Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray tombs, where
he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an occasional, sparing, sip of
Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he thought dolefully, for he didn't have
anymore money. Flat broke, busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street and hustle
for money. It was too much work. And he wasn't as young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat, coarsely haired
belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray T-shirt. Once when he
was younger, his belly had been rock hard, but that had been a lotta years ago.
Too much booze and too much junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble of wiry
beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit here in the goddamned
cemetery for the rest of his life if . . . if only he had enough whiskey to keep
a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn't going to happen in the real world. In the real fucking
world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle, and most of the time
you didn't get jack shit for it. Fuck it all anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the homeless
who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they weren't bumming from
strangers on the streets or eating out of filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn't be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light out of
the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
