CHAPTER FOUR
Crockett said so long to Zeb after the best breakfast he’d had in weeks and trudged back up to the Pequod. He spent a couple of hours straightening the bus up. Keeping things neat and orderly while Ruby was around was never much effort, but since he’d been by himself his housekeeping chores had become less than vital. Slightly embarrassed at the mess he’d accrued, Crockett made a vow to do better. He also castigated himself for not cooking much anymore. Tired of the self-recrimination and just plain tired, he stretched out around mid-morning and took a nap. He didn’t wake up until after lunchtime.
Dr. Ruby LaCost finished her second and last appointment of the day at high noon. She had developed the habit of not scheduling any clients on Friday afternoon because she and Crockett usually went out on Friday evenings and the open afternoon allowed her plenty of time to get rid of the pressures of the week. Even though Crockett was no longer a factor, she still kept the last half of the day open. Locking the office door, she creaked up the stairs to her apartment feeling battered and bruised.
Her last client, a pudgy young man named Darrell Quigley, who insisted he be called Dee-Que, had just left. Ruby shook her head as she decided she was probably going to have to cut him loose. Dee-Que, who Ruby thought of as Drama Queen, really wasn’t interested in therapy as much as he was concerned with just having someone to listen to him as he fantasized about life and love. Playing the gay role to the point of being ludicrous, he irritated Ruby so much that she would only call him Darrell. Fully realizing that she did it out of a need for revenge, she still wouldn’t budge.
“Call me Dee-Que, for chrissakes! That’s my name! Darrell went away when I came out. I don’t wanna be a total bitch about this, sweetie, but I have the right to be called anything I like, and I like Dee-Que!”
“No you don’t.”
“No I don’t what?”
“No, you don’t like Dee-Que. Dee-Que isn’t real, Darrell, and you know it. Dee-Que is a construct, something that you have created and poured yourself into, knowing damn well that you don’t fit. It’s like these sessions of ours. You come to me because you can afford it and because it’s fashionable to spend an hour or two a week with a psychologist. It gives you something to talk about when you’re hanging around with those people you have decided are your friends. Its all part of the Dee-Que role, and it’s not helping you. As long as you choose to treat life as a performance and not an experience you are not going to get a better grip on things. You will continue to flap your way through the fantasy, being as obviously queer as you can be, while you wait for your next new encounter to notice you. Ideally, notice should come from accomplishment, not exhibition. You have been coming to me for two months now. Not once during that time have you shown any inclination to assume responsibility for your life. You’re running out of time, Darrell.”
“Well, that’s really shitty!” Dee-Que squeaked. “You’re supposed to help me get better, not jump all over me. Jesus! You’re my doctor, for chrissakes.”
“We’ll talk about that during our next visit,” Ruby smiled. “Right now our time is up.”
“You can’t just leave me like this!”
Ruby moved to the door and opened it. “I’m not leaving you like anything, Darrell,” she said. “You are. How you feel and what you do are your responsibility. We’ll talk more next time.”
“You’re just going to stop and abandon me?”
“Yes. Goodbye, Darrell. Have a nice week.”
“Call me Dee-Que,” Darrell protested, as he flounced out of the office, fanning his hands in front of him.
“No,” Ruby replied, and firmly closed the door.
Upstairs she continued to run the encounter over in her mind until she realized she really didn’t like the petulant little shit and wanted rid of him. That she was trying to help him was a lie she’d been telling herself. If he had no desire to change his life then why should she feed the charade? The slap of honesty made her smile. How many other lies was she telling herself?
Wrapped up in self-examination, she failed to check the caller ID when her phone went off.
“Doctor LaCost.”
“Hey, Ruby. How ya doin’?”
“Crockett?”
“’Fraid so. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Your phone is noisy. Where are you?”
“By the shores of Gitchee Goomie, by the shining big sea water.”
“What? In the wigwam of Nokomis?”
“In a campground on Lake Truman, overlooking boat dock Watkins.”
Ruby chuckled. “Jesus, Crockett, you’re not a bit better, are ya?”
