The Last Day For Rob Rhino

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  Claire moved the napkin holder closer, yanked out a handful. “Well, I never—”

  Rob went on. “I went into the porn business. Gloria and I left town. She died. The years passed. Freddie Eddie and I hooked up with a distribution company, got into producing and distributing. I wanted out from in front of the camera.”

  Doctor Rhino, naked but for his stethoscope, whooshed through her memory.

  “Good idea, go on.”

  “We distributed amateur porn, regular schmoes off the street, no script. Keep in mind when we started it was pre-internet. Before everybody and their horny brothers could use their cell phone cameras to film their honeymoon and put it on YouTube. There was money in amateur stuff in those days.”

  Claire had no patience for Rob’s prance down memory lane.

  “Is this disgusting story going anywhere?” She swiped her sweaty collarbone under her pashmina.

  “Alex’d just moved into that warehouse. We’d film there. That’s where Pat came in.”

  Rob Rhino stopped talking while the waitress set their cheeseburgers down. Claire took a big bite of her burger. “Came in for what? Clean up after your sordid sexcapades?”

  If her mouth hadn’t been full she might’ve yawned.

  “Not exactly.” Rob spread mustard on his bun.

  Claire stopped midbite. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  Rob laughed, chewed up cheeseburger flying out the hole where his tooth used to be. Rob patted his lips with his napkin.

  “By then Pat was Father Pat, the very naughty priest.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Emmet Corrigan was a porn star?” Claire said it so loud everything in the diner came to a halt. Heads turned in their direction. After a few seconds of no motion, their waitress hustled over.

  “Ma’am is everything all right?”

  Claire shut her out.

  “Mild disability.” Rob smiled a weak apology, pointed to his head. “Mental.”

  The confused waitress shuffled back to the counter.

  “You’re gonna get us kicked out of here. Keep it down.” Rob put his greasy finger to his lips.

  Claire sat forward, her sopping wet chest flush with the table. “Are you mental?” Her voice came out in a hiss. “Emmet Corrigan disowned his own son because he got divorced, left the church. He was a devout Catholic, fanatical.” She picked up the pile of napkins, patted herself down.

  “Well, that explains the frock coat and collar—”

  Claire slapped the table with her open hand like a school mistress. “This isn’t a joke.” She thought she’d die from the heat. She knew she flushed red as fire.

  “For fuck’s sake Claire, take a pill.”

  Claire slumped back against the vinyl booth. “What?”

  “Take a pill. You need the drugs. You’re a fucking mess. Take a pill so you can get through the next hour without having a seizure or something and take off that wrap or whatever the fuck it is.”

  Claire wanted to tell him to go to hell, mind his own goddamn business, but if she didn’t take a pill she knew there’d be trouble ahead. She took off the pashmina, fussed with the collar of her shirt around her blue jaw and neck to see if recognition would flicker.

  He frowned. “Jesus, Claire. Call the rehab center. I left the card for you on the dresser, remember? I volunteer there. They’re great, get you started while you’re here.”

  “I missed my regular dose that’s all.”

  Rob Rhino pursed his lips, said nothing else about rehab or her bruises.

  “I can’t believe it. Emmet Corrigan in porn,” Claire said moving it along.

  Rob Rhino reached to the side and put a box on the table. “Look familiar?”

  Like passing a ten-car pileup on the interstate, Claire couldn’t look away.

  On the front of the DVD box stood a man dressed as a priest who resembled Liam—only older. A lot older, with a girl, hopefully legal, in a plaid miniskirt with plump double Ds pushed out over the top of her unbuttoned white blouse. The Catholic school girl uniform X-rated style. That’s the best they could come up with? Originality wasn’t a requirement she guessed.

  Claire picked it up, held it so close her nose brushed the cardboard. Pat looked a lot like he did in the picture at William’s shrine. “What was he thinking? His family acts like he ascended into heaven with Christ.”

  She traded the box for the menu, fanning herself, eyes blinking fast.

  “Porn’s not so bad.” One of Rob’s over-dyed eyebrows headed up toward his over-dyed combover. “Consenting adults...”

