“Good for you,” Strayhorn said. “Meet you here?”
“Sure. We’ll take our skiff.”
Strayhorn nodded, and without acknowledging me again he swung back into the rowboat. I watched him shove away from the dock, fire up the kicker, and go skimming off toward his rented cottage.
Chuck said, a little defensively, “It’s no fun fishing alone. And Mom won’t get up early enough. But I’d rather go with you.”
“Thanks.”
“You can still come along. I wish you would.”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Distracted response; I was thinking about Strayhorn.
My misgivings about the man were stronger now than ever. For somebody who claimed to be a Stockton native, he didn’t know a damned thing about either the San Joaquin River or the Sacramento Delta, both of which were practically in Stockton’s backyard.
It was nearly six-thirty when I walked into Judson’s cafe. Two of the tables were occupied with beer drinkers carrying on the wake for Nils Ostergaard, but only one of the stools at the bar had a pair of hams perched on it — Fred Dyce’s. I wondered why he was hunched there alone until I sat down next to him and got a good look at his face. It had a dark, broody cast, like the sky before a thunderstorm. And the slackness of his mouth, the glaze on his eyes, the empty beer bottle and empty shot glass in front of him told the rest of the story. Wherever he’d been all afternoon, it was a place that had plenty of liquor. He was about as deep in the bag as you can get and still remain upright.
“Hello, Dyce.”
His head turned slowly and he squinted at me as if I were a bug that had landed too close to him. “Go ‘way,” he said.
“Now, that’s no way to be.”
“Go ‘way.”
“What’re you celebrating?”
“Celebrating. Shit.”
“Little early in the evening for such a big heat.” The squinty eyes showed aggression. “None a your goddamn business what I do.”
“Probably not. Unless you want to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever’s eating at you.”
“Nothing eating at me.” Automatic response; the next words out of his mouth made it a lie. “You had my prollems you’d get shit-faced too.”
“What problems?”
“None a your goddamn business. Buy me a drink or go ‘way.”
Rita had been hovering nearby. When she heard that last she moved closer; the look she gave me said that she wanted him out of there and she’d be grateful for any help. Mack must be off someplace; if he were around, Dyce would already be gone.
She said, “I think you’ve had enough, Mr. Dyce.”
“Hell I have,” he said.
“Mrs. Judson’s right,” I said. “How about some coffee?”
“Jack Daniel’s, double shot. Beer chaser.”
“Coffee,” I said to Rita. “Same for me.”
She mouthed the word “Thanks” and moved off. Dyce muttered something I didn’t catch. He peered at me again; blearily, and said, “You married man?”
“Yep.”
“Marriage sucks. Don’t ever get married.”
“Why is that?”
“Work your ass off for ‘em, give ‘em everything they want, and what happens? They screw you, that’s what happens. Screwin’ you get ain’t worth screwin’ you got.”
“Your wife’s divorcing you, is that it?”
“Sixteen years,” Dyce said. “Sixteen years, come home one night, she says it ain’t workin’ no more, Freddy, I want out.” His voice rose. “Sixteen fuckin’ years!”
“Easy, Fred. This is a public place.”
“Fuck her and fuck you, too,” he said, but not as loud. “Go ‘way, lemme drink in peace.”
Rita came back with two cups of coffee, set one in front of each of us. Dyce stared into the steam rising from his. “What’s this?”
“Coffee. Better drink it.”
“Don’t want any goddamn coffee. Jack Daniel’s, double shot. Beer chaser.”
“You’ve had enough alcohol.”
“Who’re you, tell me I had enough?”
“Just a guy trying to be your friend.”
“Friend, hell. I got no friends. Just Connie and she don’t want me no more.” Another squint. The eyes had moisture in them now. Crying jag coming on, I thought. “Called her up ‘safternoon, ask her gimme ‘nother chance, you know what it got me? Huh?”
“What’d it get you?”
“Kick inna gut, that’s what. Some guy answered, some goddamn guy. Her phone, my phone, she’s screwin’ some sonabitch in my house. What you think a that, huh?”
“What did the guy say?”
“Say? Who cares what the sonabitch said. Listen, I doan wanna talk about it no more.”
“Okay with me. Drink your coffee and we’ll get out of here.”
“Get out? Why?”
“We’ll go to your cabin.”
“Hell we will. What’re you, a fag?”
“You got any liquor in your cabin?”
“Huh?”
“Liquor. In your cabin.”
“Sure I got some. What the hell?”
“How about we go there and have a drink together?”
“Doan wanna drink with you. Tell you what I wanna do. Go home, kick Connie’s ass, ‘at’s what. Kick sonabitch’s ass, too. Kick both their asses, screwin’ him in my house.”
“Tomorrow, Fred. You can go home tomorrow.”
“Quit tellin’ me what to do!”
I’d misread him. Either that or his drunken temperament was so mercurial he was totally unpredictable. He shoved away from the bar, almost toppling his stool and himself, managed to stay upright, and stood swaying and glaring at me.
“Oughta kick your fag ass,” he said.
The half-dozen people left in there were staring at us. But nobody was moving; whatever happened was up to me. I sighed, thinking: I don’t need this now, I’ve had enough for one day. I eased off my stool so as to not to provoke him with any sudden movements.
“Okay, Fred,” I said. “Let’s go outside.”
“What?”
“Outside. You can kick my ass outside.”
“Wrong with right here, huh?”
I crowded him a little. “Outside, buddy.”
“Screw you.”
“Outside.”
He made a throat noise and swung at me.
It was more pathetic than anything else. Telegraphed punch, and no steam in it, like a movie attack in slow motion. I caught his arm, twisted it and his body, hammerlocked the arm against his backbone, and marched him grunting and swearing to the door, outside, and straight across to his cabin. There was nothing he could do about it, his feet slipping and sliding every time he tried to put up a struggle. When we got to the cabin, I shoved him up flat against the door and held him there while I tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. I got it open, shoved him through and into the bedroom and threw him facedown across the bed, still hanging on to his arm.
“You’re home, Freddy boy,” I said, “and when I let you go, you’d better stay right here. You hear me? Stay put or I’ll really hurt you.”
I released him, backed off a couple of steps. He lay there for maybe fifteen seconds, then rolled over and managed to sit up. All the aggression was gone from his face; it had become saggy with drunken bewilderment. He peered up at me, massaging his arm.
“Whassa idea?” he said. “Almost bust my goddamn arm.”
In the next second, with no warning at all, he started to bawl like a baby.
I’m on Connie’s side, I thought disgustedly. Whoever her new boyfriend is, he’s got to be an improvement.
I left the cabin and returned to the main building. Some of the people who’d witnessed the little episode were standing out front; none of them had anything to say as I approached Rita, who was filling the doorway to the cafe.