The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove pc-2

by Christopher Moore

  Theo

  A niggling voice in Theo’s head told him that finding the Crazy Lady attractive—extremely attractive—was an indicator that he was less than sane himself. On the other hand, he didn’t feel that bad about it. He didn’t feel bad about anything, not since he’d walked into the trailer park anyway. He had to deal with an explosion, a lost kid, the recent increase in general nuttiness in town—a virtual shit storm of responsibility—but he didn’t feel all that bad. And in that moment outside of Molly’s trailer, reflecting and waiting for the tide of lust to ebb, he realized that he hadn’t smoked any pot all day. Strange. Normally this long without nursing from his Sneaky Pete and his skin would be crawling.

  He was heading back to his Volvo to resume the search for the lost boy when his cell phone rang. Sheriff John Burton didn’t say hello.

  “Get to a land line,” Burton said.

  “I’m in the middle of trying to find a lost kid,” Theo replied.

  “A land line now, Crowe. My private line. You have five minutes.”

  Theo drove to a pay phone outside the Head of the Slug Saloon and checked his watch. When fifteen minutes had passed, he dialed Burton’s number.

  “I said five minutes.”

  “Yes, you did.” Theo smiled to himself in spite of Burton’s tone, which was on the verge of screaming.

  “No one goes on the ranch, Crowe. The lost kid is not on the ranch, do you hear me?”

  “It’s standard procedure to search all the ranchland. Emergency services has the area gridded out. We have to cover the whole grid. I was going to call in some deputies to help us. The volunteer fire guys are exhausted from the explosion this morning.”

  “No. None of my guys. Don’t call the Highway Patrol or the CCC either. And no aircraft. If the grid on the ranch has to be checked off, then check it off. No one goes on that land, is that clear?”

  “And what if the kid actually is on the ranch. You’re talking about a thousand acres of pasture and forest that won’t be searched.”

  “Oh bullshit, the kid is probably in a tree house somewhere with a stack of Playboys. He’s only been missing for what, twelve hours?”

  “What if he’s not?”

  There was silence on the line for a moment. Theo waited, watching three new couples leave the Head of the Slug in less than a minute. New couples: in Pine Cove everyone knew who everyone else was dating, and these were people who didn’t go together. Not that unusual a phenomenon perhaps on a Friday night at 2 A.M., but this was Wednesday, and it was barely eight o’clock. Maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling a wave of horniness. The couples were groping each other as if trying to get all the foreplay out of the way before they reached the car.

  Burton came back on the line. “I’ll see that the ranchland is searched and call you if they find the kid. But I want to be the first to know if you find him.”

  “That it?”

  “Find that little fucker, Crowe.” Burton hung up.

  Theo got into his Volvo and drove to his cabin at the edge of the ranch. There were at least twenty citizen volunteers searching for Mikey Plotznik. The effort could spare him long enough to catch a shower and change his smoke-saturated clothes. As he parked the Volvo, an expensive, tricked-out red pickup truck pulled into the ranch entrance and rolled slowly by. As they passed, a Hispanic man sitting in the bed laughed and saluted Theo with the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle.

  Theo looked away and walked to the dark cabin, wishing that there was someone there waiting for him.

  Eleven

  Catfish

  Catfish awoke to find a paint-spattered woman padding about the house in nothing but a pair of wool socks, in which she had stuck several sable brushes that delivered ochre, olive, and titanium white strokes to her calves whenever she moved. Canvases were propped on easels, chairs, counters, and windowsills—seascapes every one. Estelle moved from canvas to canvas, palette in hand, furiously painting details in the waves and beaches.

  “Y’all woke up inspired,” Catfish said.

  It was past dusk, they had slept away the daylight. Estelle painted by the light of fifty candles and the orange glow that washed from the open doors of the wood stove. Color correctness be damned, these paintings should be viewed by fire.

  Estelle stopped painting and raised her brush arm to cover her breasts. “They weren’t finished. I knew something was missing when I painted them, but I didn’t know what until now.”

