You don't have to read all this crap about love, about what it's like. You already know the sappy part. Except for one thing — and that one's more about you than me. I'm writing this garbage from the place you're afraid to end up. But you will. And when you do, they might ask you at the gate: did you read "Cesara"? Don't say yeah. Or they'll whip me with ramrods again. Madlen, my ex, gave me Dante. That bastard was right — it's a total shithole here.
Still — thanks for buying the book. The kid at your bookstore got a cut, and you helped the Ministry of Trash print this novel out of trash leftovers. Or maybe it's not a novel at all?
And don't believe in love. Don't be an idiot. I already was.
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Chapter 1.
Goddamn job. Time to get out.
They rolled into the office Wednesday night. I was killing time waiting for my ex, who suddenly got desperate for divorce papers — but holy hell! — four gorillas barging in! Pachèrito plus three, spicing up my wait.
He gets real pissed if you call him Pachèrito. I didn't even make it to the shelf with my Magnum. Next thing — floor. Their shoes hammering my ribs. Bastards! Nice shoes, though — seven hundred a pop. But here's the thing: gorillas don't give a shit about price. When it's a client, they don't care what's on their feet. Boss pays. Good boss doesn't cheap out on shoes, that matters. Any private dick'll tell you: your shoes are your most important piece of equipment. Trust me — I'm a private dick. Was, anyway up until now. And I know shoes.
Try tailing a client on foot for two hours with no car. In twenty‑buck junk, your feet swell up in an hour. No rain — fine. Rain — you're soaked. And screwed. Because when the client catches your gimpy reflection in a shop window, he's gone. All you can do is limp to a payphone and call Simon.
Who the hell is Simon? Simon is the kind of friend every dick has. This very second he's always in the middle of banging a cheap hooker. But if you call and say, Simon, I need you — he won't even peel the rubber off. Faster to just zip up and get to you.
Everyone's got a Simon. Not me. That's why I'm on the floor, face busted, spleen hammered. Right eye's swollen shut, but I can still see the fourth pair of shoes. Those run fifteen hundred a pop. Pachèrito likes the good stuff. The bastard nudges my cheekbone with his toe:115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrdZOAsbfUv
"I asked you nice, you scumbag... Why'd you have to rat out Little Gino?"
Little Gino was six-six, two-eighty of solid muscle. Pachèrito used him for the wet stuff — until Gino's wife got suspicious. She hired me. Two weeks later, I gave her the motel room number. And what did she do? Walked in with the cops. Dumb bitch! First they pulled Gino off the bronze boy, then nailed him for drugs. Five years. Funny thing — my name never came up. Cops verified it. And still — here's Pachèrito, cigar between his fat lips, paying the tab with his shoe. Who the hell sold me out?
"No smoking in here," I rasp. He's about to finish me off. Christ, where do I find a pile of cash and just retire?
Another kick to the ribs — everything goes black and quiet...
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She said I looked like Santa Claus who'd been gang‑raped by three reindeer. That's how my ex found me in the office. Why three, not four? Women either got no sense of humor — or way too much. When she walked in, I was just getting up on my elbows, trying to remember I still owed her the divorce papers... She looked at me:115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqTr70BYEQP
"Jesus Christ."
I stuck my hand out — "Don't touch me!" — and pulled my knees in. Felt a little better.115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIsw7Xp9wnv
"I'm fine," I said, forcing a smile. "You're early, but glad to see you."115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ92ZxMJidS7
I grabbed the corner of the desk, hauled myself up — if you can call it that. Bent over, ass out, forehead pressed to the tabletop. Arm might be busted too... But business is business.115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpIamkusAJ4
"Where the hell do you think you're crawling?" Madlen asked, worried. That's her name. Some don't like it. I do. Madlen... Like bells in the hands of angels.
"Hold on — they're in the drawer somewhere... the papers."115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5hKHKKYZ0d
"What drawer?! Christ, look at yourself!" — and she gave me the raped Santa line again. "You need a doctor!"115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhKWeA2gSZz
"No," I slobbered. But my shoe, the bastard, slipped in the blood, and I hit the floor again.Still don't get it — why three reindeer?115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOrkkU8T1RV
She didn't listen. Grabbed me under the arms, dragged to the couch, propped me up. Then she squatted down, fist to her mouth, and gave me that pitying look. I caught my breath:115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFAoTHL2YG9
"Not my day, Madlen. Interests crossed. Need to change. Hope they didn't lift my spare suit..."
"Shut up. You got a towel?"115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVfnyEkLYEm
"By the sink. Check if there's any booze left."115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLOkX7Tma7P
"If you didn't buy any. I poured the rest out last week."115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEiUmXbj7Le
Madlen's a saint. If she hadn't chucked that bottle in a fit of rage... if she hadn't done that... Pachèrito would've ground the glass to powder and fed it to me. At best — my mouth. The warm towel landed on my face. Felt better. I'll be okay soon...115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3KiReELJqa
"Gimme a cigarette."
She dug through the desk and came up with a crumpled pack of Camels. I only smoke those. Most dicks smoke Marlboros — not me. Can't stand those cowboys on the pack. Romantic bastards on horseback, lasso in hand, with that look: you gonna pay me today for the saddle sores on my ass?
"What are you gonna do?" Madlen gave me that sad look. I gave it back. Between us, a thin stream of smoke — it smelled better than the last two years of us. What am I gonna do?
Always have a Plan B. That's what my old man said the morning he went up to fix the wire. Halfway up the pole, the thing let go of the snot it was hanging by and dropped right on his bald head. Twenty minutes later, when the corpse stopped smoking, the neighbor from the trailer, Aunt Augusta, shrugged: why didn't you call an electrician? That would've been Plan B.115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFMAD8i0xJO
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I told Madlen about my Plan B.
"You're dumber than my mother" — that was her verdict. The only thing dumber than her mother is the camel on the pack. Everything else is smarter. That's what Madlen said the first time we slept together.
No idea what she didn't like about it. Two weeks ago, my uncle died — a shrink with a license still hanging in a frame on his office wall. Key's been sitting in the desk drawer for three years. Nothing's stopping me from becoming Charles Wind, top‑tier shrink, professor, winner of all kinds of blah‑blah‑blah, board member of this and that blah‑blah‑blah... and so on. When a dick dies, a shrink is born. Amen. Where do I drop a ten for the blessing?
In the end, Madlen took the papers and left. I let out a tired sigh. Not because of her — because Pachèrito had gone through my desk and lifted the crumpled sheet. That's bad. Real bad. It had an Amsterdam number on it — some bitch who hired me today. Dorothy Bingles, I think. Name and number don't matter. But why the hell did I scribble "da Vinci, transport, Amsterdam" underneath?
Within an hour, I found the scummiest motel in the state. While the bald skunk behind the counter was sizing up my last twenty, I patted my pockets and realized I'd left the spare clip in the office. If Pachèrito track me here, I got maybe two shots — then it's me and that mop and bucket. Worst case, I throw the bald skunk and my twenty at them. Nasty old bastard.115Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaWXXYn7QRe
Couple minutes later, I was out cold on the bed. Coat, pants, and shoes still on me.
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and then Add to home screen.