“OO!” the Zulus shouted, stopped, then drummed spears on their shields.
Russell Smonig had been on a twenty-four-hour emotional roller coaster, from one extreme to the next. But Penelope really threw him for a loop.
They say every man has his breaking point. But when it comes to sex, most bend instead.
Price’s pickup was barreling up Route 52 toward Frustrumburg when a red light on the dash interrupted the latest of his practiced speeches.
“Captain, I had to come right over tonight because the man who shot me is in this cooler, and I have the videotape. Aw, dang!” Price pounded the steering wheel with a fist as he saw the overheat light.
He pulled over onto the narrow dirt shoulder of the lonely road in the middle of the night. There was no denying that his isolation scared him just a little bit, but he shrugged it off best he could, blew into his hands, and opened the hood. A great billow of steam vomited forth. He reiterated, “Aw, dang!”
Price flapped his arms helplessly at his side. There was nothing he could do, much less see, until the engine cooled off, so he shoved his mitts in his windbreaker and paced in the beams of his headlights.
O.K., so he’d give that guy Bifulco half the reward. Well, $5,000 anyway. That is, the reward was actually a hundred thousand smackeroos, and damned if Price didn’t intend on making most of that his. “After all, it was me that got shot, it is me who deserves monetary compensation.” Price nodded in agreement with himself.
That was ninety-five thousand bucks he had coming, which was enough to pay off the mortgage on his house and buy a bass boat, one of those slick-looking ones they had in the catalogs, home delivered. Would a U.S. Post Office truck trailer it to his front door or what? Hell, it sure as shit wouldn’t come in a box.
The mortgage? Did he really feel like blowing all that moolah on the bank? Sure, there were all sorts of things he’d like to spend the bucks on, like debauched vacations in the Caribbean or New Orleans. He’d never forgotten the Brotherhood of Troopers convention two years ago in Atlantic City. But he had a wife, and a kid on the way, and responsibility. Maybe he’d pay off a big chunk of the mortgage, get the boat, and put a slice of the pie aside in a “Motel Fund.” He liked the sound of that. It sounded sneaky: “Motel Fund.”
The growl and sputter of a sports car shifting gears wafted up the road, and Price got ready to wave the passerby down. It would probably be someone he knew. And it was—sort of.
Omer squeaked his car to a stop, engine a-sputter. He lapsed into his Five Star Diner persona.
“Well, friend, looks like you got a little car trouble. Radiator, is it? You know, that reminds me of Tommy Peason—you know him? He once lost all his transmission fluid, just like that, and—”
“You headed to Frustrumburg?” Price interrupted.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am going that way. I was just heading home. Live up by Quinn’s place. Know it? It’s that gray house with the porch and the yellow Lab. I think the dog’s name is Ryan. Or is it Bristol?”
“Look, could you give me a ride—just about two miles up the road? You probably know the place. It’s in that development—Boxwood.”
“Boxwood? Sure I know it. There’s a cousin of mine who lives in St. Louis who has a bungalow on the Missouri River on Candlewood Drive. Not Boxwood, of course, but it always reminds me when I pass the sign. That is, the sign for Boxwood always—”
“Great! Thanks a lot, lemme get my stuff.”
A moment later Omer was helping Price strap the cooler to the luggage rack. As Price leaned over, the videotape fell from the inside pocket of his windbreaker onto the floor of the car.
“Dang.”
“I got it…” Omer saw his opportunity and stabbed a hand into the dark recess.
“No, let me…”
“Here.” Omer handed him the tape and Price quickly stuffed it back into his jacket.
Eggs sizzled on the grill next to a pile of greasy home fries. Steam jetted steadily from the coffee silo. Buckwheats and a side of honeydew completed the breakfast special. Morning had arrived along with rain clouds, and the usual crew appeared at Chik’s.
The Bobs stood solemnly in ponchos at the counter awaiting their order. The English muffins were taking their own sweet time toasting. Jenny, decked out in a yellow rainsuit, squeezed in the front door behind them.
“Good mornin’, fellahs. Hey, Little Bob, where’s that camera of yours? I thought that thing was surgically attached to your hand.”
