The Dead Do Not Improve Read Online Free Page B

flurry of angry pointing, it became clear that what she meant was, “The gate, the gate.”
    I nodded. She ducked away. The buzzing started up again. It was, indeed, the condo’s front gate. I pushed my way inside.
    The lobby was clean. That’s all I can really say about it. I did note a Paisley settee, but only because I had just learned the week before what a settee was. A loud thudding came from the staircase, and when it finally stopped, Performance Fleece sprang into view. It hurt, at least little a bit, to hear her clunk around in such a plebeian way.
    With a withering, who-farted look on her face, she motioned me up the stairs. I followed her great ass up two flights and through a heavy door and into a condo that also doesn’t really need to be described.
    Then (Hallelujah!), with all of Deerfield Academy behind her voice, she asked, “Are you retarded?”
    “What’s up?”
    She pointed out the window and said, “That van hasn’t moved for two hours now.”
    I failed to see the problem. There were always cars double-parked on our block. I shrugged. Performance Fleece pointed a long, thin finger at my nose. I caught a whiff of cocoa butter. My mounting erection was confused by this. She asked, “Are you high? Mel says you always look high.”
    “Mel?”
    “My fucking boyfriend. You met him this morning.”
    Women of America! Take note: Learn to say “fuck” and “boyfriend” with the same even mix of contempt and protectiveness and you will never be lonely again.
    “Oh, he didn’t tell me his name.”
    “That van hasn’t moved in two hours. About an hour ago, a kid got out and kind of kicked around in the dirt in front of your building.”
    “Maybe he lost something?”
    “Of course he lost something. He lost his bullets in that poor old lady’s face.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, why would he come back to the scene of the crime? Wouldn’t he be in El Salvador by now?”
    “Did you see the red paint smeared around the window? That’s a gang sign.”
    My reason was returning to me. I asked, “Okay, okay. Can we think this through? Together?”
    “You have to go down there.”
    “What?”
    “To establish a strong neighborhood presence.”
    “Strong neighborhood presence?”
    “Yes. Strong neighborhood presence.”
    “Well, where’s Mel? Isn’t that his scooter parked on the sidewalk?”
    “He takes the shuttle to work.”
    “So, that’s like a weekend scooter?”
    “Why are you talking about his fucking scooter?”
    “Sorry, I guess I’m trying to say.”
    “Yes?”
    “Shouldn’t we both go down there?”
    She turned around and bent over to open a drawer. My God, her ass! When my eyes found their way back up to her face, she was holding a fancy kitchen knife. I worried that she might have caught me staring, but then why would she have gone for the knife before the staring had even happened? Had she been looking for something else in the drawerand, during her search, felt my eyes on her ass, and, after the moment of violation passed, chosen the knife?
    I asked, “What’s the knife for?”
    She said, “I’m going down there with you.”
    15 . This was Performance Fleece’s plan. We would walk up and down the street, shoving our strong neighborhood presence down the throat of these gangsters.
    It wasn’t the most complicated plan, but what grit from Performance Fleece! What determination! What poor freshman, on which field, at which New England factory of private education and goodwill, had dared to face down this dervish? Unstoppable force, Performance Fleece, running straight toward the goal.
    We took our first lap of the street. My erection felt like it was going to tear through my pants leg. But how to adjust? The waistband tuck would be too obvious. And my pants, as the advanced creative writer had pointed out, were cockblasters. By way of nervous reflex, I asked, “Where did you go to college?”
    She said, “This is not the time.”
    “Sorry.”
    She