Last of the Independents Read Online Free Page A

before lymphoma. Now she rubbed her ass on the carpets compulsively, looking ashamed of herself as her body continued to betray her. In addition to ruining the rugs on the upstairs floor, a stool softener had to be inserted every morning. Dawn usually found me cradling her on the porch while one hand pushed a spongy red capsule of Anusol into her rectum. As vile as that chore was, I would’ve done it happily every day for the rest of my life.
    â€œHe’s right here,” my grandmother said, banging through the screen door to deposit the cordless phone into my hand.
    â€œDrayton,” I said. My grandmother stood over me, arms crossed.
    â€œMr. Drayton? Gordon Laws. Talked to your secretary a couple minutes ago. Nice girl. Listen, just wanted to extend my thanks personally. My son and I, lot of water under the bridge, but on account of you we have a chance to go forward as a family. My wife is thrilled. Also wanted to tell you, check’s ready for pick up, and we decided to give you a nice little bonus.”
    â€œThat’s very generous. My assistant, Katherine, she’s the one who did the lion’s share of the work.”
    â€œWell, make sure she hears that we’re happy.”
    â€œWill do.”
    â€œTake care.”
    â€œSame to you.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œAll right then.”
    â€œChrist,” I said, handing my grandmother back the phone.
    â€œSomething the matter?” she said.
    â€œNo, I just owe Ben a hundred dollars.”
    She shrugged and pointed at the dog. “Looking a pretty sorry spectacle.”
    â€œShe still gets around the yard,” I said.
    The only way my grandmother would coexist with a dying dog was a promise from me that once the cycle was over, I’d refinish the main floor in real hardwood. My grandfather and his brothers had built the house on Laurel Street. During renovations in the late seventies, on my grandmother’s whim, they installed pink shag carpeting in all the bedrooms. Her sinuses had had to live with that decision for almost forty years.
    â€œYou will never catch me letting someone put their hand up my bum,” my grandmother said. “I’d rather be dead than that.”
    â€œIf it was Antonio Banderas’s hand, you’d look forward to it all day.”
    She scowled, shook her head, collapsed the phone’s antenna and took it back inside. I rolled the ball underhand along the shadow of the clothesline. The dog, resting on the lawn, raised her head and watched the ball roll past, as though deciding if it was worth the effort.
    A t the office I found Katherine and Ben in the midst of an argument over some film, Ben making the kind of sweeping statement that I doubt even he believed, but said to enrage others and make himself feel edgy.
    Ben vacated my chair and moved to the other side of the table. His hands were busy slicing one of my old business cards into strips.
    â€œHow’d it go?” Katherine asked.
    â€œEver date someone who was on the rebound, and they try to hold against you everything their ex did to them? Well, Mr. Szabo hired Aries Investigations, and based on that, he’s decided not to pursue a relationship with us.”
    â€œPoor guy,” she said.
    â€œSettle this for us, okay?” Ben said to me. “Orson Welles: genius or fraud?”
    â€œGenius,” I said, settling into my chair.
    â€œCorrect. But would you watch his movies?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œBut do you watch his movies?”
    â€œOnce in a while I’ll put on Touch of Evil .” I turned to Katherine. “Why, who was he saying was better? He never makes one of those grand dismissals without an equally absurd replacement.”
    â€œI don’t know the name,” she said. “The guy who directed Speed .”
    â€œNot what I said, I said it was a better film than Citizen Kane .” Ben rolled the strip of cardboard into a makeshift filter and affixed