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  “Burns,” Trot says, a beer man by habit. The cognac makes him cough.

  “You’ve called for backup?”

  “County medical examiner. Dispatcher says it will be an hour, or more. Gang thing.” Trot takes another long pull, then coughs again.

  “You want to talk about it?” Bender says. His voice is men’s movement smooth.

  Trot hopes beyond all good reason that the “it” in question is “baseball,” but knows he can’t be that lucky.

  “Sometimes it’s good to talk about it,” Bender says again.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can’t always keep things all bottled up.”

  Trot wants to explain that keeping things bottled up is good. Without bottles there’d be beer all over the refrigerator—but he just shrugs. “I’m fine.”

  Bender leans over and says, “You know, I have some expertise with matters of the heart.”

  Suddenly, the song “Feelings” pops into Trot’s head. Makes him want to pepper spray himself. Please change the subject, he thinks over the din of the seventies slow-dance croon.

  Feelings, wo-o-o feelings . . .

  Bender touches him on the shoulder says, “Son, I have seen a selkie on a moonlit night and heard her call. I know that once that happens a man can never be content to be mortal again.”

  And when he says this Trot can feel Bender’s sorrow in his own heart and he thinks of Carlotta standing on the street in the rusted moonlight waiting for him. Thinks of how he ran to her, how she smiled. How she made him feel greater than himself.

  “Damn,” he says.

  “Man can’t help himself.” Bender sounds wistful. “These selkies, they bewitch.”

  “That they do.”

  Trot takes a sorrowful pull from the bottle; a third of it is now gone. Passes it back to Bender.

  “You know,” Bender says. “There’s only one cure on earth when a selkie steals your heart.”

  Trot knows. He’s heard the story of Bender’s last voyage on the Calypso, or “Collapse-O” as many call it, so many times it’s as if he’s lived it himself. And so, like bull seals in the moonlight, he trumpets as he has heard Bender do so many times. It is more of a howl, really. His voice wavers and cracks.

  And Bender joins in.

  And so, about an hour later, when the State Highway Patrol and the county medical examiner finally make it to the scene, they find the two men sitting in the moonlight like huge ancient seal lions—drunk, hoarse, and howling.

  “Got to love a small town,” the medical examiner says, mostly to himself.

  Chapter 14

  In the garage, the ancient fuse box is nearly rusted shut. The door crumbles when opened. The fuses are made of glass. There are no spares. They’re hard to come by. So last year Jimmy Ray rigged the box so that it overrides the breaker. He felt this was an ingenious idea unless, of course, the entire fuse box burns out.

  Now, of course, the entire fuse box is burned out.

  “Shoot,” Jimmy Ray says. Jesus holds the flashlight as the old man stares at his handywork. The flashlight battery is weak. The light flickers. There are no spare batteries, either.

  “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.”

  The word sounds like a sneeze. Jimmy Ray spits on the ground, jiggles the fuses. “Come on, just a little juice,” he pleads, but nothing happens. “Dang phones are out, too,” he prattles on. “Dagmar got me one of those portable ones. Base got to be plugged in for it to work. Shoot.”

  Jimmy Ray is mumbling in chorus with the voices that are sliding in and out of Jesus’ head. Reality is a little fluid for him right now. He’s going in and out of being Jesus like a Yugo with gears that slip. The voices whisper, buzz like gnats. Make his ears itch. Jimmy Ray’s lost Luger is still stuffed into the back of his trousers. And it’s still hot. His skin is burned, blistered, and peeling, which makes him want to scratch his butt.

  ONLY MONKEYS SCRATCH THEMSELVES IN PUBLIC, he tells himself over the psychotic rambling chorus in his brain.

  And then there’s Jimmy Ray, and all his mumbling.

  Jesus, as they say, is pulled a little too tight right now. So he snaps.

  “Annunciation is an important social skill,” he screams, exasperated. Shrill as a smoke alarm. Then pounds his head with his fists. Light from the flashlight bounces off the ceiling of the garage, its wall.

  Everybody—voices included—stops talking.

  Jimmy Ray turns around, nice and easy, cocks an eyebrow. “Sorry, son,” he says. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll speak up.” Then goes back to jiggling fuses.

  The sudden quiet makes Jesus feel calm again. “Is it dead?”

