[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
but him.
Physically, anyway, he was perfect. Plus some. When he tossed in this or that
nasty tidbit, Connie kept her mouth shut. She'd learned from a bad divorce
that you stick by your man or lose him. Even when he slandered Tucker, she
kept it zipped. Tucker was her favorite, what little she knew about him. He
was everybody's favorite, it seemed, the wild child of any gathering because
of his naïveté and gullibility. Thin, with wide shoulders, a grown-in Mohawk
of black hair, and acid-green eyes, he
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (25
of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:51
Jeff Long - Angels of Light stuttered every time she tried to talk to him.
That was because Tuck hailed from
Norman, Oklahoma. "Normal, Oklahoma," he would sadly confess if you asked.
"Nothin' there but the football stadium." His hair was clipped into a shaggy
Mohawk and he wore Ray Charles-style sunglasses in a semi-Terminator look.
"The Boz," he'd identify the look, mystified that no one out here seemed to
know him. "You,know, Brian Bosworth. Middle linebacker? Oklahoma U?" Word was
that Tucker had the hottest streak going in the Valley, at least during the
past climbing season. Word also had it he was a virgin. And he never failed to
call Connie "ma'am."
"Must have been a lot of cans." Connie knew Matt was lying. Either they were
next to penniless, or else someone had stolen something and pawned it down in
Fresno or the Bay Area.
"Some fucking turkey threw his brand-new Nikon out with the Pepsi cans, too."
Pawn money. A sweet, wolfish grin stole across Kresinski's face. He cared not
one bit if she believed him, and she knew it. Around Matt, she was learning,
one could never think of oneself too much.
"Does that mean I get tipped tonight?"
"I could have sworn you got tipped last night." He reached for her butt again.
"You go for tip, don't you?"
"Matt..." She looked around. No one was listening.
"More burgers, three more burgers," a voice demanded from the row of faces.
"
Page 22
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Cheese burgers" a neighbor amended.
"And beaucoup fries, man."
"Sammy's paying for all of you?" Connie asked Kresinski.
"Don't know. Ask him."
She sighed. By evening's end they'd be lucky to have money for half the bill.
That wasn't her problem, though the manager knew she knew these people and had
taken to haranguing her. Drinks delivered, she backed away from the table and
headed for the kitchen.
"Lots of ketchup," trailed a shout. "And hot water."
The hot water was for the ketchup, which was for the few with no money at all.
An old trick. Tomato soup with free table crackers.
John plucked a fry from his plate, tuning in and out of the disparate
frequencies pounding in from every side. A group of surfer types had colonized
one end of the table and begun heaving product names at one another in a
hectic battle of mix and match. "Maytag." "Pillsbury, man. Pecan Frosting."
"Serta Perfect Sleeper."
"Frigidaire." "Veg-o-Matic." "A T and T. All of it." They shouted as if there
were rules to their frenzy. Last time they'd spent four and a half hours
singing commercial jingles. Across from him Tucker was being roasted by a
pickup partner for the day.
Tavini was still glaring at Bullseye, both of them gnashing away at their
burgers, meaning everyone would be getting an earful about the evils of red
meat over the
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (26
of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:51
Jeff Long - Angels of Light next few days because meat plugged Tavini's bowels
like Portland cement. Tavini's mainstay was organic peanut butter spooned
straight from the jar. In a perpetual state of what bodybuilders call
"ripped," his muscles showed spectacularly through his cellophane-thick skin,
not a drop of lard to be seen. When asked why the diet, his bullshit answer
was always "Strength-to-weight ratio." No one was fooled. Tavini was the only
one who didn't seem to know that he was a latent.
