Franklin Fletcher dreamed of luxury in the form of tiger skins and beautiful women. He was prepared, at a pinch, to forgo the tiger skins. Unfortunately, the beautiful women seemed equally rare and inaccessible. At his office and at his boardinghouse, the girls were mere mice, or cattish, or kittenish, or had insufficiently read the advertisements. He met no others. At thirty-five he gave up, and decided he must console himself with a hobby, which is a very miserable second best.
Red Green was lying on the couch wearing a dirty flannel shirt and a pair of jeans, with logger’s boots. He had red hair and a thin face, the type of face you get from too many cigarettes and drugs and not enough food. The fireplace was going full blast, the flames providing the only light in the room. As close to the fire as he could get without being burned was a long, brown, shorthaired dog. He was a pretty big dog, probably close to a hundred pounds. He had a blanket over his butt and he was shaking, his collar and tags jingling. The dog was a new addition since my last visit. I nodded at Red and he pointed to the table on my left. I pulled a chair out and sat down and smoked a fair amount of hash and angel dust before I turned to speak to him.