Read Dreams Die First for Free Online Page B

headline, ‘This edition was published solely in order not to disappoint the readers who had come to depend on us for a superior brand of toilet paper.’ I don’t think that’s funny.”
    “I do.”
    “It’s vulgar and in bad taste.”
    “That’s right,” I agreed.
    “You can’t expect me to pay you thirty-two hundred dollars a week for that. If you do, you have another think coming.”
    “You’ll pay me, Uncle John,” I said quietly. “We have a firm contract which you signed. It says we publish four pages of classified in every issue. There’s nothing in the contract that says we have to print anything else.”
    “I’m not going to pay.”
    “Then you’re going to get sued. It’s a perfectly valid contract.”
    Suddenly he began to smile. “Okay, I’ll pay. Now will you tell me what this is all about?”
    “It’s going to take me eight to ten weeks to put together the kind of paper I want to publish. Until then I need the bread that your ads give me.”
    “You could have told me that. I would have given you the time.”
    “But not the money. Thirty-two grand is a lot of bread.”
    “We still can’t put out a paper like this. It’s like waving a red flag in front of the IRS.”
    “That’s not my problem.”
    “If I advance you the money, will you hold up until the paper is ready?”
    “No. Advances have to be earned out or repaid.”
    He was silent for a moment. “If I give you twenty-five thousand cash free and clear, will you hold up?”
    “No payback, no strings?”
    “No strings.”
    “Deal.”
    He took a checkbook out of his inside pocket, wrote the check and handed it to me.
    “Thanks, Uncle John.”
    “I have only one consolation, Gareth,” he said. “If I had to get stung, at least it was all in the family.”
    I laughed. “I’ve got the best example in the world, Uncle John.”
    He looked around the store. “What are all these kids doing?”
    “We’re dressing up the place. The kind of paper I want can’t be published from a shithouse.”
    “Where’d they all come from?”
    “The Reverend Gannon’s Youth Workshop. They work in their spare time for fifty cents an hour and contribute it to the church.”
    “Your boyfriend’s father has better business sense than either of us.”
    “You can’t beat Jesus Christ,” I said.
    He looked back at the paper. “Do you have many of these left?”
    “No.”
    “Too bad. If I had known in time, we could have stopped them from going out.”
    “Don’t worry about it, Uncle John. Nobody else will see them.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    I smiled. “I printed only twenty-five copies. And all of them were delivered to you.”
    ***
    “Mr. Brendan.” The voice was soft. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Brendan.”
    I looked up. It was one of the girls from Reverend Sam’s Youth Workshop. She stood in front of me almost apologetically, the tight jeans splitting her cunt and hugging her ass, the loose boy’s shirt accentuating the curve of her breasts. Her arms and face were smudged with paint.
    “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Brendan,” she repeated. “But we’re ready to begin work back here.”
    “Of course. Let me get my papers off the desk and I’ll be out of your way.”
    “Can I help, Mr. Brendan?”
    “Thanks. If you’ll carry these, I can manage the rest.”
    She took a stack of folders from my hands. I picked up the typewriter and we went up the back stairs to the apartment. I spread out on one of the tables we had set up in what used to be the living room.
    “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Brendan?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    She made no move to leave.
    “Is there something else?” I asked.
    “Bobby said that you were looking for a secretary but that you couldn’t afford to pay very much.”
    “That’s right.”
    “I’m a secretary. I graduated from Sawyer Business College.”
    “You take shorthand?”
    “Not too well. But I’m a very fast typist. Eighty words a minute.”