  Catfish cinched his pants around his waist and walked shirtless among the paintings. The waves writhed with tail and scale and teeth and talon. Predator eyes shone out of the canvases, brighter, it seemed, than the candles that lit them.

  “You done painted that old girl in all of ‘em?”

  “It’s not a girl. It’s male.”

  “How you know that?”

  “I know.” Estelle turned and went back to her painting. “I feel it.”

  “How you know it look like that?”

  “It does, doesn’t it? It looks like this?”

  Catfish scratched the stubble on his chin and pondered the paintings.

  “Close. But it ain’t a boy. That ol‘ monster the same one come after me an Smiley for catchin its little one.“ Estelle stopped painting and turned to him. ”You have to play tonight?“

  “In a little while.”

  “Coffee?” He stepped up to her, took the brush and palette from her, and kissed her on the forehead. “That sho‘ would be sweet.” She padded to the bedroom and came back wearing a tattered kimono.

  “Tell me, Catfish. What happened?” He was sitting at the table. “I think we done broke a record. I’m sore.” Estelle smiled in spite of herself, but pressed on. “What happened back then, in the bayou? Did you call that thing up out of the water somehow?”

  “What you thinkin, woman? I can do that, you think I be playin clubs for drinks and part the door?”

  “Tell me how you felt back then, when that thing came out of the swamp.”

  “Scared.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Wasn’t nothing besides that. You heard it. Scared is all there is.”

  “You weren’t scared after we got back here last night.”

  “No.”

  “Neither was I. What did you feel back then? Before and after the thing came after you.”

  “Not like I’m feelin now.”

  “And how is that?”

  “I’m feelin real good to be here talkin to you.”

  “No kidding. Me too. How about back then?”

  “Stop doggin me, girl. I’ll tell you. But I gots to go play in an hour and I don’t know that I can.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Blues ain’t on me. You done chased ‘em off.”

  “I can throw you out in the cold without a shirt if you think it will help.”

  Catfish squirmed in his chair. “Maybe some coffee.”

  Catfish’s Story

  After we gets some distance from whatever chasin us, we stop the Model T Ford and me and Smiley put that big ol‘ catfish thing in the backseat—his tail hangin out one side an’ his head out’t‘other. Now this ain’t at all what I expected, and Smiley ain’t got the Blues on him, but I’m gettin me a grand case myself. Then I realizes we got us five hundred dollar coming, and them ol’ Blues done melt right away.

  I say, “Smiley, I believes we should have us some celebratin, startin with some liquor and endin up with some fine Delta pussy. What you say?”

  Ol‘ Smiley, like usual, don’t wanna piss on the parade, but bein who he is, he point out we aint got no money and Ida May don’t approve of no pussy more’en a hundred yard from the house. But he feelin it too, I can tell, and before long we headed down a back road to find a bootlegger I know down there name of Elmore that sells to colored folk.

  That ol‘ white boy ain’t got but two teeth, but he grindin ’em when we pulls up, all mad and wavin his shotgun like we come to bust up his still. I say, “Hey, Elmore, how your
lovely wife and sister?”

  He say she fine, but lessin we shows some money quick, he gonna shoot him some niggers and get back to her before she cool off.

  “We a little short,” I say. “But we have us five hundred dollar come morning iffin you kind enough to give us a jug on credit.” An‘ then I shows him the catfish.

  That boy liked to shit his pants, and I was hopin he would, just to cover the smell comin off him natural, but instead he say, “I ain’t waitin ‘til mornin’. You want a jug, you give me a hunk o‘ that catfish right now. A big hunk.”

  Smiley and I thinks it over, and before long we got us a half-gallon of corn mash and ol‘ Elmore got hisself enough catfish to feed his wives and children and them—thats both for a week or more.

