Then, afterwards, going to the Grasso to meet those kids Shannon was going to sell worm to when it was obviously the wrong place and him picking up this out-of-it chick with hair just like the one in the woods only not Asian and, though it didn’t look like Shannon was planning on taking her somewhere and fucking her himself, they’d ended up back at the Limbo, with Roni long gone hours after Shannon was supposed to pick her up.
The chick, Sky, stayed in the back of the car, sleeping. Soon as they came through the door, Heather ran up and eagerly explained Roni had left at least an hour before, pointedly adding she’d looked really upset that Shannon hadn’t shown up. Fred told her to hush and he and Shannon to order one drink and drink it fast because they were closing promptly at two a.m. Shannon said he had to use the phone and hit Dewey up for a quarter. The TV showed that evangelist show Fred was always watching, the old coot who always rattled on about how the Antichrist was already lurking around, getting ready to spring, and after the ensuing apocalypse, everybody would end up in Hell except himself and his loyal viewers.
Shannon came back to the table from the phone. “You got another quarter? Now I gotta call Roni.”
“I thought you just did.”
“No, I called Todd first, but he didn’t answer.”
“Why’d you call him?”
“’Cause I’m thinking that’s where we can drop off Sky for now.”
Dewey was so taken aback he didn’t answer for a minute. “Drop her off at Todd’s?” He was incredulous.
“Yeah. I figure he could put her up for a while, see what happens.”
“See what happens?”
“Yeah.” Shannon laughed. “Man, what are you so uptight about?”
“You know Todd’s all burned out over what happened to that last stoned chick we picked up. This one’s hair even looks the same.”
“Fuck no, it doesn’t. She’s white.”
“I’m talking about their red hair.”
“That girl didn’t really have red hair, she was a chink.”
“But he thinks that girl—”
“I know, he thought she died or some shit, but that didn’t happen. She got up and left, man, that’s all.”
“Without her clothes?”
“Yeah, whatever. Stranger things have happened.”
“But that’s why Todd—” He noticed Heather standing at the bar, watching and listening, and lowered his voice. “That’s why fucking Todd is all depressed and withdrawn and shit, because he thinks that girl ODed or something while he was fucking her. He said she wasn’t breathing.”
“He was flipped out himself,” said Shannon. “I don’t think he even thinks that anymore. You’re the only one who’s worried about it. Todd’s just bummed out about Clare.”
“He might be upset about both,” said Dewey. “He acted like—”
“Man, you know what? I know him better than you do. It’s about Clare. So, he might like to have a little female companionship for a day or so. And if he really likes her, you know, as far as I’m concerned, he can keep her for a while.”
“He can keep her? She’s yours to give away?”
“Man, what the fuck are you, Gloria Steinem or some shit? If the chick doesn’t want to do it, she won’t.”
“Is this about the car?”
“What do you mean, the car? Look, man, they’re going to toss us out of here in a minute. Fred wants to go home.”
“I want to go home too,” called out Heather, standing with her arms folded. Fred must have been in the back, putting stuff away for the night.
“See, she wants to go home too. I need another quarter to call Ron. You got a quarter?”
“If Todd didn’t answer, why do you need another quarter?”
“What do you mean?”
“You should have gotten your quarter back.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Must be in the coin drop.” Shannon stepped back over to the phone while Dewey shook his head until he noticed Heather watching him.
Shannon was at the payphone, dialing, finished, stood there with the headset at his ear. Apparently the phone was just ringing, since Shannon wasn’t saying anything. Dewey glanced out the front window, saw somebody in the parking lot by the car looking in the back window at the backseat where the girl was lying. Christ, it was Jaime Tales.
“Hey, Shan, c’mere.”
Shannon turned. “What?”
“Jaime Tales is out there fucking with your car. He’s checking out the chick.” Heather, he noticed, perked up at the word “chick.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” He hung up the phone, dashed over to the window. “Motherfucker!”
Shannon ran out the door. “Hey Jaime, what’s the problem, asswipe?” he yelled. Jaime looked up, startled, dashed away real fast, across the street and around the gas station on the other side, with Shannon in pursuit.
Fred came back from the kitchen. “What’s going on out here? What’s all this yellin’ and profanity?”
Still watching the action outside, Dewey saw Shannon look into the back window of the car himself. He’d let Jaime run off without bothering to chase him. He headed back to the Limbo, pushed the door hard and came in.
“He didn’t wake her up, she’s still asleep back there.” Shannon sat down at the table with Dewey, sighing. “Asshole. Jesus.” Heather, behind the bar, was wide-eyed. Well, the whole town will know now.
“It’s two, we’re closed,” said Fred, crossing his arms. “You can’t take them beers with you. Goodnight.”
“Yeah, right,” said Shannon. “C’mon, Dew.” They stood up.
“Hope Roni got home okay,” Heather said as Shannon and Dewey headed for the door.
“You just be quiet,” said Fred.
CHAPTER 10
TODD AT HOME, REMEMBERING
The phone rang, but Todd didn’t answer it. Must be a wrong number, and besides, he was preoccupied. That fateful evening the year before unreeled in his mind like a movie he might have watched on video. In fact, some of it was just like porn, but uglier.
He leafed through the book until some familiar words in a passage caught his eye.
The impetus for Wingdale’s break with Crabtree remains mysterious, but in later years was said to have to do, oddly enough, with Crabtree’s former role as the manufacturer and promoter of Louisiana Bald Cat sarsaparilla in New Orleans back in the ’20s. While the drink was alleged to bear an aphrodisiac effect, which probably accounted for its temporary popularity in New Orleans and environs, the only part of the country in which it was readily available, Wingdale claimed that a far more sinister intent lay behind it, especially in a form Wingdale termed “Verum Deus,” which may or may not have been a highly concentrated variant of the beverage made up of the same elements, though what these were in the first place remains unknown.
In Wingdale’s account, Verum Deus eventually reduced a user to a mentally primitive Id-like state that would allow a sophisticated person to control their minds, in a fashion reminiscent of the popular conception of voodooistic zombies. No evidence has been found that such an effect or project on Crabtree’s part ever truly existed, and Wingdale’s reputation for exaggeration and outright fabrication does nothing to bolster his credibility on the matter…
Huh. Verum Deus was what Hobie said the recipe was for, though everybody called it worm. Was it really the same thing?
The whole business with Lenore had started with that worm shit, back when Hobie had first gotten the theater in the settlement from his parents dying in a cruise ship accident. Hobie had come up with the stuff for it, that Bald Cat, and the recipe he found on some internet newsgroup about this Crabtree fucker he got all interested in because Sabatino Scalabrino liked him. It was a night when Shannon, Dewey and Hobie had gotten together at Todd’s to play poker. Clare wasn’t around, hadn’t left town yet, but had been hard to get along with and was spending a lot of time at her mom’s. They were waiting for Hobie to show up, sitting at the table drinking beer and fucking around, talking about the mural Todd was supposed to paint on the side of the building. Shannon seemed interested, but Dewey wasn’t saying much. Not that Todd cared what Dewey thought.