  Claire waved her hand, exasperated. “Believe me, it’s not on their agenda. Saint Emmet. I heard it with my own ears.”

  “He had his contradictions. Lonely, bored, getting old. Dangerous combination.”

  “It’s quite a leap from lonely old man to...to Friar Fuck for God’s sake.”

  “Well, he was a man, Claire. He’d been patronizing Alex’s for years. When we started filming in the back, he hung around. Got a kick out of it, so to speak.”

  Claire screwed up her face, still fanning. “Pathetic.”

  “After a couple years, he joined in. Energetic for an older guy. Those crazy Irish.” Rob chuckled, remembering.

  Claire put the DVD back on the table. “Speaking of old. Wasn’t he?” She pointed to the box. “Christ, he died five years ago. He was like two hundred. Had to be too old for this.”

  “In this country, yeah, for sure.” Rob bit into a pickle. “In Japan, no siree Hiroshima. All Father Pat’s films went straight to Asia. They love their old folks.”

  Claire looked up over the menu. “Insanity.”

  He smiled, a satisfied grin stretched out his floppy face. “Not insanity. Niche as a matter of fact,” Rob said.

  “What is?”

  “Elder porn.”

  Two words that don’t ever belong in the same sentence.

  “Of all the crazy, disgusting—” Claire flapped the menu harder.

  Rob shook his scraggly head back and forth. “Elder porn is big over there. They live to be like five hundred. And now with Viagra? Yoko bar the pagoda. Of course it’s just the men who are old. Chicks still have to be young.”

  “Only you, Rob Rhino, could corrupt an elderly church-going man.”

  “Hardly. He had ideas I’d never heard of. There was that thing with the plunger and the collection plate—”

  “And Grace, of course, had no idea.” Claire tried to imagine her mother-in-law in leather, spiked dog collar, whip in hand.

  “Pat used to say if you wanted to know where the Dead Sea Scrolls were all you had to do was look between their sheets.”

  Let the church say amen.

  Her heart calmed down a bit, she felt cooler.

  “Anyway, she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. Until he died.”

  “He spilled his guts on his deathbed?”

  “Might as well have. He died on set. In a confessional with Parishioner Patty.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Forgive me Father for I have sinned.

  Claire studied Rob Rhino, now a balding, dumpling-shaped lothario with missing teeth, then looked back at the video. Grace Corrigan’s saint of a prehistoric husband had died dressed like a priest, humping a blonde bimbo in a fake confessional. She burst out laughing ’til she cried.

  “This was worth the trip.” She wiped her tears with her hands. “Emmet Corrigan a porn star. Of all the improbable—”

  “I knew you’d like it.” Rob laughed too.

  Claire, still laughing, handed her empty plate to the hovering waitress. “I’m afraid to ask what Liam had to do with this mess.”

  “When Pat died we had to call his wife.”

  Claire sucked in her breath for a second then laughed more. “You talked to her?”

  “Freddie Eddie did.”

  Just the thought of Mr. Personality and Grace was too much for Claire. She laughed so hard her sides ached. “I actually feel sorry f
or Freddie Eddie.”

  “Grace wasn’t pleased.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second.” Claire laughed still but put some effort into pulling herself together.

  “When poor Pat keeled over they took him straight to the hospital. Freddie Eddie called her, like five times. She wouldn’t come. Finally she told him to call her son Liam.”

  So she had known Liam’s number.

  Rob scratched his chin. “We tag-teamed. So I called him.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Freddie Eddie shoved a phone number in my hand, said call the son.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Not much. I told him what happened. His mother wouldn’t come make the arrangements, next of kin, all of that. He said something like I appreciate the call and hung up.”

  Claire shook her head. “That’s so Liam. Direct, to the point, polite. Given how they’d treated him, I’m not surprised. He must’ve been shocked though.”

  “If I remember right, it took us at least two more calls to Grace and one more to Liam to get poor Pat identified. But Liam never budged.”

  “He could take a hard line.”

