by Jason Beymer
She folded her arms. “Oh, I get it. You want this. You’re still looking for a way to swindle him into giving it back. Could you be any more passive-aggressive? God. You are so New Burklin tonight.”
“Keep an eye out for Max. Honk the horn if you see him.”
“You’re not going back in there to clean.”
“Yes, I am.” He looked away, reconsidering. “Mostly.”
“Don’t disobey Garrick.”
“I’m tired of hearing his name come out of your mouth. You can’t possibly trust him after—” Burklin swallowed hard. “How can you sleep with him after what he did to you? Any sane woman would have filed a restraining order.”
“You wouldn’t understand. And believe me, you do not want to go there. It’s not like I enjoy living with the old man.”
Burklin shrugged. You seemed to enjoy it this morning, he wanted to say.
Lorraine must have read his mind because she tightened her fist, joints popping with the effort. Burklin looked down as her fist smacked his left ear and knocked him against the Eiffel’s trunk.
“I warned you,” she said. “Fine. If you want to screw everything up, then forget about Max’s house. Let’s go confront Garrick.”
“Now?” Burklin rubbed his ear.
“Yes, now. We’ll drive to Garrick’s office together. Bring the dog with us. We’ll beat the shit out of the old man and force him to put your soul back.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “Too many things could go wrong. Garrick might get angry and refuse to put it back. What if he hurts you? What if he kills Pearl while my soul is inside her? What if he—”
“Exactly,” she said. “Those are the same answers you gave me after he ripped it out. Before then, you killed any man who even looked at me funny. So why did Garrick get a free pass?” She shrugged. “He has us where he wants us. You’re domesticated, and I’m—well, I’m a whore, doing everything I can to keep Garrick happy. But that night, why did you allow him to rip out your soul? Why didn’t you tear his face off?”
“I wasn’t fast enough,” Burklin said. “And now I—I can’t do that stuff anymore.”
“Old Burklin could, the Burklin Garrick stole from me. That one wasn’t a little bitch.”
“I’m not him! I can’t reason with you. I need to find some sort of leverage. I can still fix this.”
He turned and dashed back toward the gate, spray bottle in hand.
“Get back here,” she called out.
Burklin kept running. He almost made it through the dog run when the police cruiser parked in front of the house.
Chapter 5
The Mobank Dilemma
Burklin saw the red and blue lights through the open gate. He considered making a run for the Eiffel, but what if more police came? What if they found the corpse? Oh God, what if they found Pearl? Would they bring her in for questioning? He crouched behind the gate and watched.
The words Mariner City Sheriff’s Department: Peace Protection With Heart adorned the side of the car in big blue letters. An officer stepped out and hoisted his belt over his tremendous belly. He rubbed his balding head. “Max,” he said quietly. “Max, Max, Max.”
“Hey!” someone yelled.
The sheriff turned in the direction of the deep voice. A full-bearded man sauntered from the house next door, waving his arms.
“Evening, sir,” the sheriff said with a curt nod. “Are you the gentleman who called nine-one-one?”
“Yup,” he said as he came into Burklin’s view. He wore a t-shirt with a wilted green leaf on the front. In faded lettering, the shirt read Fuck the po-po in the ass, go plant your weed!
The sheriff shook his head when he saw the shirt.
“I’ll wear what I want!” the man said. “You can’t look at me like that. I pay taxes, so you fuckers work for me.”
“Yes,” the sheriff said. “We’re a bunch of incompetent Nazis. Of course, when one of you commies sees some Mexicano standing on your front lawn without a leaf blower you can’t dial nine-one-one fast enough. What is the nature of your complaint, sir?”
“I heard some banging and screaming inside the McPhee house. Same thing I call about every week.”
“Folks like you make me hate this job, sir. Still, I do enjoy carrying a loaded gun in public. Can’t have one without the other, right? Return to your home. I’ll take care of this.”
“Bullshit. You’ll knock on the door, give the little crackhead a smile, and drive off. That’s what you always do. Just because Max’s mother is a senator, you let him do whatever the hell he wants.”