Tucker, too, was ripped, but without the vanity. Honed, in rock-speak. Buffed
and polished. No beer, no wine, no California Coolers, no Wild Turkey, booze,
or pot, not even milk or soft drinks. He was, for one thing, trying to drive
his weight down to 140
for an upcoming climb. Teetotaling was a matter of principle, too. He would no
sooner insult his brain cells, liver, and muscle tissue with alcohol or drugs
than other people at this table would step on a $120 rope. For a young man who
carried a firmly bristled toothbrush in his shirt pocket everywhere, this was
a perfectly reasonable concern. He'd seen too many big-wall men with the
gaping tooth line of a Third
World beggar. The one great hazard in his world was Oreo cookies, one of which
he was secretly prying apart under the table. His inability to resist an Oreo
disappointed him. There were even nights when he couldn't sleep while
pondering this chink in his armor-clad discipline. For Tuck the world was
Yosemite, and Yosemite the world, he took meaning that simply. So simply, in
fact, that when Bullseye once asked him if it were that simple, Tuck denied
it, thinking the concept somehow complicated. "The world's round," he'd
actually retorted. His sincerity had silenced Bullseye for a full half hour.
"So the gumby's up there fifteen minutes now," Eddie Delwood was relating with
exaggerated animation. One hand was cocked high overhead, fingers just so. The
other arm was stretched off to one side just inches from Katie's face. She was
staring at the hair on his knuckles in disbelief and would have said
something, but tomorrow was her turn to go climbing with him and she'd
probably be giving him a hand job on the top ledge because he paid good coin.
Indisputably the worst climber in Camp
Four some insisted in all America Delwood was a trust-fund baby, a TFer in the
Page 23
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
lingo. He had the largest, newest, and finest collection of gear, bar none,
and consequently never lacked for partners. He rarely returned from a climb
with all his gear; as long as he tolerated the petty thefts, he was in turn
tolerated. Today's climb with Tucker was a notable exception nothing had been
stolen and Delwood was ebullient because he believed it might signal a new
opinion of him, an acceptance into the club. In fact, Tucker had never stolen
a thing in his life and the thought had simply never occurred to him that
Delwood was easy pickings. Just a jerk.
"He's out there. I mean out there," boomed Delwood with his foreign accent. He [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
but him.
Physically, anyway, he was perfect. Plus some. When he tossed in this or that
nasty tidbit, Connie kept her mouth shut. She'd learned from a bad divorce
that you stick by your man or lose him. Even when he slandered Tucker, she
kept it zipped. Tucker was her favorite, what little she knew about him. He
was everybody's favorite, it seemed, the wild child of any gathering because
of his naïveté and gullibility. Thin, with wide shoulders, a grown-in Mohawk
of black hair, and acid-green eyes, he
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (25
of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:51
Jeff Long - Angels of Light stuttered every time she tried to talk to him.
That was because Tuck hailed from
Norman, Oklahoma. "Normal, Oklahoma," he would sadly confess if you asked.
"Nothin' there but the football stadium." His hair was clipped into a shaggy
Mohawk and he wore Ray Charles-style sunglasses in a semi-Terminator look.
"The Boz," he'd identify the look, mystified that no one out here seemed to
know him. "You,know, Brian Bosworth. Middle linebacker? Oklahoma U?" Word was
that Tucker had the hottest streak going in the Valley, at least during the
past climbing season. Word also had it he was a virgin. And he never failed to
call Connie "ma'am."
"Must have been a lot of cans." Connie knew Matt was lying. Either they were
next to penniless, or else someone had stolen something and pawned it down in
Fresno or the Bay Area.
"Some fucking turkey threw his brand-new Nikon out with the Pepsi cans, too."
Pawn money. A sweet, wolfish grin stole across Kresinski's face. He cared not
one bit if she believed him, and she knew it. Around Matt, she was learning,
one could never think of oneself too much.
"Does that mean I get tipped tonight?"
"I could have sworn you got tipped last night." He reached for her butt again.
"You go for tip, don't you?"
"Matt..." She looked around. No one was listening.
"More burgers, three more burgers," a voice demanded from the row of faces.
"
Page 22
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Cheese burgers" a neighbor amended.
"And beaucoup fries, man."