  “We felt sorry for poor Pat. We were gonna make a hefty donation in his honor—”

  Claire knew where this was going, “You’re the anonymous donor?”

  Rob stopped. “You know about that?”

  “Joe Lansing told me. He said an anonymous donor paid for Emmet Corrigan’s cemetery space.” Claire looked Rob up and down, his bald spot, his pock marks. “It’s you.”

  “Not just me. All of us at Fresh Flesh Films chipped in.” Rob Rhino’s droopy eyes filled up. “I could never repay what Pat did for me.”

  “Thought you said he and Freddie Eddie didn’t get along.”

  “Freddie Eddie gets along with money and Pat’s films made it.” Rob poked the table with his index finger to make his point. “I guess he did it for me more than anything.”

  “How did it all get resolved?”

  “Only by force.” Rob shook his big head. “The hospital told us if she didn’t get down there they’d send the police out to find a next of kin. We knew Pat wouldn’t want the police parading his secret life all over town. They gave us an hour to get somebody down there.”

  Claire felt like she was part of her own reality show.

  Rob kept talking. “So we went over there.”

  “Get out.”

  “She let us in only to keep the neighbors from seeing us at the door. Freddie Eddie told her the deal. She never made a peep. We told her we’d take care of the university burial and vowed discretion. She held the door open, pretty much kicked our asses out it.”

  The thought of Grace suffering was Claire’s favorite part of the story.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Clarity hit her. “All this happened while Liam and I were married. He never said a word.”

  “You never know about people.”

  “A lot I never knew about Liam.”

  “It’s a crazy life, right?” Rob Rhino ran his hands through his ratty hair and sat back in the booth.

  “I can’t figure out why she’d give you Liam’s number. What’d she think he’d do?”

  “There’s a sister too?”

  “And a brother. They both live here, always have.”

  “Probably didn’t want them to know, why poison the other fruit? She might’ve hoped to rustle up a little sympathy, look victimized by the husband with the secret porn life. Get Liam to rush to her aid, forgive past grievances. Take care of the whole mess so she didn’t have to.”

  “Sounds like Grace.”

  He threw up both hands. “So that’s how I know the Corrigans.”

  Claire shook her bald head. “Grace Corrigan’s got her nerve. Holier than thou is her middle name. She went on ad nauseam about Emmet’s piety and Liam’s sins. Yet all this time she’s known her husband was a big fake.” She grabbed her purse, got ready to leave. “Can you imagine anyone in more denial than that whacko family?”

  Rob Rhino smoothed his moustache, scratched his nose. “Hard to imagine.”

  ****

  “Looks like Freddie Eddie’s here.” Rob Rhino said eyes fixed on the parking lot through the diner window.

  “What’s he doing here? Did he drive you?” Claire’s foe.

  “No. I took a cab. I called Freddie Eddie right before I left though to have him come pick me up in an hour or so. We’re gonna zip out to Alex’s. Freddie Eddie gets nervous if I don’t let him chauffer me. Especially this week.”

  “Why?” Freddie Eddie seemed like a clinger.

  “Gloria’s dad. Freddie Eddie thinks we still have unfinished business. The guy’s a religious nut. He’s out and about a lot during Trustee Week.”

  “Jesus freaks aren’t in short supply around here.”

  “A fire and brimstone preacher if there ever was one.” Rob laughed. “Freddie Eddie worries he wants to speed me on my way to hell.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Nah. He’s got one foot in the grave. What’s he gonna do, gum me to death? I can take him.” Rob grinned, black hole showing. “Besides, I’ve been coming back here for thirty years. If he meant me harm I’ve been an easy target. He’s a nut but a lazy one.”

  “I’ll be so glad to get back to California. You all make our weirdos seem catatonic.” Claire put some napkins in her purse for the road. “Does Freddie Eddie know about all this... the Corrigan coincidence?”

  “Not yet. He’ll sure be surprised. Small world.”

  Claire stood. She felt better. Wouldn’t last long.

  “I guess so,” she said. “If that’s what you can even say about it. It’s quite a story. Not sure what to do with it.”