“Sir, please return to your home.”
The man stomped away, grumbling.
The sheriff rolled up his sleeve and checked his watch. After a few moments, he walked to the porch, cleared his throat, and knocked on the door. “Sheriff’s Office. Are you in there, Max? Open up.”
The sheriff looked down at the porch. He took a step backward, then another. With the toe of his boot, he rubbed something. “Blood?” he said. He gripped his revolver. “Max, open the door.”
No answer.
“I’m breaking it down. This is your final warning.”
The sheriff counted to five, then kicked in the door. The wood splintered under the force of his boot and slammed against the coat closet. He entered the house with his gun drawn.
“Crap,” Burklin said. He looked across the street. Lorraine waved him on from the Eiffel. Now or never. He closed his eyes and tiptoed onto the lawn, but only made it three steps.
“Hey, you!” the sheriff yelled from inside the house.
Burklin stopped. He switched directions, moved back through the gate, and sprinted the length of the dog run. As he emerged into the backyard, the sheriff ran through the house, pulled open the patio door, and aimed the gun at his chest.
“Don’t move,” the sheriff said. He kept the gun raised while he opened the blinds. “Mariner City Sheriff’s Department.”
Burklin froze, arms in the air. Light from the living room put him in plain view, making him as inconspicuous as an ostrich.
“What happened here?” the sheriff asked, motioning to the bloody mess on the carpet.
Burklin shrugged.
The sheriff waved the gun. “Drop the … whatever that is.”
Burklin dropped the bottle of Forever Cleansed fecal spray.
“Now tell me where Max is.”
“Max who?”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can—”
“Evenin’,” someone said.
The sheriff turned around. A curvaceous redhead stood in the open doorway, her hair the color of autumn leaves at the first change of the season, lips bright red, mouth wide, breasts enormous. The woman’s eyes caught the light and reflected a deep green. She looked plastic, unreal.
The sheriff’s head bobbed with a thunderous swallow. He made a noise somewhere between “oh” and “ooh.”
Burklin rolled his eyes. Being part of the trinity gave him immunity to Lorraine’s pheromones. Otherwise, he’d be oh-ing and ooh-ing, too. She could bend any heterosexual male to her will by revealing the slightest crack of cleavage.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Step away from the door, ma’am. Come join the gentleman on the patio.”
Lorraine put a finger to her pouty lips. “You wouldn’t want me to stand next to some filthy, impotent hobo, would you? I might catch my death.”
Burklin clucked his tongue. “Redhead?”
“Shut up.”
The sheriff seemed unsure whether to keep the gun raised or grasp his erect penis. “Well, ma’am, I suppose you’re right. But you see, with all this blood on the floor, and this being Max McPhee’s house … It’s just—”
“Yes?” Lorraine said. She abandoned the doorframe and slunk toward the fat, confused sheriff. “It’s just what, you brawny, virile man?”
“Um,” he said. “I’m not sure?”
Lorraine’s face wrinkled in concentrati
on. Unfortunately, while her shapeshifting facade molded her body like pliable clay, these talents didn’t extend to her outerwear. Lorraine kept both hands on the waistband of her size twenty-two blue jeans to keep them from falling. At the same time, the thick sweater fell around her shoulders. She increased the size of her breasts, but even at triple F, gravity prevailed.
“You’ve heard of elastic, right?” Burklin said.
“I told you to shut up.”
The sheriff kept his gun pointed at Burklin. “Enough. Both of you. You’re under arrest.”
Lorraine swiveled her hips under the loose-fitting jeans. “What’s your name?”
“Mobank, ma’am,” the sheriff said.
“Mmm. Sheriff Mobank.” She removed the sweater. It fell to the floor with a thunk.
“No bra,” Burklin observed. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Sheriff Mobank licked his lips. “Those are …” He gawked at the jiggling mounds of flesh. Lorraine’s areolas became the size of silver dollars; they grew and shrank with every breath in a rhythmic, hypnotizing motion. “Those are nice, ma’am.”
