Three Twisted Stories
Page 12
Sorry about leaving you hanging like that. I had to get up in a bitch’s grill.
So—!!!
As Rebekkah and Buell disappeared under the water again and again, I looked at Remmy and screamed, “Oh my God, she’s murdering him!”
He just shrugged and said, “She ain’t never forgive him for being born with six toes.”
???
Remmy shrugged. “Ain’t no record,” he told me, as if it wasn’t common knowledge that you can’t throw a rock without hitting a polydactyl.
“Six toes?!” I repeated. “That’s why she hates him?”
“On each foot.” He shook his head sadly. “My three nipples, she ain’t got a problem with, but she been kvetchin’ about them toes long as I ’member.” Remmy gave me a knowing look. “Took off that one foot when he was nine. Been gunnin’ for them others ever since.” He stared out into the thrashing water. “Cain’t pretend like this day ain’t been a long time comin’.”
My mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on the shore.
THIS was what upset her? Not that her oldest son was an albino of indeterminate ethnic origin? Not that her youngest son had sprouted enough hair to cover at least two standard poodles? She lived in a swamp shack with no running water or electricity and, if I was guessing correctly, did her bathroom duty in a metal bucket whose contents, judging by the trail to the water, were dumped into the swamp every day.
SIX TOES CROSSED THE LINE?
But none of this seemed to matter to Remmy. He was obviously still focused on his World Record loss and not the sound of his mother drowning his brother in the tannin waters of the Okefenokee.
I said, “Shouldn’t we—”
“It’s the way of the swamp, cher.” He shrugged one of his shoulders. The hair stirred in a sudden wind, sending strands into his mouth. He delicately pulled them out between his thumb and finger. His nails were greasy black, like a car mechanic who works nights in a coal mine.
He said, “I’m sorry I brought you all this way, cher. I thought I had a chance.” Tears rolled down his soft cheeks, slid down his chest, then trickled along his happy trail1 like water off a duck’s back.
I couldn’t help it, Robert. I told him, “There are probably other records you can break.”
Only, I was talking about the hair and he thought I was talking about something else. Or maybe I was talking about something else. Who the hell knows? It was so damn hot. I hadn’t slept in days. The exhaust from the boat was still in my lungs. The peanut smell from my car was clinging to me like a spicy Thai roll.
But here’s the other thing, Robert—just to let you know, female Adjudicators have a special kind of hell we go through on the road. I’ll admit it—I get lonely. Sometimes I’ll hook up with a guy at the bar or in a gas station Arby’s or, if I’m really lucky, a Chili’s will have a Ladies’ Night. I’m human, all right? But I never tell them what I do for a living, because it invites the inevitable joke: “Bet I just broke some records, darlin’.”
No, they did not. Most of the time, they couldn’t break a two-year-old goat’s hymen (though trust me, I’m sure some of them have tried).
But Remmy … oh, Remmy.
Why was I attracted to this man? He was filthy. Hairy. A genetic anomaly. Going by his Application Packet, he was functionally illiterate.
And yet …
I was drawn to him like a bucket to a well. I dropped down and down and down that dark wet shaft as I took him in—this cool drink of Cajun Jew water.
It’s true (as you well know) that I’ve always had a thing for pathetic, broken men, but there was something more to it than that. When Remmy took off his pants, the coarse burlap sliding over his wavy hips, the hair on his legs parting across thick muscle …
My God, my God. You would not believe this man.
Actually, I’ve attached a photo so you can see for yourself. Let me tell you there are women in here who have paid up to FIFTEEN CIGARETTES to see this image, so consider this my early Christmas gift. And a final explanation as to why I’ve finally moved on from that night we adjudicated Most Modeling Balloon Sculptures Made in One Minute.2 You told me to get over it, Robert. Well, here’s your proof that I have certainly gotten over—and under, and round and round like a merry-go-round.
Next thing I knew, Remmy scooped me up like a fireman rescuing a person who is in a burning building and needs to be rescued. My fingers dug into the fur on his back, got caught in the curly ringlets growing like Spanish AstroTurf on his ass. I would say the earth moved, but it was the Okefenokee; the earth always moves. I’ve never loved a man so wildly, so passionately, so … frenziedly. My fingers ran madly through his hair. All of his hair. And sometimes my hair. I don’t know where his started and mine began. It was like going to a different planet. A planet of love, or maybe this is what those furry3 people feel like, because my God, I rocked that hairy man. I loved every inch of him. And he loved me. He even said it—
“I love you, cher,” Remmy moaned—over and over. “I love you! I love you!” All the while pounding into me like an extended clip banging home into the butt of a nine-millimeter.
I tell you this with all my heart, Robert:
Remmy was fully loaded, but when he pulled that trigger, I was the one who exploded.
(attachment: Rothstein-GIGANTOR.jpg)
1 The line of hair between the pubis and navel.
2 Thirteen sculptures in one minute: a bone, a bracelet, a crocodile, a dagger, a dachshund, a dog (no breed specified), a dragonfly, an elephant, a fish, a hat, a honeybee, an Indian headdress, and a sword.
