Читать книгу Canoeing with Jose онлайн

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“I ain’t gonna lie, dawg,” he said earnestly, “that’s some fucked-up shit.”

Later that day, around midnight, fatigue overtook rage. José’s eyes rolled like greased marbles under swollen lids as we sat in the living room of my apartment. My kids were with their mother that night, freeing me to smoke weed while he downed Coronas.

Eventually I showed José to my bedroom, gave him one of my antianxiety pills, and demanded the Chinese fighting knives he carried in his waistband.

He handed them over reluctantly.

“Gotsta have those knives, bro,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “I ain’t about to walk the streets without them.”

When I questioned his need to bring the weapons to bed, he replied flatly, “Sometimes I gotsta back some motherfuckers off.”

I assured him I would double-check the locks, and provide protection while he slept. He hovered nearby as I set the ornate chrome blades in the cupboard above the sink. Then we both crashed.

I awoke on the couch just before dawn. I lay listening to the thump of my heart, feeling my blood pulse like acid through my body. I flipped on the light in the bathroom. My cheeks were lined and my eyes subsumed in puffy sockets. In the past four months I had lost 25 pounds, and I looked as if I had aged five years.