Free Foodchain by Jeff Jacobson Page A

you?”
    “I’m the guy who wants to talk to your father.”
    Theo glared at Frank for a while but eventually said, “Wait here.” He shut the door and Frank respectfully stepped back, off the front porch, and prepared himself.
    After a few minutes, the door opened again, wider this time. Theo tilted his head. “He’s in his office. C’mon.”
    Frank followed Theo into a modest foyer. Carhart jackets hung from an oak coat rack. Cowboy boots lined the walnut paneled walls. Theo glanced at Frank’s feet. “Take off your boots. Dad don’t like outside boots inside.”
    Frank didn’t want to, but he pulled off the snakeskin cowboy boots, settling his bare feet on the smooth, warm wood floor.
    Theo watched Frank a moment. “You got something against socks?”
    “Yeah.”
    Theo shrugged, then led Frank through a gigantic kitchen. The house was silent, save for the slow, deep ticking of a grandfather clock. They went down a long hall that ended abruptly in a closed door. Theo knocked quietly, then opened the door.
    The first thing that hit Frank was the books. Thousands of them, lining the walls, stretching from the wood floor to the wood paneled ceiling. Sounds seemed to sink into the pages and vanish. Dozens, possibly hundreds of small picture frames surrounded the window. Frank couldn’t see what was inside the frames because brutal sunlight sizzled into the room, slicing through the dancing dust motes and falling full upon Frank’s sweating face. He blinked several times.
    “Something I can do for you, mister?” Sturm’s voice sounded tired, raw.
    Frank made his way over to two antique chairs. They faced an oak desk large enough to bury four people comfortably. Sturm waited behind the desk, his back to the window, fingers loosely clasped on the bare wood. His skull reminded Frank of a bare bulb in the sunlight.
    Frank wasn’t sure if he should sit or remain standing. He chose to stand. “My name is Frank Winter.” He took a step forward, extending his hand. Sturm didn’t rise, but grasped Frank’s hand in a quick, perfunctory shake. Frank marveled at the size of the man’s hands; they seemed disproportionately large, as if Sturm’s hands and head belonged to another, bigger, body.
    “I am here under…unusual circumstances.”
    Sturm’s face remained in silhouette, except his eyes, as if they were lit from inside by a cold fire. Frank’s prepared speech crumbled and fell to pieces around his naked toes. He would have rather tried to talk to the Glouck’s mutant pit bull, Petunia. “And uh, with that in mind, I, uh, would like to offer you a business proposition.”
    Sturm leaned back. “Is that so. Well, then. Guess it would depend on these special circumstances.”
    Frank nodded, pinned like a dead moth under the weight of Sturm’s hairless stare. Either he told the truth, confessed his sins, or he thanked Sturm for his time, climbed back into the long black car, and kept running. “Mind if I sit down?”
    “I’m a busy man, Mr. Winter. ‘Case you haven’t heard, I don’t have much time left.”
    “I have heard, and I appreciate your, uh, situation.” Frank sat. “In fact, that’s why I am here today. I may be able to help you.”
    “I have cancer, Mr. Winter. Unless you got a cure for one fat brain tumor, I’m afraid you can’t help shit.”
    “No sir. I don’t claim to have the cure for cancer.” Frank met Sturm’s glacier eyes. “But I might just have a way to make the days you have left around here,” Frank made sure Sturm understood he was talking about the town, “a bit more enjoyable. Maybe even more…worthwhile. Respectable even.” Frank knew he was pushing it.
    “Spit it out, son.”
    Frank sat. “I am, well, used to be anyway, a vet. Horses, mostly. I worked on a few racetracks for, well, let’s call ’em businessmen. Businessmen that didn’t like to lose. They didn’t see much sport in racing thoroughbreds. They just saw…opportunities. And, well,” Frank