  “And buried,” Jimmy Ray says and slams the fuse box door shut, which causes it to fall off its rusted hinges and thud to the ground.

  For a moment, the two men stand in a circle of flickering light and stare at the crumpled door lying on the dirt floor of the garage. The fallen door is just another sobering reminder that in the never-ending struggle of man versus house—the house always wins. It’s a basic fact of life. And no matter how crazy a man is, he knows this, although he hates to admit it.

  “Shoot,” they both say in unison.

  Outside the garage the night is still. The air is damp with rust. Jesus turns off the flashlight, and the two men watch the fire burn in the distance.

  “Man,” Jimmy Ray says. “I wish I knew what that was. Looks close to town. Could be The Pink. That be a shame.”

  Just then a hungry raccoon makes a run for the chicken coop. Triggers the battery-powered security floodlight. The light slaps on, a startled sun. Both men jump. The raccoon runs away.

  Jimmy Jr., Jimmy Ray’s rooster, thinks it’s morning. Crows. The night is suddenly filled with the sounds of fowl love. The rooster is a randy sort. His combs are flared. He’s flying around the coop with great determination. All he needs is a splash of Brut. Tully, Dahlia, and the rest of the Rhode Island Reds flap wildly to get away. The rooster looks like a flamenco dancer sidestepping his way into them. He spreads his wings and tail feathers, struts, and makes a booming sound.

  It’s impressive, but the hens want no part of it. They nip at his neck with their sharp beaks. Some draw blood.

  “Women. They are a wicked species,” Jimmy Ray says, laughing.

  The security light goes out and the two men are in the dark again. “Want some hooch?” Jimmy Ray says, takes the flashlight from Jesus and fixes it on an old box marked “Playboy 1977–78.”

  “Only place I can hide it. Dagmar never thinks to look here. Too much like work.”

  He blows off the dust. Pulls out a mason jar filled with pink liquid.

  Jesus holds the jar up to the dim light. “Looks like antifreeze.”

  “Passion fruit,” Jimmy Ray says. “Stuff grows wild as kudzu around here. ”

  Jesus is suddenly skittish. “You know, it’s called passion fruit in honor of the Crucifixion.”

  “That it is,” Jimmy Ray says. “And I can guarantee if you drink too much it will surely crucify you. It’ll hoodoo the Hoodoo Man.”

  Jesus takes a sniff. “Smells like antifreeze, too.”

  Jimmy Ray laughs. “I like to think of it as ‘crisp,’ but with a mouthfeel that is surprisingly chewy and a lighter fluid finish with a slightly floral nose.”

  As Jimmy Ray speaks it is clear, even to him, that he has spent a little too much time hanging out with those Atlanta CIA chefs at The Dream Café.

  “Besides,” he says, “nothing else to drink in the house.”

  “Understood.”

  Jesus raises the jar to his lips, but before he can drink, Jimmy Ray catches his hand.

  “Word of warning, son. I wouldn’t gulp if I were you. Man lost all his hair once like that. Just dribble a little into your mouth and roll it around until the burning sensation stops.

  “It’s a mighty powerful year.”

  Jesus looks a little frightened, takes a tentative sip. In a matter of seconds his eyes water. He is shak
ing as he hands the jar back to Jimmy Ray. “I see what you mean about the secondary floral notes,” he says. His voice sounds as if it has been squeezed through cheesecloth.

  “Grand, isn’t it?” Jimmy Ray laughs, wipes the jar on the sleeve of his suit, and takes a sip.

  Jesus coughs. “It’s something.”

  Jimmy Ray often thinks of bottling his hooch. Call it “White Zinfandel” with a Vargas-type girl on the label. Appellation: The Dream Café. But it would need a screw top. Jimmy Ray tried to cork it once; cork melted.

  “I can make a fortune with this stuff. I know it,” he says. “I can see everybody in America swigging Passion Fruit Hooch, making Hooch martinis, Hooch spritzers with little umbrellas. I do believe that if we put a southern boy in the White House again, Passion Fruit Hooch would be served at all the fancy heads of state dinners.

  “I can even see the motto . . . ‘Save your hair! Sip, don’t slurp!’”

  After another sip Jesus can see it, too. “Then why don’t you do it?” he says.

  Jimmy Ray shakes his head. “I’m too old, son. I’m planning my farewell, not my comeback, tour.”