  Up the road a spell and this old whore name of Okra givin us the same speech about money, plus she sayin we need to take us a bath before she let us anywhere near her girls. And I comes back with the five-hundred-dollar story. She say five hundred dollar tomorrow and we can come in tomorrow, but if we want some pussy tonight, she want a hunk of that old catfish in the back. Them hos can eat some catfish too, I’m tellin you. I thought Smiley finally gettin the Blues on him when I hears him sayin how he give up a hundred dollar worth of catfish just for a bath. But that his choice. He wait in the car ‘til I’m done and we head off to find a place to sleep ’til morning when we can cash in the fish.

  We pulls down a side road into some bushes, and we commencin to get us some sleep after a drink or two, when who come out the woods but a whole bunch of boys wearin them white sheets and pointy hoods, sayin, “Nigger, I guess you didn’t read the sign.”

  And they tie us up to that ol‘ catfish and make us drag it back in the woods to a big ol’ fire they got goin.

  That sho‘ a chill, I gots to tell you. To this day I can’t walk by sheets hangin on a line without my backbone freeze up. I knows we sho’ gonna die now, sayin my prayers and all best I can, while them boys kickin me in the mouth an‘ such while eatin catfish pieces what they roasted on sticks.

  Then I feels it and the kickin stops. I see ol‘ Smiley lyin in the dirt, coverin his head with his arms, one ol’ bloody eye lookin‘ over at me. He feel it too.

  Them Klansmen staring into the woods like they long-lost momma gonna come out, big ol‘ grins on they faces, half of ’em rubbin they dicks through they pants. And she come out, all right. Big as a train, a howl like to make your ears bust and bleed. She take two of them in the first bite.

  I don’t have to write Smiley no letter. Before we can say somethin, we up and runnin, still tied up to what left of that catfish carcass, running back for the road. We finds us a knife in the car and we gets loose lickety-split—Smiley crankin that ol‘ Model T and me behind the wheel workin the choke. Hollerin and screamin comin out the woods sounding like music now, them Klansmen gettin all eat up.

  Then it get quiet, just the sound of our breath and Smiley crankin the Model T. I’m yellin for him to hurry, I can hear that thing crashin though the woods. And finally, the Model T cranks over, but I can hardly hear it, ‘cause that old dragon thing done broken out the woods and lets go a roar. I tells Smiley to get in, but he run back to the back of the car.

  “What you doing?” I say.

  “Five hundred dollar,” he say.

  And I see he throwing the catfish in the backseat. That stinky thing ain’t nothin but a head now, so Smiley throw it in by hisself. Then he makes to jump on the running board and I looks over and he just snatched out the air. Gone. And them jaws coming down for the second time when I pull that ol‘ Model T in gear and take off.

  Smiley gone. Gone.

  Next day I find that white man say he pay five hundred dollar for the catfish, and he look at that big fish head and jus laugh at me. I say I lose the best friend I ever had, he better give me my goddamn money. But he laugh and tell me go away. So I hit him.

  Took that old fish head to court with me, but it don’t make no difference. That judge give me six months in jail—hittin a white man and all. He tell the bailiff, “Take Catfish away.”

  They call me Catfish since. I don’t tell the story no more, but the name still there. Had the Blues on me ever since, but they ain’t no makin amends. By the time I get out, Ida May die of grief, and I ain’t got a friend alive. Been on the road since.

  That thing on the beach, make that sound, she lookin for me.

  Catfish

  “It’s a male,” Estelle said. She didn’t know what else to say.

  “How you know?”

  “I know.” She took his hand. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “I just wanted him to get the Blues on him so we can make us a record.”

  They sat there at the table for a while, holding hands.

  Catfish let his coffee go cold in the cup. Estelle ran the story around in her head, both relieved and fearful that the shadows in her paintings now had a shape. Somehow, as fantastic as it was, Catfish’s story seemed familiar.

  She said, “Catfish, did you ever read The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway?”

  “He that boy write about bullfights and fishing? I met him once, down Florida way. Why?‘

  “You met him?”

  “Yeah, that sumbitch didn’t believe that story neither. Said he like to fish, but he don’t believe me. Why you ask?”

