Yoder took a sip of beer, narrowed his eyes, wondering how she knew so much about his doings, making leapfrogging connections in his head, noting dark and tarry. “Hey, Ronny! You say that concrete tank’s going to outlast me?”
“Damn right.”
“It’ll handle the waste?”
“Sure thing. ’Course, you got to treat it right. But you’d be surprised what folks put in these things that they ain’t supposed to. Hell, tampons, paper towels, dead goldfish, even rodents.”
“But it eventually breaks down, huh?”
“Long as it don’t get too cluttered. I mean, the solids is gonna go to the bottom, the scum to the top, the liquid to the field lines. It all breaks down if it don’t get backed up.”
“You’re a damn septic savant, Ronny. Not going to argue with that.”
Yoder watched in fascination over Gary’s shoulder as his computer-savvy buddy mouse-clicked through a series of websites, a virtual wizard at private investigation. Talk about a savant. He was a little surprised that Gary put up no resistance when Yoder, having abandoned his monitoring of the septic installation, shook him out of the hanging bed, demanding, “Get on that damn computer right now, asshole, and show me how to find out about this bitch you’ve hauled into our lives.”
What they found, pretty quickly, was that there was no residence in Portland, ever, as far as they could tell. There was a series of marriages, even one to a plastic surgeon, but in Boulder, Colorado, not California. There were hefty divorce settlements, some unimaginative aliases, a few restraining orders against her, a couple of arrests, one for theft of property and another for harassment described as hacking into a cell phone. She moved often, every year or two at least. Employment records were nonexistent.
“Phone hacking, huh?”
“Yeah, you can track a person’s whole life, where they are, what they’re saying even, just by hacking in their phone. Misty told me she does it all the time.”
“Well, that explains that.”
“What?”
“Never mind, Gary.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “Never-minding.”
The reality of the whole sorry business settled in on Yoder. “Holy crap, she’s a bullshit artist,” he said, “only without much artfulness to speak of. She played you, big-time. Sorry, Gary.”
“Hell, I figured it was too good to last.” Gary was pale, haggard, and Yoder only now realized just how hollowed-out he was, how that succubus of a criminal bitch had sucked the endangered life right out of him.
“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t check her out, research her, before you let her come here. I mean, you obviously know how.”
Gary sighed, picked up a glass of whiskey. “Age-old story, ain’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, I had me some pussy for a little while.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I reckon we’re gonna have a knock-down drag-out when she gets back.” Gary looked down at his hands. “I ain’t got much use for that. Outta gas. Damnedest thing.”
Yoder studied his friend’s profile, the slump of his shoulders, the drop of his chin, his obvious fragility. “Don’t worry, buddy. Don’t you worry. You go lie down. I’ll take care of it.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Gary slept fitfully that night, images of billowing clouds of smoke in thick jungles, huts ablaze, the screams of women as the planes came in low, misting the vegetation, aiming to strip away Charlie’s cover. He half woke a few times, and reached to see if she was there, but he was alone with these fever dreams racing, like the spirits of dolphins chasing across the waves.
He caught a sleep-soaked glimpse of the moon, hanging like the blade of a scythe in the clouds. It reminded him of the Vincent Price movie The Pit and the Pendulum, of the last, chilling scene, the torture dungeon being locked, the door shut forever on the evil Elizabeth, trapped, all alone yet still alive, in an “iron maiden.” Then the dark closed over him, pushing through his consciousness, force-flashing images of dead baby dolphins washing up on the black-blotted sands of the gulf, seagulls stained slick with poison, and watercolors of pastel children picking at the tar balls between their toes. And he wondered, in his stormy dreams, if the coral really could die.
Bubba and Romy’s Platonic Bender
by Kirk Curnutt
Pike County
Romy’s elbow was in Bubba’s rhomboid when she said the name: Otis Owen. Dr. Otis Owen, she actually said, no s on the end. She started to add that even though she’d banged Dr. O when he taught her basic microcomputing her one semester of college, they were only friends now — no sex, no kissing, all touches strictly business. Before Romy could say that, though, Bubba, bare-bellied on her massage table, looked up with a hurt face.
“Otis Owen? You hang with that creep?”
“Dr. O comes here to work out the same kinks you do.” She pushed Bubba’s head into the table’s fleece-lined face cradle. “I feel sorry for him. I’m the age he was when he’d fuck me in his office ten minutes before class. He was a god to me then, but not anymore — he’s putty. I’ve never known a guy to go so squishy.”
“What you do for him out of pity you won’t do for me out of friendship?”
“I give you both what you want. Rejuvenation through humiliation.”
Her elbow descended into Bubba’s latissimus dorsi, grinding until his pancreas threatened to burst. He tried to ignore the discomfort, but her turquoise-painted toes entered his peripheral vision, along with the familiar smell of verbena and lavender, Romy’s favorite lotion, and Bubba knew his aches and pangs were inescapable.
“Listen, I know things about Otis Owen. It’s intel you should have, but intel’s not free. Humor me, and afterward I’ll not only pay your rip-off $85-per-hour rate, but I’ll take you out for drinks. What you should know about Otis goes down better with tequila.”
“No more humoring, Bubs. You’re just hurting yourself, and I’ve got a license to lose if anybody ever peeked in my window.”
She started to step back, but the only reliable man she’d ever known clutched her wrist. Lifting his torso, Bubba stared into her eyes, firm in need but weak with want.
“I had a manicure today,” she pleaded. “You’ll ruin it.”
“We’ve been friends twenty-five years, Romy. You’ve always needed me as a big brother, maybe a dad. I care for you enough that unlike Dr. O I’ve never taken advantage of that. Never even tried. That’s how much I respect our friendship. Otis Owen’s pulled some snaky shit; I’m not protecting you if I don’t tell you. But I need you first.” Bubba released her arm. “I’ll rest better too,” he added, “if you lose those cutoffs.”
Romy grunted at the obligation as Bubba recradled his face. He didn’t want to watch her wriggle down her shorts, didn’t want to know what she wore under them, two more tokens of respect for their friendship. He just liked the warmth of her — that part of Romy Bubba knew he was too good of a friend to ever get to experience — as she straddled his tailbone, her butt atop his. As her weight settled on his glutes she sank her nails into his skin, and he tensed in expectation. Then Romy raked her fingers along his spine in a long, euphoric scratch.