“Nicer than this rug.” She motioned to the blood-soaked carpet.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” Mobank said. “Of course, as a tenured sheriff, it’s my sworn duty to protect and serve.”
“Nasty, nasty mess. But I bet with those broad shoulders you could do anything.”
He snorted. “Oh, I lift weights and bench press at the—”
“Clean up this horrible-worrible mess.” She thrust out her bottom lip and closed the distance between them. Her breasts bounced with each step.
Burklin snorted. “Horrible-worrible?”
“Last warning.” She shot him a glare. “I don’t have the patience to deal with your mouth and these tits at the same time. My spine feels like pulled taffy.”
The sheriff swiveled his eyes from one breast to the other, as though unsure of which to ogle first. “Ma’am,” he said, “are you asking me to clean?”
“Not asking.” She tossed him a roll of paper towels. On reflex, Mobank dropped the gun and caught the roll. The gun landed on the carpet.
“Mop it up,” Lorraine said. “You don’t want me to get dirty-wirty, do you?”
“No, ma’am.” He moved to the bloody mess and stooped to one knee.
“Good boy.”
“Nice work,” Burklin said to her. “I had everything under control, though. Honest.”
Lorraine narrowed her eyes at him. She stomped toward the patio, leaving the sheriff behind.
“You’re angry,” Burklin said as she joined him. “I can tell because of that tiny vein over your eye.”
“I told you to get in the car. I told you.”
“The sheriff saw my face.”
“You think?” Lorraine slapped Burklin on the forehead. Her grip loosened on the blue jeans. They tumbled to the floor, revealing a thick, corded jump rope.
“Is that a g-string?” Burklin asked.
“It was.” She slapped him again. “Stupid! Exactly like the Burger Clog. Wait until I tell your father.”
“He is not my father.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re still in denial about that.”
As Lorraine bent to pick up her enormous blue jeans, a key ring fell from her pocket. She grabbed it, but not before Burklin recognized the etching of a seagull on one of the keys: the Blue Bay Apartments’ logo.
“That looks familiar,” he said. “I’ll bet Garrick gave you that. Did you install surveillance cameras too? Do you two make love while watching me cry myself to sleep?”
“Does it really bother you that I have a key to your apartment?”
He stared at her.
Lorraine sighed. “I bet you’ll change the locks as soon as you get home.”
“It’s not like I have anything to steal, other than Pearl. But I try to bring her with me whenever I go out. Otherwise, she turns on the space heater and surfs my laptop for doggy porn.”
“You’d better leave. These charms don’t work well when two men are involved. Males have too much competitive nut juice down there. You might be immune to it, but I don’t like the way the sheriff keeps staring.”
Mobank sat on his butt with the roll of paper towels. He curled his upper lip.
“Go,” Lorraine said. “Throw that dead bitch in the Dumpster.”
“Right,” he replied absently. “Dumpster behind Hoppy’s. Got it.”
Lorraine pulled the jeans up. Her breasts flopped over the button-fly. “Garrick told me to evaluate you tonight. He wanted me to make sure you were still on board.”
“I have a choice?”
“I’m serious.”
“Me, too. I haven’t talked to you in over a year. A year. I don’t need you to give me an evaluation. I don’t need anything from you.”
“Are you getting upset?” she said. “Is that even possible anymore?”
“I get frustrated. Very, very frustrated. So what are you going to do?”
Lorraine glanced back at Sheriff Mobank. A line of slobber trickled down the man’s double chin as he scrubbed at a red stain. “I’m going to clean up the mess,” she said.
“By ‘mess,’ do you mean the blood and DNA evidence?”
“You know exactly what ‘mess’ means. Since you don’t have the stomach for it anymore, get lost. I shouldn’t be telling you this.” She paused and took a breath. “Garrick is testing your loyalty. I think that’s why he was so vague about this job.”
“Maybe he didn’t even have a vision this time. Did you consider that?”
Her jaw tightened. “It’s the job. Man up and deal with it.”