  “Never mind,” Estelle said. “If this thing eats people, don’t you think we should report it?”

  “I been tellin folks about that monster for some fifty years, ain’t no one believed me yet. Said I was the biggest liar ever come outta the Delta. I’d have me a big house and a stack of records if not for that. You call the law and tell them ‘bout this, they gonna call you the crazy woman of Pine Cove.”

  “We already have one of those.”

  “Well, ain’t no one gonna get eat but me, and if I lose this gig ‘cause they thinkin I’m crazy, I have to be movin on then. You understand?”

  Estelle took Catfish’s cup from the table and placed it in the sink. “You’d better get ready to go play.”

  Twelve

  Molly

  To distract herself from the dragon next door, Molly had put on her sweats and started to clean her trailer. She got as far as filling three black trash bags with junk food jetsam and was getting ready to vacuum up the collection of sow bug corpses that dotted her carpet when she made the mistake of Windexing the television. Outland Steel: Kendra’s Revenge was playing on the VCR and when the droplets of Windex hit the screen, they magnified the phosphorescent dots, making the picture look like an impressionist painting: Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Le Grande Warrior Babe perhaps.

  Molly froze the frame on the gratuitous shower scene. (There was always a shower scene in the first five minutes of her films, despite the fact that Kendra lived on a planet almost completely devoid of water. To address this problem, one young director had gotten the bright idea of using “anti-radioactive foam” in the shower scene and Molly had spent five hours with whipped Ivory Snow suds being blown on to her by an offscreen Shop-Vac. She ended up playing the rest of the film in a Bedouin burnoose to cover the rash that developed all over her body.)

  “Art film,” Molly said, sitting on the floor in front of the TV, dowsing it with Windex for the fiftieth time. “I could have been a model in Paris in those days.”

  “Not a chance,” said the narrator. He was still around. “Too skinny. They liked fat chicks back then.”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “You’ve used half a bottle of Windex for this little trip to Paris.”

  “Seems like cheap travel to me,” Molly said. Even so, she got up and took two glasses from the top of the TV. She was taking them to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  She opened the door with the rims of the glasses pinched in one hand. Outside, two women in dresses and heels and lots of hair spray were standing on her steps. They were both in their early thirties, blonde, and wore stiff smiles of e
ither insincerity or drug use, Molly couldn’t be sure which.

  “Avon?” Molly asked.

  “No,” the blonde in front said with a titter. “I’m Marge Whitfield, this is Katie Marshall, we’re from the Coalition for a Moral Society. We’d like to talk to you about our campaign to reinstate school prayer. I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Katie was in pink. Marge in pastel blue.

  “I’m Molly Michon. I was just cleaning up a little.” Molly held up the two glasses. “Come on in.”

  The two women stepped in and stood in the doorway as Molly took the glasses to the sink. “You know, it’s interesting,” Molly said, “but if you put Diet Coke in one glass, and regular Coke in another, and let them sit for, oh, say six months, then come back, there will be all sorts of green stuff growing on the regular Coke, but the Diet Coke will be as good as new.”

  Molly returned to the living room. “Can I get you two something to drink?”

  “No thank you,” Marge droned in robot response. She and Katie were staring at the paused image of a wet and naked Molly on the television screen. Molly breezed by them and flipped off the television. “Sorry, an art film I made in Paris when I was younger. Won’t you sit down?”

  The women sat down next to each other on Molly’s tattered couch, their knees pinched together so tight they could have crushed diamonds to powder.

  “I love your air freshener,” Katie said, trying to pull out of her terror. “It smells so clean.”

  “Thanks, it’s Windex.”

  “What a cute idea,” Marge said.

  This was good, Molly thought. Normal people. If I can hold myself together for normal people like these, I’ll be okay. This is good practice. She sat down on the floor in front of them. “So your name is Marge. You don’t hear that outside of detergent commercials anymore. Did your parents watch a lot of TV?”

  Marge tittered. “It’s short for Margaret, of course. My grandmother’s name.”