  Then he slaps Jesus on the back like an old friend, which, even in his cyclone of crazy, makes Jesus feel guilty because he knows, eventually, after Dagmar, he is probably going to kill the old man. It’s just what he does, natural as breath. Bowlers bowl. Killers kill.

  Or, as he prefers to think about it, “saviors” save.

  And some people have a problem with salvation. He’s just hoping Jimmy Ray isn’t one of them. He’d hate to lose the man’s friendship. Can’t remember if he’s ever had a friend before, but he certainly likes this one. Likes his easy Buddhist way.

  For a long while, the two men sit together on the back steps of the tiny key lime house and watch the fire burn itself out in the distance. Every now and then, they skip stones off the rooster’s comb and make him leap, which triggers the security light, and avian lust, again, kicks into high gear.

  The hooch makes the voices in Jesus’ head stay silent. He suddenly feels lucky, just like he used to in the old days when he was a respected man sitting at La Tropicana with the other respected men. Talking. Just talking.

  But there are twelve reasons why he can never go back. Most, like the rough trade boys, can never be traced to him. A few, however, were sloppy.

  Suddenly he feels remorse. “I miss my old life,” he says sadly and hears the voice of Dr. Ricardo Garcia speaking.

  “I know what you mean, son.”

  Out of reflex, Jimmy Ray’s hand lightly touches the scar across his own chest, across his heart. The scar from his surgery. It’s a sad gesture, filled with longing.

  That’s when Jesus decides to kill him sooner, rather than later. Out of friendship. Relieve the old man’s suffering. He’s a good man and he deserves it.

  The gun against his spine is still a little warm.

  Salvation is at hand, Jimmy Ray, Jesus thinks. Prepare yourself.

  “Bowlers bowl,” he says, as if it explains why he’s about to take the Luger and blow a hole clean through Jimmy Ray’s aristocratic, although somewhat battered, heart.

  “Bowlers bowl,” Jimmy Ray says, rolls the phrase around in his mouth like Passion Flower Hooch.

  Jesus pulls back the suit jacket slightly. On the count of three, he thinks.

  Oblivious, Jimmy Ray runs a hand though his perfect marcel hair. “I’ve never heard ‘Bowlers bowl’ before,” he says. “How about this one—‘Ultimate reality has a unified form.’

  “I got that off that Daily Zen website last week.”

  The idea gives Jesus pause. He makes a note to himself: never kill a Buddhist—too much obtuse chitchat.

  “Bowlers bowl,” he says again, this time with a weighty dose of dread. “Doesn’t that scare you even a little? Just the idea of it?”

  Jimmy Ray seems bemused. “Son, groups of men in matching shirts always scare me.” Then he laughs, and the mood is ruined, the moment lost.

  It is then that Jimmy Ray reaches over and pats Jesus’ back out of friendship. His hand accidentally touches the gun. Both the men feel it. The gun doesn’t surprise Jimmy Ray. He’s already figured that Jesus picked it up from the floor. He just wondered when it would make its debut. He’s a crazy Jesus fella after all, and that’s what crazy Jesus fellas do.

  Jesus, on the other hand, is not taking it so lightly. This complicates matters. He thought this would be easy; hoped thirteen was his lucky number. Now, there would probably be a scene. A struggle. Maybe even a mess. Ten was messy. Ten was a nightmare of mess. Ten woke up in the middle. Such a fuss Ten made.

  He hates it when they make a fuss. “Are Buddhists fussy?” he says.

  Jimmy Ray can see the look of deep concern on the man’s face. “Not usually, depends on the topic.” He takes another swig of Passion Fruit Hooch and pats the gun again, this time on purpose.

  “By the way,” he says, “I used my last ammo clip in the assassination of the ceiling fan. I think you should know that. Save yourself some trouble later down the road.”

  And then, in one swift fluid move, Jimmy Ray pulls the Luger out of the younger man’s pants. The whole thing happens so fast, so smoothly, that Jesus doesn’t even have a chance to react.

  “Thanks for keeping it safe,” Jimmy Ray says and twirls the gun around his thumb like a Wild West star.

  “How’d you do that?” Jesus squeaks.

  “Well,” Jimmy Ray says, “you know what they say—‘Bowlers bowl.’”

  Jesus looks confused.

