White Tiger on Snow Mountain Read Online Free Page B

million in art—Day-Glo graffiti splotches, a conceptual hat sculpture that was also a real hat—and an Amazon in a black minisuit clicked over. Her heels, headset, and tight bun made her seem like an angry android, but she smiled at Derek.
    “So good to see you. I love the beard. I’ll tell Yoel you’re here.”
    “Thanks, Katie,” he said, stroking.
    She pressed something, and a small, shiny, round man in a black suit popped out of a great big door.
    “Hey, bro,” he bellowed, hugging Derek, who introduced me, vaguely.
    “This is my, um . . . companion.”
    “Hi,” I said. “We can’t legally marry yet.”
    “Ha,” Yoel said. “Good one.”
    “He’s a writer too,” Derek offered by way of explanation.
    “Awesome,” Yoel exclaimed. “I’d love to see your stuff.” He led Derek back to his vault. Katie turned to me.
    “Would you like coffee? Water?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Thanks, Katie.”
    “Which one?”
    “Coffee. No, water. Well, both actually.” I laughed. “I got very dry on the plane.”
    “I understand.” A light on her headset glowed bluely, as if ordering her to vaporize me. “Sparkling or flat?”
    “Ever notice,” I rattled on, unable to stop, “how euphemistic English is? In French or Spanish, for water with bubbles, they say ‘with gas.’ ‘
Con gaseoso.
’ Americans would rather die than say ‘gas.’ ”
    “So you want gas or not?” she asked me, smile deflated, as if she had suddenly realized how much she hated her job. I have that effect on people.
    “Yes,” I said. “Thanks. Please give me gas.”
    I sipped espresso. The sun bled out. Katie worked the phone. Derek and Yoel emerged, laughing, and I sprang up, reflexively chuckling too.
    “Thanks for waiting,” Derek said. “Let’s roll.”
    Yoel waved. “Great meeting you. Don’t forget to send me your stuff.”
    “Right. Thanks. I will.”
    Katie validated my parking ticket, and we rolled down the elevator and over to Hollywood, where Derek had an apartment in a building full of transients on their way up or down. His place was nice but unloved. The shelves held only a few self-help books. The never-lit candles on the mantel still hadtheir price tags affixed. The one odd note was that the couch cushions were on the floor, propped against the furniture. Throw pillows leaned against the coffee table, and there was even a towel spread over the corner of the desk.
    “Do you have a dog?” I asked.
    “No, why? Should I?” he yelled from the bedroom. “Do you recommend it?”
    “That’s not what I meant.” I opened the empty fridge. A cleaning crew had scoured the place for drugs and booze as well as mildew.
    “I hope you don’t think this is stupid,” Derek said, returning. “But do you think you could sign this?” He held out a copy of my book.
    “Wow,” I said, in a whisper.
    “I found it in a used bookstore. It’s worth a lot on the Internet now. Like fifty bucks or more, with your signature.” He seemed to blush under his beard. “Not that I’d ever sell it. I read it when I was fifteen and suicidal. It made me want to be a writer.”
    I took the small volume in my hand. I hadn’t even seen a copy in forever. I turned it around like an artifact, afraid to look at the author’s photo.
    “I’ll be right back,” Derek said. “I’ve got to hit the can.”
    I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. What could I write to this smart-ass no-talent upstart who, it turned out, was the only fan I had left? “Dear Derek, Avenge Me!” Or, “Save Yourself, Get Out Now.” Or, “Bring Me With You, Please.” Or just: “Take the Money and Run.”
    A few minutes later, Derek came out of the bathroom, and I looked up shyly from the book. I’d written “Keep Up the GoodFight,” forgetting that I hadn’t found his work good particularly. But I was reassessing his writing skills as well as his personality: As a general policy, if you like me, I like you too.
    “Here you go.” I