3 People who dress up as animals to have sex.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Shitard”
DATE: August 21, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: World’s Hairiest Liar (man)
WEATHER: Why would you think it changed?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Sorry, Robert. Had to tape the sheet up in front of the bars and take some me-time. By now you’ll have downloaded that picture and understand why. Oh, Remmy. You bastard. You machine. I keep going back and forth between hating him and loving him and hating him all over again. I can’t describe my mood, except to say I’m in the right place for it. Half of these bitches are on Prozac and the others stay doped up on lithium most of the time. Maybe I should just choose one? I don’t know. Decision for another day. Anyway, I have a story to tell:
After making love (four times), Remmy and I emerged from the shack. I was surprised to find that it was still daylight. And that I could walk (you looked at the picture, right?). I knew I needed to get back to the hotel room to file my report (though, as I said, you were the last thing on my mind).
Buell was nowhere to be found and Rebekkah was sitting off in the woods with that small cherry box in her lap (the case is all over the Atlanta news, but I wonder if it’s made it to New York yet? If not, Google “ax” + “six toes” + “Mother”). I waved goodbye to Rebekkah, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t see me. She didn’t seem to see anything. You’d think she was a leprechaun with a pot of gold, the way she was clutching onto that box.
Remmy took me back to my truck in the airboat. He gently kissed my hand, then helped me up to the dock and then steadied me as I got used to firmer ground. He promised me that he would call. He promised me that we would see each other again. He made lots of promises, but I knew nothing would ever come of it. He wanted me for my Adjudication. I see that now. All the phone calls. All the letters. They’re always about that damn World Record.
Tongue! Of all things, why did he pick the tongue? He could walk into any World Hair Record, easy-peasy. His ears alone are riddled with pokey, curly strands like pubic hair. And as for his pubic hair—hello, New Category! Trust me, I’m still pulling long hairs from places you don’t even want to know about. That man is a shedder. And he could have ten World Records if he would just admit—
But no, it’ll n
ever happen. The only record Remmy Rothstein’s tongue could break (at least one we could write about) is Most Lies Told in a Three-Hour Period. He lied about the length of his tongue. He lied about the width. He lied to get me out to the swamp and then he lied about loving me.
I tell you this with a heavy heart, Robert, though perhaps you’ve already surmised from the Gigantor photograph: The bastard isn’t even Jewish.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “Fuckwad”
DATE: August 22, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Shittiest Asshole
WEATHER: Seriously? Are you an idiot?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Dear Robert:
What a crazy day! I met with my lawyer all morning. He thinks the best route vis-à-vis the stabbing charge (it wasn’t me) is to get something on Rebekkah. She’s getting out of solitary today, so I have to be quick.
I feel really bad about this because I think of Rebekkah as a friend. Well, as friend-like as you can get on the inside. We all know that the two rules of prison are (1) Don’t run from the po-po and (2) Don’t tell anybody anything you wouldn’t tell the judge. I think being out of the swamp has made Rebekkah soften a bit. Not that she wouldn’t have my back in a knife fight (thank God!), but she’s so out of her element that she’s clinging to the familiar, and in this case, that familiar is me. Let’s face it—you don’t find many Indian or Jewish cliques in prison (mostly because we’re all in medical school. Ha ha).
But let’s go back to Rebekkah, who I really do feel sorry for. She’s been very depressed without Remmy (Buell—not so much). I finally got her to come clean about the whole World Record thing. It’s as I suspected. Rebekkah used her Veterans’ Benefits to help Remmy get the tongue picture professionally Photoshopped (she fought in the Korean War—that’s where she met Buell’s father, “a goy with the right amount of toes”). She and Remmy never in a million years thought that you’d send an actual Adjudicator to the deep, dark swamplands.
Frankly, neither did I, but that’s a conversation for another day.
The thing is: remember I told you about that cherry box? The one that was on the mantel that Rebekkah was about to open in front of Buell? And then she had it in her lap after she (allegedly) chopped off his leg with an ax and (allegedly) drowned him?
Well, since I told the lawyer the same story as I’m telling you, he’s thinking that there must be something in that box that Buell didn’t want to see. If I can find out what’s in there, then I can testify against Rebekkah in exchange for a get-out-of-jail-free card. Because, let’s be honest, there are tons of snitches in jail—death row would be empty without them!—but if I could get that BOX and tell the judge and whoever would listen that Rebekkah showed it to me, that she trusted and confided in me … well, you see where this is going.
Your wife is a lawyer, right? She knows how these things work. Right?
The only thing is, the box was returned to Remmy (Buell’s closest relative who didn’t [allegedly] kill him), and while Remmy loves his mama, there’s only one thing that is more important to him than she is.
We see this every day in the field, Robert—people so desperate to be something, to have One Thing that they are Certifiably Better At than anyone else on the entire planet. They need that accomplishment. And we need them to succeed. Adjudicators are people, too. We need to know that there are Record Holders out there enjoying life to the fullest each and every day—and who gives them that magic, that life-altering designation that makes them somebody?
We do.