The Bobs avoided her eye, but she persisted. Jenny nudged Big Bob in the waist and looked up at him.
“Rent any good tapes lately, boys?” Jenny winked and headed down the counter to her seat at the end. The Bobs didn’t say a word. They blushed instead.
“Here’s cup number one, Jenny.” Chik slid a cup of coffee in front of her. “Say, today’s your day off, babe. What’re ya doing up this early? Thought you might catch me alone, get me to slip you the wood?” Chik flashed her his sauciest smile.
Jenny’s quickly raised hand made Chik duck for cover.
“Don’t ya call me ‘babe,’ weasel face. Next time I’ll smack ya.”
Chik snickered and put a pencil tick on the side of the coffee urn.
Lloyd entered with furrowed brow, shaking rain off his jean jacket, and when he saw the Bobs, he sidled up next to them. He whispered: “Ya guys see Russ recently?”
They shrugged.
“I got some real strange—hell, I’d say desperate—calls on my machine last night. Tell ya the truth, I’m a little worried. Tried calling him at home. On and off, all night. No answer. His messages said he called from the Duck Pond, but by the time I rang there they was closed. Think we oughta head over to his place?”
The Bobs looked from Lloyd to each other.
“Darn it, he’s suicidal, I tell ya,” Big Bob muttered. “Never second-guess Newstime.”
Meanwhile, Chik served Jenny two eggs Jersey-side, whisky down.
“So what’s got ya up so early on your day off, Jenny?”
“Got a lead on a good shad spot. Figured a nice drizzly day might be the best time to take advantage of it.” She stabbed the eggs with the toast and they bled yolk.
“Uh-huh—another secret shad spot, I’ll bet.” Chik twisted his dishrag. “Ya fishing from shore?”
“Cool your jets. That guy Bifulco owes me a favor. He’s showing me the spot, so I don’t know where it is yet. But I got my boat out there on the trailer. Gonna launch it at the Mink Run boat ramp, motor up to his place.”
The front door slammed shut and the toaster popped simultaneously. Chik pivoted and froze.
“Hey, where’d the Bobs go? Their muffins is done.”
Sid had only been asleep for three hours when a pounding on his door jarred him awake.
“Sid!” Russ was shouting. “Sid! Wake up! Sid, I’ve got the tape!”
Still in his plaid shirt and pants from the night before, Bifulco wobbled to his feet from the couch and fell upon the doorknob.
“Would you keep it down, for Christ sake!” he rasped. “You wanna wake Lachfurst or what? Jeez!”
Even in his sleep-deprived state, Sid noticed something different about Russ. Granted, the goofy smile and sparkly eye were different, and Sid supposed he hadn’t seen Russ with his collar up or his fedora full of rainwater before. But it wasn’t any of that, or the videotape in one hand. Sid looked him top to bottom. Russ’s grin twitched.
“Sid, I got the tape! Look! In my hand!”
Bifulco’s eye slipped past Russ to the Dodge in the drive. He could see Penelope asleep in the passenger seat.
“Russ, your shoes are on backward,” Sid noted. “You get lucky last night or what?”
Tripping over the stoop, Russ pushed past Sid.
“Where’s your TV?” He flashed annoyance, then disappointment at his misfit sneakers.
Sid gently pulled the door shut.
“Hey, Captain Fedora, you wanna keep it down? Like I said, we
don’t wanna wake Lachfurst.”
Russ sat on the edge of the couch and pried off one sneaker, then the next.
“Look, Sid, all we gotta do is take a peek at the tape, make sure it’s the right one, then rip it to shreds!”
“Yo, Smonig, there’s a warden from a federal penitentiary in the next room.” Sid wagged a finger in front of Russ’s nose. “I don’t think we want him to see it.”
“A what?” Russ started putting his left sneaker on his right foot again.
“A warden from a federal penitentiary. An old friend, so to speak. Showed up last night. And the TV is in there, in my bedroom, right where he’s sleeping. So where’d you get the tape?”
“What difference does that make?” Russ reddened. “Sid, the sooner we make sure this is the tape, the sooner I can destroy it and go back to life’s simpler pleasures, like slowly going broke and being depressed.” Russ blurted, “I don’t have a video setup. You do.”