“Not me. How ‘bout you?”
“Getting there,” she replied, swallowing other things she couldn’t say.
“Three hours away. Can I come see you?”
“Better not.”
“I see. Okay. Whatever. I love you, Ruby.”
“I know you do, Crockett,” she replied, and hung up.
Crockett looked at the dead phone in his hand.
“Ever patient, good old Crockett, sits and waits at Ruby’s whim now,
sits and waits for her decision, hoping she might come to him now,” he said. He pocketed his phone, grabbed his cane, and headed back down to the marina.
The thump of the cane alerted the carp long before Crockett got to their location on the dock. Unable to resist, he looked at their gasping upturned mouths for a moment before he went inside the shop. Zeb smiled at him.
“Kinda like a train wreck, huh?” the old man said. “Don’t wanna look at ‘em but ya can’t help it. Back for lunch?”
“Whatcha got?”
“Whatcha want? Mazy just got back from town with supplies. She’s fixin’ up a couple a rooms up the hill right now for the meetin’ tomorrow.”
“Meeting?”
“How ‘bout a hot turkey sandwich, mashed potatoes, peas, and chocolate cake?”
Crockett looked at him and grinned. “Sounds good.”
“Does don’t it?” the Zeb chuckled. “Best I can do is ham salad and chips, though. Want some?”
“Love it.”
The old man stepped out of sight through the rear of the shop and was back in just a moment with the sandwich and chips. He placed his burden on the counter and smiled.
“Fixed it for ya when I seen ya come walkin’ down the hill. What’s that cane for?”
“Only got one leg,” Crockett said around a bite of sandwich.
“Bet there’s a story behind that.”
“Sometime with alcohol.”
“Got some Jack in the back.”
“With ham salad? I don’t think so. How much for the food?”
“You can help me square things up around here for a hour or two. I’ll knock off the feast and a night’s rent on the campin’ space. Gotta git ready for the die-hards that’ll be out tomorrow. There’ll be a few fishermen over the weekend. Some families out for a last weekend on the water. Got two pontoon boats, one bass boat, four rooms, and a half-dozen bunks reserved startin’ tonight.”
“What all you got out here?”
“We got around a hundred and thirty acres, dependin’ on the lake level. Got two paved parkin’ areas, we lease the building to the boat dealer down past the boat ramp parkin’ lot. Two boat ramps, slips for a little over a hundred and fifty private boats, five pontoons, eight bass and ten crappie boats for rent, thirty-two regular rooms in the motel on the hill, two suites, one indoor and two outdoor hot tubs, fifty-one spots for tent campers, thirty-eight spots for motorized campers, two pavilions, forty-six beds in the floatin’ bunkhouse, a floatin’ restaurant that’ll seat about sixty, and this bait shop. Plus we sell gas an’ oil, charge batteries, keep live bait and such. It works out to a little under a mile of lake frontage. On a busy day we’ll have five or six hundred people in and out of here.”
“Sounds like a nice business.”
“Lots of work. In season we’ll employ ten or twelve full and part-time people.�
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“Plus you and your daughter-in-law.”
“Me an’ Mazy. There’s my grandson, John, too. He’s overseas in the army right now, so there’s just the two of us. We got livin’ quarters up the slope in the motel. Mazy’s up there now getting the two suites ready. She’ll be down after while. We got a couple a girls that’ll be in around suppertime to get everthing else ready. One of ‘em stays for night duty. Kitchen help and the like’ll be in around four. We’ll have five or six on staff all weekend. After a while, you an’ me’ll fill the pop machines, check over the rental boats, stock the candy and sandwich machines, stuff like that. We’ll have a small crowd this weekend. Weather is supposed to be good. Probably be the best weekend we’ll have for the rest of the year.”
“You own this?”
“Yep. Free and clear. Me an’ Jeff, that was my boy, put the whole thing with the money I got from the guvmint for puttin’ a bunch of my land and most of the town underwater. Didn’t know a damn thing about docks or boats or lakes or nothin’. Worked our asses off, but it all turned out purty good. ‘Bout three year ago, brake lock on a block an’ tackle give way and Jeff got landed on by a couple of big ol’ walnut logs. Busted him up inside an’ he died two days later. Been me an’ Mazy ever since.”
