Deviations Read Online Free Page A

reason, he hadn’t taken it. I saw the plastic
room key on the desk as I went over to the door and locked it.
    I showered and got dressed. Wobbly, I walked back
toward my own car, which I had parked a few blocks from Callahan’s. I brushed
the parking meters with my jacket sleeve, staying as far as I could from the
dark alleys between the old brick and stone buildings on Madison. I didn’t
think the guy’s idea of a full evening’s fun included Jump the Whore, but I hadn’t
expecting to get pissed on and beat up, either. The Colt tucked into my waist,
hidden by my nylon jacket, felt good.
    It was about one o’clock. Outside the bar, a couple
of regulars were saying goodnight to each other, full of eighty-proof affection,
giving back-slaps and hugs, like they were heading off to war and might not see
each other again. Most likely, they’d meet up again at ten am, right here, when the bar re-opened,
and salute each other with a boozy greeting after having endured eight hours
apart.
    That’s the thing about drunks: they get into
patterns that are probably going to kill them, and they don’t even realize it.
    I made it home, threw my bag on the coffee table,
and walked into the bathroom. There were red spots around my neck, where he’d
busted some blood vessels, and my left cheek had a girlish pink glow from where
he’d slugged me. I looked in the mirror. I really didn’t like what I saw. I
didn’t like it one damn bit.

 
     
    Chapter 2
    “Hi, my name is Karen.” My
last name is Seagate, but you’re not supposed to use last names here. It’s 3:40 pm , and I’m in the basement of
the Senior Center, what they call the activity room. The walls, cement block painted
robin’s egg blue, are covered with shiny posters showing old people smiling toothy
smiles and acting all alive. Pushing the grandkid on a swing, helping a little
girl roll out the dough on the counter, doing the wave at the stadium. Looks
fulfilling. To be honest, though, most of the time I see Granny and Gramps,
they’re not living the full life. But I know what posters are for: to point you
in a direction, give you hope. You won’t see any pics of blurry oldsters
cutting their blood-pressure meds so they can afford some mac and cheese before
the next payment arrives.
    On the question of honesty, let me be frank. I
lie. A lot. Not just your basic “I’m fine, thanks” lies. After all, when some
guy at work is walking past you in the hall and asks how you’re doing, does he
really need to hear that there’s a huge fucking black hole in the center of your
universe and you can’t wait to get sucked in so your soul will stop hurting? I don’t
think he needs that.
    No, I also lie when people ask me real questions,
even when there’s no need to lie. What kind of car do I drive? It’s a Ford. With
Honda written all over it. Am I married? Absolutely. Before the divorce. What
do I do? I’m a police detective in Rawlings, Montana. Actually, was. You want
to just back off, please? If I want you to know something about me, I’ll tell
you. But don’t hold your breath.
    Okay, maybe part of it is that my answers are kind
of depressing. I don’t mind depressing other people, of course, but I see no
reason to depress myself more than necessary. After all, I’ve got some shit to
be depressed about. I’m forty-two, out of work, out of luck, out of ideas, out
of hope. Out of just about anything that could do me some good. Wait, let me
try that again: I’m fine, thanks. You?
    A dozen people were sitting in cheap plastic
stacking chairs arranged in a circle. They were all between twenty and seventy,
and every one of them was looking at me. There was a lot of denim, scuffed
shoes, t-shirts, maybe a little more ink than you’d get with a random dozen,
but not that much more than you see every day here in town. They were all
reacting to “Hi, my name is Karen.” To be more specific, they were reacting to
what I didn’t say after that.
    The younger ones