"Sammy's paying for all of you?" Connie asked Kresinski.
"Don't know. Ask him."
She sighed. By evening's end they'd be lucky to have money for half the bill.
That wasn't her problem, though the manager knew she knew these people and had
taken to haranguing her. Drinks delivered, she backed away from the table and
headed for the kitchen.
"Lots of ketchup," trailed a shout. "And hot water."
The hot water was for the ketchup, which was for the few with no money at all.
An old trick. Tomato soup with free table crackers.
John plucked a fry from his plate, tuning in and out of the disparate
frequencies pounding in from every side. A group of surfer types had colonized
one end of the table and begun heaving product names at one another in a
hectic battle of mix and match. "Maytag." "Pillsbury, man. Pecan Frosting."
"Serta Perfect Sleeper."
"Frigidaire." "Veg-o-Matic." "A T and T. All of it." They shouted as if there
were rules to their frenzy. Last time they'd spent four and a half hours
singing commercial jingles. Across from him Tucker was being roasted by a
pickup partner for the day.
Tavini was still glaring at Bullseye, both of them gnashing away at their
burgers, meaning everyone would be getting an earful about the evils of red
meat over the
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (26
of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:51
Jeff Long - Angels of Light next few days because meat plugged Tavini's bowels
like Portland cement. Tavini's mainstay was organic peanut butter spooned
straight from the jar. In a perpetual state of what bodybuilders call
"ripped," his muscles showed spectacularly through his cellophane-thick skin,
not a drop of lard to be seen. When asked why the diet, his bullshit answer
was always "Strength-to-weight ratio." No one was fooled. Tavini was the only
one who didn't seem to know that he was a latent.
Tucker, too, was ripped, but without the vanity. Honed, in rock-speak. Buffed
and polished. No beer, no wine, no California Coolers, no Wild Turkey, booze,
or pot, not even milk or soft drinks. He was, for one thing, trying to drive
his weight down to 140
for an upcoming climb. Teetotaling was a matter of principle, too. He would no
sooner insult his brain cells, liver, and muscle tissue with alcohol or drugs
than other people at this table would step on a $120 rope. For a young man who
carried a firmly bristled toothbrush in his shirt pocket everywhere, this was
a perfectly reasonable concern. He'd seen too many big-wall men with the
gaping tooth line of a Third
World beggar. The one great hazard in his world was Oreo cookies, one of which
he was secretly prying apart under the table. His inability to resist an Oreo
disappointed him. There were even nights when he couldn't sleep while
pondering this chink in his armor-clad discipline. For Tuck the world was
Yosemite, and Yosemite the world, he took meaning that simply. So simply, in
fact, that when Bullseye once asked him if it were that simple, Tuck denied
it, thinking the concept somehow complicated. "The world's round," he'd
actually retorted. His sincerity had silenced Bullseye for a full half hour.
"So the gumby's up there fifteen minutes now," Eddie Delwood was relating with
exaggerated animation. One hand was cocked high overhead, fingers just so. The
other arm was stretched off to one side just inches from Katie's face. She was
staring at the hair on his knuckles in disbelief and would have said
something, but tomorrow was her turn to go climbing with him and she'd
probably be giving him a hand job on the top ledge because he paid good coin.
Indisputably the worst climber in Camp
Four some insisted in all America Delwood was a trust-fund baby, a TFer in the
Page 23
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
lingo. He had the largest, newest, and finest collection of gear, bar none,
and consequently never lacked for partners. He rarely returned from a climb
with all his gear; as long as he tolerated the petty thefts, he was in turn
tolerated. Today's climb with Tucker was a notable exception nothing had been
stolen and Delwood was ebullient because he believed it might signal a new
opinion of him, an acceptance into the club. In fact, Tucker had never stolen
a thing in his life and the thought had simply never occurred to him that
Delwood was easy pickings. Just a jerk.
"He's out there. I mean out there," boomed Delwood with his foreign accent. He [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]