“Except for that, it sounds nice.”
“Ain’t too shabby. What’s yer story?”
Crockett put the last of the potato chips in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t we have some work we have to get done?” he asked.
Zeb shrugged. “There ya go again,” he said. “Answerin’ a question with a question.”
Crockett grinned. “Sorry,” he said. “Just a poor wandering stranger, downtrodden by life and love, looking for a crust of bread and a place to lay his weary head.”
Zeb scowled. “I hope ta hell I didn’t git none a that on me,” he said. “Let’s go to work.”
Dressed in sweats and really hideous house shoes, Ruby sat at her kitchen snack bar and tried to get interested in a bowl of applesauce and a grilled provolone sandwich. No luck. Sighing, she poured a large glass of merlot and flopped on the couch. Feeling too bored to watch TV and too tired to read, she sipped the wine and stared at the heavy drape that blocked the new doorway to Crockett’s side of the townhouse. Christ. What a mess.
It had been over six weeks since she’d seen him, over six weeks since she’d run from Ivy’s and returned to Kansas City, over six weeks since she’d done what she had to do to keep her sanity, and she was as screwed up as she had ever been in her life. She was so screwed up that she’d even cancelled the sessions she’d re-started with her psychologist. And now, here she sat, unhappy, listless, bored, and drinking wine. More wine. She finished the glass and headed back into the kitchen for a re-fill. Her phone went off.
If it had been her business phone, she would have let her service pick up, but it was her cell. She checked to see if Crockett was calling back, but didn’t recognize the number. It would go to voice mail after the sixth ring. After ring five, Ruby mentally shrugged and pushed the button. What the hell. At least it might be some kind of diversion.
“Hello?”
The chuckle was slow and easy, the drawl comforting and familiar.
“Well, hey there, Miz. Ruby. I thought mebbe the hogs had got ya.”
“Aw, Clete. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Sure it is, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a little over a hour. That’ll be just in time for an early dinner. How ‘bout some Italian for the Italian?”
“I, ah, wasn’t expecting to, ah…
“No problem. Wipe your nose, brush your teeth, an’ put on your prom dress. See ya soon.”
“Jesus, Cletus. I, ah…
“Save it, darlin’. We’ll talk later. Bye.”
Ruby stared at the dead phone for a moment, then sank to a stool at the snack bar, dropped her head into her hands, and began to cry.
Crockett got back to the Pequod a little after three, took a shower, changed into some cord jeans and a safari shirt he got on sale at Cabela’s. For the hundredth time since he left Chicago he wished he’d brought Nudge with him instead of leaving the cat at Ivy’s. Outside he unhooked the H2, knowing he’d need to go into Clinton or someplace for supplies soon. The H2 was H too much. The vehicle was perfect for what he’d needed when he bought it, but now he found it to be too large and too pretentious. Maybe he’d trade it off and get another pickup. Maybe he’d hang around the marina and campground for a few days. Maybe he needed some company for a change. Zebulon sure filled that bill. Working with the old man for an hour or so that afternoon had been a real pleasure. Sure, they were still feeling one another out, but things seemed to be going well.
After the truck was disconnected, Crockett drove down to the bait shop and wandered inside. Maggie met him at the door, grinning and wagging. He scratched the dog’s ears and looked around the room. A small dark-haired woman stood behind the counter sorting a box of fishhooks. In her forties, she was petite without being bird-like, with that look of worn contentment that makes a woman handsome. Substance and character surrounded her like a mist.
“Hello, Mazy,” Crockett said.
She smiled. “Afternoon, Crockett.”
Crockett returned her smile. “Now that we have that out of the way,” he said, “wanna run off? I got half a tank of gas and twelve dollars.”
“My father-in-law said you were different.”
“As perceptive as Zebulon is, the offer still stands.”
“Sorry. Got guests coming tonight. You’re welcome to stay though. I might change my mind tomorrow.”
