Down the Darkest Street Read Online Free Page A

project his parents had left him when they realized that, despite their best efforts, the Bin would never be a huge earner on par with some of their more lucrative investments—like fusion restaurants on Lincoln Road or twenty-four-hour Laundromats. For Dave’s parents, a nonstarter was not an option. But the chance to give their burnout son something to do? An acceptable loss.
    They left him alone and he didn’t sink the store. The agreement had held firm for a few years. Barely.
    Dave was carrying a stack of romance paperbacks a few books too high when he turned to Pete as if he’d just realized his friend was there. He stopped whistling and dropped the stack on the floor. He walked toward Pete, his left hand raised for a high-five.
    Pete responded in kind, and smiled.
    “Sup, brofus?” Dave said, scratching at his puffy beard. “Didn’t think you were in today.”
    “I’m not,” Pete said, leaning back in his seat. “But I figured you could use some time off. Y’know, give you a break.”
    Dave shrugged. “Man, I haven’t had anyone walk in once today. But, hey, whatever, dude,” he said, turning and picking up some of the paperbacks splayed on the floor. “Mi casa, tu casa. Just don’t bill me for too many hours. You know how weird my dad gets.”
    Pete nodded. He sometimes forgot Dave was at least five years younger than him, despite the beard, cloud of weed smoke, and slight potbelly.
    Dave was one of those guys Pete had known of for years—they ran in the same circles and seemed to know a lot of the same people. But it wasn’t until about six months ago that they became what Pete would consider friends. Pete had popped into the Book Bin to kill time—during one of his attempts at staying sober that didn’t stick—and Dave recognized him. They got to talking and Pete left with a part-time job offer and a new friend—the latter being in short supply.
    “I’ll do the usual,” Pete said. “I just needed to get out of the house.”
    Dave turned, eyebrows slightly raised.
    “Emily moving in making you feel strange?”
    “Nah, it’s fine.”
    “Dude, dude—seriously. It’s OK,” Dave said. “I mean, I get the appeal—Emily’s great. Smart, funny, pretty. Total package. But there’s history there, bro. You guys have baggage. And she’s a mess right now. Just sayin’ you can talk to me whenever.”
    “I know. It’s all good.”
    “Don’t know how you do it, man.”
    “Do what?”
    “Letting a woman that did you so wrong move in with you,” Dave said, looking over each paperback as he picked them up, re-forming the stack from earlier. “Can’t be good for your cabeza .”
    Pete shrugged and let his attention return to the book. He longed for some music. The stereo at the Bin had blown out a few days before, the victim of one final, epic Rush marathon, courtesy of Mr. Dave Mendoza. A meticulously curated playlist explored at full volume. Pete was thankful when the speakers drowned out Geddy Lee with their own shrieking death wail before conking out for good.
    “You read the paper this morning?”
    “You know I don’t read the newspaper,” Pete said, not looking up from the book.
    “Yeah, I know,” Dave said. “But did you check it on the Internet or some shit? Do you try to keep up with the wild world around us?”
    “What’re you getting at?”
    “Some girl’s been missing for a few weeks—maybe more,” he said, flipping through the pages of another used paperback. It featured a long-haired, bare-chested man pulling a woman to him. She seemed OK with that. “Went to Dadeland to shop with her friends, never came home. Weird, huh?”
    “Stop.”
    “Stop what?”
    “This,” Pete said, putting his book down, open-faced, on the counter. “Giving me a headline or news bit and trying to get me to involve myself. I don’t do that.”
    “You do, though,” Dave said, wiping his index finger on a shelf and checking the dust. He didn’t seem pleased at what he found.