Free The Dead Man's Brother by Roger Zelazny Page A

Sometimes I have nightmares where the whole world is a conspiracy, where everything waits for the perfect moment to shatter reality all about me to the sound of cosmic chuckling. I am the sort of person who takes a vitamin pill every day and a tetanus booster once a year. But I have been involved in so many accidents, near-accidents, potential accidents and non-accidental, violent situations that I feel there is some justification for a policy of caution and jumpiness.
    I recall one chilly morning when, unshaven, tired-eyed, smelling of beer and tobacco, I emerged from an all-night poker game with my tie loose about my neck and a couple hundred bucks in my pocket. The street seemed to be deserted and the subway station was four blocks away. After walking for a few minutes, I noticed that I was not alone in the world. About 30 feet ahead of me, a man stood in a doorway, drawn well back, looking as disreputable as myself and staring at me. I slowed my pace and kept staring at him. It was too late to run. I reached after my money as he jammed his hand into his hip pocket, hoping that he would be satisfied with a cooperative victim. Instead, he pulled out his wallet as I came up to the doorway and held it toward me with a shaking hand.
    "Take it!" he said. "It’s all I got! Don’t shoot me!"
    So I do tend to look for the worst and am sometimes embarrassed when it does not materialize. Usually, the worst strikes without warning, which irritates hell out of me when I think of all the times I prepared for it and nothing happened. I wish the Fates were not masochists, to love one who curses them so.
    With these things in mind and a twisted sense of humor to cast out shadows, I sighed back at the telltale odor and advanced toward the sofa. Unfortunately, she was breathing.
    I passed her and moved beyond the far wing of the sofa. Lying on its side in a puddle on the floor was an empty half-gallon of Chianti. A broken glass kept it company. She had spilled it all over herself, and I suddenly wished for a head cold as I realized I had also moved nearer the results of an unsuccessful dash toward the sink.
    Just to be certain, I checked her pulse and it seemed normal. There were no visible signs that she had fallen and hurt herself. She did not awaken during my brief examination, which was just as well. She did make some soft noises as I adjusted her skirt and moved her into a more comfortable-seeming position. Her face was a mess of wine stains and ruined makeup, cut through with dried tear-streaks; her eyelashes stuck together in little, glistening bunches.
    I set some water to boiling for coffee. Even if it would not really do her any good, I wanted some. I opened a window to air the place out, hung my coat, rolled up my sleeves and removed the various messes. Afterwards, I sponged her face with a moist washcloth.
    At this, her eyelids flickered.
    "…Thirsty," she said.
    I took her a glass of water and propped her while she drank it.
    "…More."
    She took two and a half glasses, pressed the washcloth to her eyes and held it there. She sat hunched forward and her breathing deepened.
    "Aspirins…" she said. "…Medicine chest."
    I fetched them and poured two coffees while she swallowed a couple of tablets. By then she had lowered the cloth and was running fingers through her long, black hair.
    "Ouch," she said as I set the cups on the coffee table. "The world is not as young as it used to be."
    She gave me a spasmodic smile as she accepted a cigarette and leaned forward. I seated myself and lit one of my own.
    Silence followed.
    We sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes. Then she rose, smiled faintly, said, "Excuse me" and left the room. After a time, I heard water running.
    A fresh cup of coffee. Another cigarette. Night thoughts.
    Maria had not been a heavy drinker when I had known her earlier. But then, neither had Carl. People do change, but this still seemed abnormal. Also, I did not feel that a chronically heavy drinker could