  “Nothing, I hope.” Rob stood too. He’d already paid their check. Such a gentleman for a porn star. “What’s to be gained after all these years?”

  The look on Grace’s sour face for one thing.

  “Nothing, I suppose. Sleeping dogs and all that.” Claire headed for the diner door.

  From behind her Rob Rhino laughed, “Claire Corrigan you are the end all.”

  “What now for Chrissake?” Claire stopped.

  Rob pointed down at Claire’s feet.

  They were bare.

  Chapter Forty

  Claire walked across the asphalt in her bare feet with whispered ouches and ows. Like those half-naked natives who walked on hot coals. Hopefully no one saw the crazy bald lady doing the high-step across the hot, dirty asphalt parking lot in bare feet, talking to herself. Maybe she looked like a rain dancer. Maybe she just looked like an idiot.

  She climbed the steps to her room, two at a time. As she got closer she could hear the TV still on. She got to the door, dug her key card out of her bag. Damn things never worked right. After the fourth time the green light lit up, staving off full meltdown. She pushed the door open with one dirty foot, dropped her bag with a thud.

  Annabelle jumped up, muted the sound, “Claire, don’t kill me—”

  Claire, not easy to surprise, stayed rooted to the spot, stunned. “What in Christ’s name? How did you get in here?”

  “I know, I know. I had to see you to talk to you. In person.” Annabelle stood in front of the flickering kaleidoscope of the TV, her long dark hair spilled around her. “I told them I was your daughter. Family emergency.”

  Claire didn’t blink.

  “I gave the blue hair at the front desk a hundred dollars to let me in.”

  “You flew in? Today?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get from the airport to here?”

  Was Claire in a hotel or the Titanic? Her nausea made the room sink, go sideways.

  “Car service.”

  For a zillion dollars. Fucking rich kids.

  Claire slammed the door shut, reswallowed the half-digested cheeseburger rebooting on the back of her tongue. She sat on one of the chairs at the small table by the window. Bribed the front desk. Great. A
serial killer for all they knew. Inbred rednecks. Since when did Annabelle get so good at greasing palms?

  “I’ve been calling you for days. Why didn’t you answer, tell me you were coming?” Claire’s stomach cramped, she leaned over a little.

  Annabelle opened her lips, started to answer.

  Claire held up her hand, “No, better yet, why didn’t you ask me if you could come?” These goddamned entitled kids. Damn Liam. Leave them a couple million dollars right out of the gate. Annabelle Marie Antoinette’d her way across the country and Jordan shacked up with Steven in his massage parlor/love den.

  “Because I knew you’d say no, that’s why.” Annabelle started to cry. Her gray eyes (just like her father’s) welled up.

  “You’re right. I would’ve.” Claire felt the walls go up around her. Like Alcatraz. Her chapped lips almost welcomed the sweat forming over them. “Annabelle, you coming here doesn’t change anything. I’m going forward as planned, and your ass is going out on the next plane.”

  Claire eyed Liam in his urn. She didn’t think Annabelle noticed he sat next to the TV. Claire wanted to keep it that way. Didn’t want her to get any ideas.

  “It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here. Not really.” Annabelle wiped her dripping cheeks and reached into her backpack, held out an opened envelope. “This is.”

  The letter. In all the excitement with Rob Rhino, Claire’d forgotten about it.

  Claire got up, took it from her, flopped back down, squeezed her eyes shut. Panic, like a suicidal scorpion, worked its way up from her ankles. Her lungs felt like pinpricked balloons.

  “Claire? Oh my god. Are you all right?” Annabelle’s voice squeaked. “Where are your shoes? Jesus, where’ve you been? What’s going on here?” Her head made a full turn around the room, even cleaned up it looked Girls Gone Wild. She studied Claire’s jaw and neck. “You get in a bar fight or something? Never mind. I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

  “Give me my purse,” Claire said more of a cough than a request.

  Annabelle threw Claire’s bag on the table in front of her. Like a madwoman Claire dug out her pills. With shaking hands she swallowed two. Annabelle ran to the bathroom for water.