Free Pariah by Bob Fingerman Page A

Eddie said, grinning, “but art is forever.”
    “
Car crashes are a dime a
—” Alan shook his head like a wet dog trying to make sense of that statement. “What? Name the last time you saw a car driving by.”
    “Been ages. But it didn’t do us any good, did it? Anyway, other sounds were of more interest. Ellen never moaned like that with Mikey boy, I can tell you. Even back in the day.”
    Alan shoved Eddie into his apartment and closed the door behind them.
    “Jesus Christ, Eddie. She might hear you,” Alan said, jabbing his finger into Eddie’s ditchlike sternum.
    “Everyone hears everyone, Casanova. Sound travels. Especially when you’re bangin’ a screamer. She was making so much noiseI thought she was gettin’ eaten alive. I guess maybe she was, actually.” Eddie smirked. With a plastic magnetic banana he affixed the drawing to his refrigerator door, admiring it. “Not like the old days, though, huh? Back in the day Ellen had some boasty titties. Well, you make do with what you’ve got, right? Don’t let the perfect get in the way of the good enough.”
    “Look, don’t make a big thing of this, okay?” Alan said, hating the vaguely inveigling tone in his voice. “Ellen has enough on her plate. . . .”
    “None of us have enough on our plates,” Eddie interrupted.
    “I meant figuratively. Jesus. Anyway, this is just a temporary thing. I’m just trying to . . .”
    “Get your dick wet. I understand. Dude, if there’s anyone in the building who’s on your wavelength it’s yours truly. That sensitive artist shit worked its hoodoo. I get it. Some chicks dig jocks, some dig nerds. I should’ve known Ellen was a nerd whore. Just look no further than the late Mikey Swenson. What was his racket? Computers?”
    Mike had worked in the IT department at an investment brokerage down on Wall Street, so point to the observant jock.
    “Look, just keep it on the DL, all right? Let the woman grieve in peace.”
    Eddie sniggered. “Okay. On one condition.”
    Alan sagged. “Name it.”
    “Keep the nudie art comin’. I want you to keep me supplied with fresh whacking material. I don’t know why I didn’t think to tap you sooner, what with all other resources being nonexistent. Not like I can log onto Bang Bus any more.”
    “You want me to do porno art of Ellen for you?” Alan gaped.
    “Not just Ellen. And not the way she looks now. I’ll come up with some scenarios for you to do up for me. Okay? Okay. Now get the fuck outta my apartment.”
    Alan traipsed downstairs and fell onto his bed in a daze. This was what prison must be like. Alan had always wondered if he could endure incarceration—especially long term. He figured his only survival skill would be doing pervy fantasy art for the other inmates. The rapists would want rape fantasies. The murderers would want murder fantasies. The hyphenates would want hybridized fantasies, one from column A, three from column B, and so on. And now a blackmailing ex-jock was leaning on Alan for post-apocalyptic pinups.
    What would Vargas do?

 

9

April,
Then

     
    “She’s turning blue, Mike. She’s turning fucking blue! You have to do something!”
    “What am I supposed to do, Ellie? What? Go to the Duane Reade? Call a doctor?”
    Ellen held Emily, barely a year old, and watched her tiny mouth open and close like a fish out of water. She’d wrung every drop of nutrition from her mother and the coffers were nearly bare. Ellen hated rationing, but what else was there to do? Mike was right, what could he do? Go out there? Sure, only to never return. Baby in tow, she tromped over to the front windows and radiated hatred at the undead things in the street below, milling about as ever, even in the freezing rain. She threw open the sash and leaned out, sleet stinging her face. She shielded Emily, pressing the small head against her depleted bosom.
    “Fuck you all!” Ellen shrieked. “Fuck each and every one of you goddamned parasitic