Forget that Sid had only three hours’ Z’s in his hat. After an enterprising career as hood, murderer, rat, and felon, it took a lot to fluster him. Frankly, he didn’t see the big deal. The tape was recovered. Hooray. So Russ holds on to it very tightly for a couple hours, a couple days, whatever. As far as Sid was concerned, the video crisis was over. Russ was being a schmoe.
“Would you keep it down! Look, I’ll go in there and get the equipment, give it to you, you take it over to your little shack and watch the tape. But you gotta promise something: stay away from me, ’cause I don’t want any part of whatever rackets you’re into. Deal?”
Russ fitted the right shoe on his left foot.
“Hold it, hold it. I thought the deal was that I was beholden to you for, you know, and that I had to show you the river. Now you’re saying you don’t want free guiding? You release me from that obligation?”
“That’s right. That’s right. I don’t want any part of your rackets.”
“Rackets?”
“Would you keep it down?”
“All right, all right—what the hell do you mean ‘rackets’?”
There was a knock at the door.
“Must be your girlfriend got tired of waitin’.”
They both pulled the door open a crack.
“Frank,” Russ burbled, “what brings you here?”
“Frank who?” Sid quizzed aloud.
“T-taxidermist,” Frank stuttered from under a handlebar mustache.
“Sorry, I already have a—wait, you’re Frank Highly?”
“Taxidermist,” Frank replied again. “I know I was s-s’posed to come last night, b-but it got real late an’ I th-thought…”
Sid pulled the door all the way open, stepped out onto the porch, and locked a familial arm around Frank’s long neck, turning him away from the cabin.
“You’re the taxidermist I called, that right?”
Frank blinked and gave a nervous tug at his mustache.
“You b-betcha. And you’re Sid, the guy that c-called me about a c-carp?”
“And you’re the guy that said you’d come by last night and pick up the fish on your way back from Honesdale, am I right?”
Frank rolled his eyes at Sid, then let them spring back to fix on his red VW Bug.
“H-honesdale, you b-betcha.”
“Don’t you have a friend, an assistant, that you sent over last night to pick up the fish?” A smile played with the mole on Sid’s cheek, as if he really expected to hear the answer he wanted.
Frank blinked and rolled his eyes over at Sid.
“N-n-” Frank didn’t finish. He just shook his head.
“Should I even bother asking you—Frank—who it was then that came by and took my big fish?”
“N-n-” Frank blinked hard.
“O.K., Frank.” Sid unclasped his chummy hold and forced a handshake on him. “I’ll find out where the fish is, I’ll get the fish back, and I’ll get the fish to you. O.K.? Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it, really. You’re a prince.” Sid shooed Frank toward his Bug, which the latter mechanically boarded.
Sid waved until Frank putt-putted out of sight. Then he turned on Russ.
“Some friggin’ bastard stole my fish, and you’re gonna tell me who it was.” Sid pushed up on his T-shirt sleeves.
“Me? What the hell?” Russ tripped over the doorsill. “Who would steal your carp?”
“Some guy shows up last night, right about the time this taxidermist was supposed to show, and asks for the fish. Then he tells me there’s a reward for the fish, and in fact says that I better hand over half the reward for him to stuff it. And do you know why? Because I caught the thing with you. You’re out to fix this reward deal. You’re some kinda guy on the inside of the local rackets and you tried to make the favorite lose or something. I dunno. I don’t got it figured out yet, but frankly, Smonig, I don’t wanna figure it out.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you mean to say you think I’m, like, involved in some kind of betting operation? On fish?”
It did sound a little far-fetched, suddenly, when Russ said it aloud.
“Look, Sid, if some guy showed up here last night with that yarn, well, all I can say is he must have been pulling your leg.”
“A guy I don’t even know comes by and pulls my leg for no reason? Hey, the guy said he knew all about the fish. He said he knew you and me whacked it and that there was a $10,000 reward.”
Russ scratched his forehead. “And you’re sure he was talking about a fish?”
“Of course I’m sure. In fact, I joked that I’d chopped it up into little pieces to fit it into…uh-oh.”
