he says to me, ‘Welcome home, Maxie. I think we’re going to get along fine.’”
    “It was just a nightmare.”
    “No! I tell you he was in this room. Alive as you or me.”
    “Max, you had a nightmare.”
    “He reeked of prison. I wouldn’t survive if I had to go back inside, boy. I frankly prefer death, d’you hear?”
    “Max, take it easy. You’re not going to prison.”
    “Boy, listen to me.” He clasped Owen’s hand between two hot paws. “I’ve not been the perfect father, God knows. But I’ve done my best to bring you up like my own. Asked nothing in return. Nothing big, anyway—well, nothing too big. But now I am, I do, I must. Look me in the face, boy.”
    The old eyes were red and watery and full of fear.
    “D’you love me, kid?”
    Owen couldn’t believe his ears; he wanted to flee. “Uh, yeah, Max. Of course I do.”
    “I need you to promise me something. I need you to promise me that, no matter what happens, you will never let me go back to prison.”
    “Max, how can I promise that? You know the old rule: if you—”
    “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. Not a rule I’ve ever lived by. My rule is, if you’re going to get caught, not. That’s why I’m the most conservative thief the country has ever seen. But if something should happen—God forbid—if something should go wrong and I’m facing a prison sentence again, I want you to promise to get me out of it.”
    “Max, I’m not gonna machine-gun ten cops to get you out of jail.”
    “I’m not talking about anyone else, I’m talking about me. Just think of it as putting the dog down.”
    “Max, you always taught me to keep things non-violent. Now you expect me to shoot you?”
    “All right, maybe you don’t do it yourself. You could hire someone. No one’s ever going to suspect you.”
    Had it not been the middle of the night, and had Max looked even slightly less terrified and vulnerable, Owen might have put up further resistance, but as it was he found himself agreeing, regretting it even as he did so. “All right, yes. I promise. I won’t let you go to prison.”
    “Swear it?”
    “I swear.”
    “That’s my boy. Now haste thee to thy bed.”

SIX
    “T IME FOR YOU TO HIT THE ROAD , C HARLENE .”
    Zig was propped up on the pillows, watching her cute little fifteen-year-old butt waving in the air. She was down at the end of the bed totally absorbed in Zig’s collection of graphic novels—not reading them, just grooving on the drawings and exclaiming every five seconds.
    “That is so cool,” she would say, and flip another page.
    “I got stuff to do this afternoon,” Zig said.
    “This is so beautiful,” Charlene said, pronouncing it beauty-full .
    Zig could have stared at her butt all day, except for the fact that they’d already done it twice. Amazing what the kids of today would do for free drugs. Although clearly he had misjudged his proportions. There was a real art to getting it just right.
    He used to prefer his females totally unconscious, courtesy of Rohypnol or some variant. In fact, he had done serious time for a couple of those. But these days he preferred them, well, compliant and relaxed but not comatose. He’d been in the mood for a bit of fun, so he and Charlene, a kid he’d picked up near Covenant House, had been playing Ex, Dex and Sex, as he liked to put it. The Ex had worn off, but the Dex was obviously still working because she was speed-focused on his damn comics.
    She said beauty-full once more and that did it. Zig got out of bed