The limo drove through Bahia Honda State Park, past the ruins of an ancient train trestle.
“Sal, got a joke for you. Salesman’s in a small town, asks the bartender where he can get a hooker. The bartender says it’s a small town, the only action is Willie over there, the wino at the end of the bar. The salesman says, ‘Are you crazy?’ Hours pass and he gets drunker and asks the bartender again, and the bartender says just old Willie over there. Finally, it’s closing time. The salesman is wrecked and horny. He says, okay, okay, I’ll take Willie. How much? The bartender says fifty dollars. The salesman says, ‘That filthy bum gets fifty dollars! This
“So the wino wasn’t really in on it?”
“No, you’re missing the beauty of it. You see… forget it.”
The limo arrived outside the No Name Pub. The chauffeur got the luggage; Fussels grabbed his wallet. “Sure you won’t join us?”
“Got another fare.”
Fussels paid in twenties. “Great gang of regulars. They absolutely love me in there!”
The screen door flew open. “Gaskin Fussels is back!”
“Not that jackass again.”
The attorney hopped on an empty bar stool and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get this day started! Drinks for everyone! Of course you’ll all have to pay, ha! ha! ha!… I got a million!…”
Regulars began getting off stools and heading for the pool table.
The afternoon wore on. More and more empty stools. By sundown, Fussels had the entire west side of the bar to himself. The only person who would talk to him was Jerry the bartender, because Jerry would talk to anyone. Fussels drained another beer and handed Jerry the empty glass for a refill. “…Of course people like you!”
Sop Choppy stood with a pool stick at his side. “We’ve got to get rid of that guy.”
The others looked back at the bar. Fussels was showing Jerry his platinum pass to the Bunny Ranch.
Bob the accountant leaned over the table to line up a shot. “He’s fucking up the whole chemistry in here. It just takes one…. Seven ball, corner pocket.” Clack.
Bud Naranja circled the table, examining the shit the accountant had left him. “He’s not that bad. Just give him time…. Three ball…”
A loud voice. The guys looked back at the bar again. Fussels slapped the countertop. “…‘No, the fifty is for me to hold him down!’ Ha! Ha! Ha!…”
“He’s never going to leave!” said Sop Choppy. “Been coming a whole month now, and we always end up over here playing pool. Then after he clears the bar, he walks up and asks what we’re playing. It’s hopeless…. Five in the side…” Clack.
Their eyes followed the ball into the pocket.
“You’re right,” said Bob, chalking his cue. “We have to take action. But how can we get rid of him?”
Fussels walked up with his drink, napkin stuck to the bottom. “So, what are you guys playing?”
A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA cruised over the bridge at Ramrod Channel. Serge was the pilot, Coleman the waist gunner manning the radio. They bobbed their heads to the pounding rhythms of Pigeonhead from the
“How do you like my car?” asked Coleman.
“Impressed,” said Serge. “Didn’t know you had this kind of taste. Early Rivieras are classics, jutting nose like a mako shark, tapering boat-tail rear windshield and, of course, the elegant comfort of a sophisticated ride.”
“It was the only thing under five hundred dollars.”
“Still counts,” said Serge. “What’s that gold chain around your neck? Didn’t think you were the type.”
“This?” Coleman pulled the chain out of his shirt, revealing a small brass tube. “It’s my dog whistle.”
“You have a dog?”
“No.”
“I’ll hate myself for asking…”
“This one makes a pitch they don’t like.” Coleman dropped it back inside his shirt. “Drives them away.”
“And you need that because?…”
“Dogs don’t like me.”
“What do you mean, dogs don’t like you?”
“They just don’t. Always trying to bite me. Never know why.”
“Like the time you were drunk and standing on that poodle?”
“This is different. I’m not doing anything and they give me trouble.”
“When do I get to see this maximum bachelor pad of yours?”
“Right now. Turn here.”
The Buick pulled up in front of a rusty trailer on Ramrod Key. Coleman walked to the mailbox and grabbed envelopes. They went inside.
Stuff was strewn everywhere. Pulled-out drawers on the floor. Furniture knocked over. Serge stooped and picked up a lamp. “Did somebody ransack your place?”
“Yeah, me,” said Coleman, checking in the fridge. “Forgot where I hid my stash.”
Serge set the lamp on a table. “Looks like some kind of fierce struggle.”
“It was.” Coleman came back in the room and plopped on the sofa with beer, Cheetos and mail. He began tossing envelopes in a reject pile on the coffee table. “All junk.”
Serge looked at the pile. “You actually got a credit card offer?”
“No, it’s addressed to someone else.”