  Jimmy Ray shakes his head and says gently, “Son, just ’cause I’m old doesn’t mean I’m not a player. Once a player. Always a player.”

  Then Jimmy Ray yawns, hands the gun back to Jesus. “The only thing this is good for now is stirring brown sugar in your oatmeal tomorrow morning. You like oatmeal?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  Jimmy Ray goes back into the house and leaves Jesus sitting alone on the back steps.

  Things to do tomorrow, Jesus thinks: grant Jimmy Ray his final rest; blow town before that rube Leon runs the plates on the Dream.

  Dr. Ricardo Garcia is now back for good.

  Chapter 15

  After several pots of coffee, Sheriff Trot Jeeter, not too drunk anymore, pulls up to The Dream Café. His heart is racing. Maybe it’s from the caffeine, or maybe from too much confusion. The medical examiner searched the scene and found no specific signs of Carlotta. No red sequin dress. No high heel shoes. No woman’s clothing at all, in fact. The bones left look a little too long, a little too large to belong to a woman.

  “There’s a chance that she left before the explosion,” he explained, “but it’s difficult to tell. The fire burned hot. All that’s left is a lump of something that is more or less human. A one big lump. And a pair of sunglasses nearby. And what appears to be a fragment from a black leather jacket.

  “It’s a pretty hairy mess.”

  “How long till we know if it is one body, or two?”

  “Don’t know. Got a backlog. ’Tis the season.”

  “Well, what do you think? Could it have been two people?”

  “Sure. They could have been in the throes. Won’t know until we can run all the bone fragments for the DNA.”

  Trot winced. “Thanks,” he said, and unfortunately now has a striking visual image of the last thing on Earth he wanted to think about—Leon and Carlotta “in the throes.”

  And now, he gets to talk to Dagmar.

  Merry Christmas, he thinks.

  The Dream Café’s parking lot is nearly full. He finally finds a space next to a new Lexus with gold wire rim hubcaps and an expired Illinois license plate. Takes a moment to write a ticket for it. Places it securely under the gold-plated wiper blade.

  Damn snowbirds, he says under his breath, but thinks about the old days when tourists were everywhere and the Ferris wheel, with its blue and red lights, still ran. He and Da
gmar were stuck on the top of it one summer. So he kissed her. And she kissed him back. Promised to love him forever.

  It suddenly seems like so long ago. He tears up the ticket. Writes up a warning, instead.

  When Trot opens the door to The Café, the place is filled. Plates chatter like teeth. The girls are between shows. Everyone seems to be eating,

  Doesn’t anyone know it’s still Christmas?

  The lights are dim, but the place is cheerful, not dark. The air is fragrant with Today’s Special, which is discreetly written on a board next to the door—apple wood smoked turkey with pommes frites of Yukon Gold potatoes twice fried in virgin olive oil and sprinkled with Gilroy garlic and fresh rosemary. Busch beer $1.29 on tap.

  Turkey, french fries, and beer, he translates. His stomach growls. Man, I should have had some dinner.

  Just a few feet away, he spots Dagmar sitting at a high top table near the bar with a large plate of french fries smothered in catsup. He watches her for a moment. She’s drinking a glass of milk, and reading the Wall Street Journal in the dim light. You’ll ruin your eyes, he thinks and shakes his head. Old habits are hard to break. She looks fourteen again, hair piled up like whipped cream. He tries not to think about her that way, like the girl he once loved, but it is difficult. He watches her as she makes notes in the Journal with a red pen and thinks of what Bender said, “High hair don’t mean tiny brains.”

  She sees him and smiles. Waves him over.

  He takes his hat off when he gets to the table. “Sheriff Jeeter,” she says sweetly. Pronounced the word sheriff as if it is some sort of joke between them. No disrespect intended, it’s just that the words seem too formal to say without a trace of a laugh. “I was going to call you tomorrow. Come have one of these pommes frites with an American-styled tomato reduction; and I’ll tell you about our Christmas visitor, and you can tell me what you think about this new trend in mutual funds. The Wall Street Journal did a feature on it, but I’m not convinced.”

  Trot feels a bead of sweat run down the center of his spine. If she touches me, he thinks, I can’t do it. He walks over, unsmiling. “Dagmar,” he says, gently, still amazed at how sweet her name is on his lips. “We might have a problem with Leon.”