And we love them for it. We take pride in giving it to them. We mourn the loss when they lose it. I know you felt the same pain as I did when we heard that Lee Redmond1 was in that accident. The loss wasn’t just hers—it belonged to all of us. Remember, it was me who saw you crying in the bathroom. It was me who helped comfort you during that awful time of need. Remember how much you laughed when I put that balloon animal on you? Oh, the smile on your face was worthy of a photograph. Several photographs. And because of that time we had together, I know you understand what it’s like to want some poor soul who’s been a loser all of their life to be a Winner.
So here’s the thing, Robert: I need you to certify Remmy Rothstein as having the Longest Tongue in the World (man). As you know, my badge is suspended pending trial or I’d do it myself. I know this is a stretch to ask you, but I need to let you know, Robert, that I’ve been thinking about turning these correspondences into a book. My lawyer has already gotten me an agent (trust me, between the two of them, I’m not going to have that much money left) and she thinks she can get me a book deal in the mid–seven figures. And it can or cannot include the bit about our balloon animal sexcapades, and before you say no, please look at the attached picture, which I’ve also shared with my lawyer.
Peace,
Mindy
PS: We need to talk about Kaitlyn.
(attachment: Robert_BalloonOnPenis.jpg)
1 Before an automobile accident broke them, Redmond’s fingernails, the longest in the world, measured a total length of 28′4.5″.
FROM THE NEW YORK HEADQUARTERS OF THE WORLD RECORD HOLDERS’ OFFICE OF ASSESSORS
Dear Mr. Rothstein:
Congratulations! You have been certified as having the Longest Tongue in the World (man)! From tip to top, your measurement of 3.9 inches has been Adjudicated as the World Record; thus, you may from here on out, or until the record is broken, call yourself a World Record Holder.
Holding a World Record is an Awesome Responsibility, Mr. Rothstein, and please be sure that your information, as well as supporting documentation, is contained in the World Record Holder’s Assessors’ Office vault in New York City. This information will be kept for your lifetime and will continue to stand so long as the Record is held.
Congratulations again, sir. You are literally One-Of-A-Kind!
Paolo Pergini
President
World Record Holders Association Corp.
DISPATCH: Two Egg, Florida
SUBJECT: Carol McGubberson
DATE: July 6, 2013
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Largest Nostril Opening (female)
WEATHER: 103 degrees, 100% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Kaitlyn Poole (badge #363941)
Hi, Robert—
Two Egg is really lovely this time of year. People keep saying it’s hot, but I say it’s a wet heat. Makes all the difference. Woke up to 98 degrees but it feels like 110 and it’s not even noon yet! No need to even take a shower! Saves lots of time!
As you know, I’m here to Adjudicate Mrs. McGubberson’s nostril, but I wanted to let you know that I saw Mindy’s book at the airport bookstore. Not just the one in New York, but in Chicago, Fargo, Seattle, and finally Sarasota—every single airport where I had a layover on my flight to Florida. How crazy is that? Our Mindy a New York Times bestseller! Hello, Ms. Steel1!
I have to admit that I actually bought a copy. I just couldn’t resist. How many books has Gillian Flynn2 said she wished she’d written? Everyone on every plane seemed to be reading it, and I have to admit Mindy has been really good in all those television interviews. Though I never realized she’s as short as Matt Lauer! Seriously, though, I’m glad that she’s doing so well. And you were so heartbroken that night in Knoxville when you found out she was leaving the firm. I’m so glad I was there to comfort you. And to do with you all the other magical things we did. Oh, don’t worry, Robert, I’m not going to bring that up again! I’m moving on! Honest!
Anyhoo, long day tomorrow—Mrs. McGubberson lives six hours from the motel—so I should tuck myself into bed. Definitely the kind of place where you sleep with all your clothes on! I’m starting Mindy’s book tonight and will let you know how it goes.
I have to say the title has me a little puzzled—TWELVE TOES IN A BOX?
I don’t get it.
Kaitlyn
1 Danielle Steel holds the World Record for most cons
ecutive weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.
2 Author of Gone Girl
BY KARIN SLAUGHTER
Blindsighted
Kisscut
A Faint Cold Fear
Indelible
Like a Charm (Editor)
Faithless
Triptych
Beyond Reach
Fractured
Undone
Broken
Fallen
Criminal
Unseen
Cop Town
eBook originals
Snatched
Thorn in My Side
Busted
Three Twisted Stories: Go Deep, Necessary Women, and Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line
PHOTO: ALISON ROSA
KARIN SLAUGHTER is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of Cop Town, Unseen, Criminal, Fallen, Broken, Undone, Fractured, Beyond Reach, Triptych, Faithless, Indelible, A Faint Cold Fear, Kisscut, and Blindsighted, as well as the e-novellas “Busted,” “Snatched,” “Thorn in My Side,” “Go Deep,” “Necessary Women,” and “Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line”; she also contributed to and edited Like a Charm. To date, her books have been translated into more than thirty languages. She is a native of Atlanta, Georgia, where she currently lives and is working on her next novel.
www.karinslaughter.com
Facebook.com/AuthorKarinSlaughter
To inquire about booking Karin Slaughter for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at speakers@penguinrandomhouse.com.