“What? ‘Uh-oh’ what?”
“It’s possible he was talkin’ about that other thing.”
“What other thing?”
Sid shot Russ an exasperated look. “Jimmy Spaghetti.”
“But how? Who is he?”
“He musta seen the tape, maybe rented it outta the video store by accident. This guy knew about what happened with Jimmy and was tryin’ to shake me down.”
“And you gave him the carp.” Russ lowered slowly until he was sitting on the portico steps. “We’re done for.”
“Like hell! You got the tape, right? That guy—if he doesn’t have it, he’s got no evidence. No corpus delicti. Assuming, of course, that’s the tape.”
They both stared at the tape in Russ’s hands for a moment before Sid spoke again.
“I’ll get my VCR. We’ll take the tape over to your place.”
Like most hospitals, Methodist treated visitors like weasels seeking admission to a henhouse. First they confiscated his massive cooler. Then they tersely explained that each patient is allowed only two visitors, and that as the two neighbors who ferried Debbie to the hospital were still upstairs, Price wouldn’t be allowed up to the ward. When he told them he was the expectant father, they told him to prove it. And so it was that Trooper Price, without a wallet, bolted past the desk and up the stairs, where he proceeded to get lost, then found—by the security guards. After a short tussle, they said they’d escort him to the maternity ward and have the mother or someone else there identify him. But the neighbors had left without returning their passes to the front desk, and the mother was in the process of giving birth. In a subsequent argument and another tussle, Price’s windbreaker was torn open. His bowling shirt was exposed, along with his name embroidered on the breast pocket. Security supposed that would suffice.
As if his little visit to Captain Reuster hadn’t been abusive enough. It was at the captain’s house, after the presentation of the tape he had grabbed from his VCR and an iced carp, that Price had heard the news he was an imminent father. Reuster had driven him down to Methodist, tootling his kooky nasal laugh all the way. He’d chalked up Price’s bizarre presentation of the fish to the frazzled nerves of an expectant father compounded by posttraumatic shock from his bullet wound. Condescendingly, Reuster had given the brooding, bloodshot Price another week off to recover.
Twins. Twin
girls. Price had two daughters. Was he happy about it? He didn’t know. Boys were what he wanted, of course. That and the reward of $95,000. With two kids he could use it more than ever.
Price hadn’t smoked since he left the army, but he bought half a pack of generic cigarettes for two bucks from a passing custodian. He stepped out into the parking lot and started making his way through a couple as he paced. It seemed the thing to do.
That Bifulco was a sharp cookie, sticking him with that carp. But what about the video? It had to be that jackass from the Five Star Diner who drove the sports car. Did he pull a switch on Price? Was he part of Bifulco’s gang?
Well, the point was, Price still knew what he knew about Sid, and that had to carry some weight. Damn straight. If he wanted to, he could make waves for a parolee like Bifulco, which is exactly what Sid wouldn’t want. Shit, even an accusatory letter to the parole board could put a bird like that back in the cage. Price might even be able to sic the local law on it, even the FBI. There would be reason enough to think Fest had been headed for Bifulco, and with Sid’s record, reason enough to expect that there might be a deadly confrontation. A close look at the truck and a little forensic work along the driveway might even turn up hard evidence.
Price stomped on his smoke and went back inside. He snuck a look in on Debbie. She was fast out, mouth partially open, a snore in the making, and gaunt like she’d just had the flu. Even still, that red hair and all those freckles warmed a spot in Price’s heart. She was a good wife, he thought, and she’d doubtless be a better mother. How long would it be before they could fool around? Just like on their first anniversary, he reckoned they might beeline for the Buck ’n’ Doe on Route 32. For old time’s sake. Price was particularly fond of that motel.
Collecting his hefty cooler from the leery admissions desk, Price proceeded to roust a sleeping taxi driver parked in the hospital driveway.
“You are, of course, the local pornography expert, aren’t you?” Omer might as well have said Chik was the world’s best chef.
Casting a sly and jaunty look around his domain, Chik warmed Omer with a grin. “You might say that.”
Sleep with the Fishes Page 13