“You should put a shirt on. One of the neighbors might see—”
“Are you listening? Maybe Garrick is testing both our loyalties. I’m supposed to follow you to the Dumpster, but …” She pointed at the smitten sheriff.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be on my best behavior. The model janitor.”
She bit her lip. “Who knows? Maybe Garrick will return your soul this time.”
“He won’t.”
“Goodbye.” She leaned forward, her breasts heaving, as if to kiss him on his stubbly cheek. Then she stopped and whispered, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Lorraine turned and reentered the house. She slid the patio door shut behind her, leaving Burklin in the cold backyard.
He stood there for several seconds, then walked back to the street. Black Beauty sat to his left. He looked to the right and saw the Eiffel Perdue beneath the broken street lamp—a dead body in the trunk and a talking dog on the passenger seat.
Trapped.
Burklin considered hopping a plane to Mexico, or anywhere away from Garrick’s prying eyes. He would leave the corpse for Lorraine and her lover to sort out. He didn’t owe them a goddamned thing.
But what about his soul?
In the end, Burklin crossed the street and returned to the Eiffel. He slipped into the driver’s seat with a heavy sigh. “Damn it.” He rested his forehead against the steering wheel. The frustration came, accompanied by a hint of anger. It crashed like a wave against the shore, then ebbed.
“What’s the matter with you?” Pearl said from her crate.
Burklin looked back at the house.
“So, are you planning to screw everything up again?” Pearl asked. “Like you did last night?”
“No.”
“Good. Is Lorraine following us in Black Beauty?”
Burklin shook his head.
“Even better. Your ex-wife gives me the creeps. I don’t know how to explain it. She just does. Maybe it’s the whole shapeshifting thing, but she raises the hackles along my back.”
“Mine too.”
Chapter 6
The Drop
The French monstrosity puttered along side streets, destined for Hoppy’s Diner. Burklin stayed under the speed limit. He couldn’t risk getting pulled over now, not with a corpse jostling around in the trunk.
“Uh-huh.” He took a sharp left.
Pearl burrowed into her towels. “Why are you so nervous?”
“I’m not. I’m … thinking.”
Burklin crossed the freeway and slowed as he came upon the parking lot. Hoppy’s Diner stood in perfect isolation on his left side, surrounded by an undeveloped field of dirt. The road acted as a borderline between a third world country and a metropolis, with a Starchunks on his right. The Starchunks’ parking lot had nary a crack, repaved and painted annually. Its neon sign blazed an overly caffeinated beacon in the moonlight. In contrast, Hoppy’s parking lot had its original pavement, circa the early sixties. Treacherous asphalt littered the earth with cracks and fissures. Thick grime covered the windows and graffiti tags decorated the doors. The exterior’s paint bubbled and flaked like thick pox.
Burklin turned into Hoppy’s parking lot. The Dumpster waited in the alley. He needed to round the corner, pop the trunk and deposit the body.
“Why are we slowing down?” Pearl asked. “I don’t like the thoughts swirling around inside your head. Speed up and drive to the Dumpster.”
“Shut up,” Burklin said.
“But the—”
Burklin slammed his foot against the brake pedal. “God damn it, Pearl. When I tell you to shut up, you shut up.”
“Not true. When you tell me to shut up, I usually—” She tilted her head. “Hey, are you getting mad?”
Almost. But after two breaths, it dissipated. Not the anxiety. Along with the frustration, the anxiety never went away.
He took his foot off the brake and continued into the alley.
Bang.
Burklin punched the brake and fell forward against the steering wheel.
The dog yipped. “Did you hear that? What was that?”
Bang. Bang.
“There it is again,” Pearl said. “It’s coming from the trunk.”
“Maybe a part fell off the car?” Bang. “I’d better check it out.”
He reached for the glove compartment and flipped the latch. The contents of the glove box fell onto the floorboards: three pornographic DVDs, a box of tissues, a jar of petroleum jelly and a note from Garrick, which read In case you get the urge to fuck me again. Regards, Daddy. Burklin tossed everything aside and rummaged until his fingers wrapped around a small flashlight. He tapped it against his hand. It produced a weak beam.
