Free The Stickmen by Edward Lee Page B

“Harlan, I don’t mean any
offense by this but have you showered anytime recently?”
    That’s just great. “My water got cut
off because I couldn’t pay the bill,” he recited, embarrassed. “I
was on my way to Nero’s Roman bath-house Y when your two Keystone
Cops hauled me off the street.”
    Swenson’s brow narrowed. “You can’t pay your
water bill?”
    “Or my phone bill, if you must know. But
that’s fine because if my phone’s not working then the NSA can’t
tap my calls anymore.”
    “You’re broke, in other words?”
    The frown seemed to stretch Garrett’s face.
“I’d call it a mere matter of temporary financial insolvency.”
    “You’re broke; we can’t have that.” Swenson
pressed a buzzer by the bed. Instantly an SP popped into the room,
pistol in hand.
    “Everything all right, General?”
    “Yes,” Swenson said. “Get twenty thousand
dollars out of the safe and give it to Mr. Garrett.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The SP vanished.
    Garrett almost relieved himself in his
jeans. “Gee, thanks…Dad.”
    Swenson’s face was getting pink again,
another coughing fit coming up. “This is no joke, Harlan. For what
it’s worth, I always liked you. I’ve always thought of you as
something of a wayward son.”
    “Let’s not get carried away,” Garrett
said.
    “I’m sorry things couldn’t have been
different.”
    Garret felt oddly choked up.
    “Go now, Harlan. Time is of the essence. And
good luck.”
    “Thanks… I think.” Garrett, still mystified,
was about to turn and leave, not even knowing what he was leaving to—
    “And, Harlan?” Swenson stifled a cough.
    Garrett turned back to him.
    “Be very careful.”
     
     

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    The basement was Danny’s favorite place now,
though he wasn’t sure why. It was dark and cool and quiet.
Something about the cement-and-cinder-block walls helped him feel
at ease.
    He guessed that maybe the Stickmen couldn’t
talk through the cement-and-cinder-block walls. He didn’t like it
when the Stickmen talked to him. It always made his head hurt like
after the time he got hit with softball during gym class.
    Down here they never talked to him.
    Danny was doing another picture now, not
with paint like in Miss Romesch’s art class but just with colored
pencils. He was sitting up at his dad’s work table and had the
lights turned on. This was his favorite place to draw.
    Danny liked to draw—it was his favorite
thing to do—and maybe Miss Romesch was right; maybe he should be an
artist when he grew up. One time even his mother had said that,
“With your drawing talents, Danny, you could work for an
advertizing firm when you grow up, or one of those computer
graphics companies, and you could make a lot of money.” But before
Danny could even think to say anything in response, his father had
grumbled from the couch: “Honey, Danny’s not going to be any
candyass artist, for God’s sake. That’s not a man’s job. He’s going to be a soldier. He’s going to go to West
Point, and he’s going to go to jump school and Ranger school, and
he’s going to be a hardcore Army combat officer. Right, Danny?” and
then his dad had leaned over an patted him on the back. “Only
sissies are artists. You want to be a soldier, right?”
    “Yes, Dad,” Danny replied because he knew
that if he said anything else, then his dad might start yelling
like he did a lot when he was drinking beer, and his mother would
start crying, and it would all be Danny’s fault. One time his
father had told him that once he got into high school he could try
out for the football team, but Danny had never been too good at
sports and he said he didn’t want to. Boy, was that a
mistake! Pretty soon mom and dad were shouting at each other.
“Jesus Christ, Joyce!” dad had yelled, “you’re turning the kid into
a little pansy the way you coddle him. All he does is sit around
and draw pictures when he should be out playing little league and
toughing himself up for