“But then you might not, and I will have wasted even more of my youth waiting on a woman to make up her mind. Decisions, decisions.”
Mazy cocked her head to one side and grinned. “You’re not from around here are you?”
Crockett laughed. “Where is ol’ Zeb, anyway?”
“He’s loading some stuff in the kitchen. Our guests want lobster and filet tonight.”
“Not part of the usual menu?”
“Nope. We’re more of a catfish and rib eye kinda joint.”
“They ain’t no guests, neither,” Zebulon said, walking in from the back of the room. “They’re hotshot troublemakers and a dangerous bunch, if ya ask me. They wanna buy the place. Me an’ Mazy said it warn’t for sale, but they wanted to have a meetin’ anyway, so here they come wantin’ to look it over. Git in around seven tonight and present their offer tomorra afternoon sometime. Pain in the ass.”
“Where they from?”
“Hell, I dunno. Say they represent some kinda consortium, whatever the hell that means. Think it’s time to git gambling here on the lake and found a way to do it legal ‘cause we’re a town and private property.”
“Why not just buy up some land?”
“Can’t. This place was put in by the Army Corps of Engineers. Guvmint controls almost all the land around the lake, and they gotta have lake access to put in a lagoon to float a boat to gamble on. We’re the only exception that’s got the acreage and stuff they need.”
“And you don’t want to sell.”
“Ain’t gonna sell. Put this place in with my own two hands, me an’ my boy. Belongs to me and Mazy an’ her boy an’ whatever family he comes up with when he gits outa the service. Damn sure ain’t gonna sell it to no consortium. Bunch a crooks anyway, probably.”
“Could be.”
Zeb’s gaze shifted to the window and a pickup truck arriving in the parking area. “Here come a couple of bassmasters,” he said. “Gonna want gas and fresh batteries most likely. I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Mazy said.
“Yep. We git Crockett trained, he can take care a all this an’ you an’ me can retire,” Zeb said, and walked out onto the dock.
“Quite a man,” Crockett said.
“Wonderful man. I might as well be his blood. Looks out after me. Takes care of me.”
“You don’t stri
ke me as the kind of woman who’d require a lot of looking after,” Crockett observed.
Mazy’s smile was quick and sharp. “I don’t, huh?”
“No, you don’t. You are capable, you are strong, and you are tough. Zeb knows it, too. The man that doesn’t understand that when he deals with you is a fool.”
“That’s what you think?”
“Yes, M’am.”
“Thank you.”
“I just hope it’s enough.”
“Enough?”
“If you have some serious characters coming in here wanting to buy you out, they will not be pleased when you turn down their generous offer.”
“Not my problem.”
“It could be. Sometimes people that work for nebulous consortiums don’t like to take no for an answer. They have ways of getting the yes that they want.”
“Not from me. Damn sure not from Zeb.”
Crockett smiled. “That’s good,” he said. “I like feisty.”
“You got any plans for tonight or tomorrow, Crockett?”
“Not yet. What did you have in mind?”
“Free food, free rent, and the pleasure of spending time with me and Zeb.”
“You and Zeb?”
“Both of us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. What’s for supper?”
“Meatloaf and scalloped potatoes,” Mazy said. “We save lobster for the consortium.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Crockett was up before dawn the next morning, hopping to the bathroom in the dark. As he struggled out of the shower he heard the click of the coffee pot turning on in the kitchen as it began to make the last of his stash of Blue Kona. Back on the bed he strapped on his leg and got dressed as the events of the evening before scrolled through his head.
A little after seven that evening a black Lincoln Towne Car and a gray 700 Series Mercedes had arrived, disgorging four men and one woman who’d taken residence in two suites at the Watkins Inn. The group was served their filets and lobsters by two waitresses from the floating restaurant, both a little upset at the trouble caused by the necessity of room service, an amenity not usually provided for guests. Their mood had changed dramatically when they came back down the hill however, sweetened by a hundred-dollar tip. Zeb and Mazy had no contact with the visitors. Their meeting was not scheduled until early afternoon the next day.
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