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CHAPTER 11, EXCERPT 4
Frank sensed Pills was tensing up, the man perhaps getting a bit jealous and insecure. Pills was chugging beer and trying hard to act cool but his shoulders were up a little and he was starting to fidget. And then the other guy, Pill’s friend with the glasses and the Elvis hair, was coming into the glow of the campfire. “The smelters sent me for more beer,” the guy said, grinning like he was actually enjoying himself and not just putting on an act for his boss man’s benefit.
Pillsbury did the proper social thing and introduced Frank to Roger Bergson. Frank shook Roger’s hand, noticing the lack of calluses. And then another yelp came from the lakeshore and the three men turned their heads to Judy lifting a full-to-overflowing net of smelt from the dark water and dumping it into the waiting maw of the garbage sack, Moran shuffling around, the Hefty bag awkward in his hands. A few of the smelt leapt prematurely from the net and commenced flopping on the rocks and Moran bent over and scooped them into the bag, keeping a large one—Frank thought it was at least a foot long—in his hand.
Frank knew what was coming next, as Danny straightened himself and promptly bit the head off the big smelt.
So there it is, Frank thought, there’s always someone. And of course it was Danny Moran. Who else was more qualified to play the fish-decapitating sideshow geek? Moran was at the water’s edge now and Judy and her friend were still laughing. But their necks were stiff and the new girl was maybe put off by Moran’s nod to tradition. Always respectful of the past, that Dan. And what the hell did the chick know, anyway?
“Did my construction foreman just bite the head off a dead smelt?” Pills said, his voice clicking up an octave.
“I think it was a live one,” Roger Bergson said, running his fingers back through his oiled black hair, his face stuck somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
“Lake Superior sushi,” Frank said, watching Waverly and the women ambling down the beach toward a dark area beyond the glow of campfires and Coleman lanterns. The ladies sure seemed to be enjoying Keith’s company and the guy was obviously playing it to the max. Both girls had cigarettes and Frank could see the glowing orange tips gliding around and flaring in the darkness about fifty yards down the shore.
Waverly bringing the women into the shadows meant one of two things, either they were going to smoke pot or snort coke. Frank guessed coke. Disco dust. Satan’s semen. Nose candy. Shit was all over town these days. Rumor had it some local guys were picking it up in Panama and bringing it back here in large quantities. Hide your wallets. And your upwardly mobile types, like those two women lurking down there in the shadows with Waverly, often thought of weed as something for dirty hippies, whereas coke spoke of money and prestige and status. This was total bullshit, total image-conscious emptiness, but shit, whatever the hell the three of ’em were up to down there in the dark, it seemed to be too much for Mr. Pills and his main man Roger, because the pair exchanged meaningful glances and Pills said, “Seems like the fun has begun, Roger, what say we join the ladies?”
Frank could hear the women laughing, Waverly a real card when he made the effort. Frank was halfway ready for the pharmacist to shout Tally Ho or Hear, hear, but Bergson just squatted down and picked three bottles of Beck’s Dark from the cooler before he and Pills went off to rescue their women from the charms of a coked-up hippie boy on the skids.
Frank saw Waverly and the two women coming back into the light as Pills and his pal approached on the rocky beach. Frank heard Judy say, “Ricky babe, ready to get your feet wet? The Sultry Sisters of Smelt are about to do some serious damage. Bet we can catch more than you two big strong men.”
The Sultry Sisters of Smelt—an obvious Waverly creation. Dude loved alliteration. Should’ve been a headline writer for a tabloid. Sometimes the guy could influence you without you even knowing it.
Down at the shore now Pills and Elvis-hair were picking Moran’s seine off the rocks and unrolling the netting from the poles, Moran giving instructions while still holding the garbage bag. The girls were in the water dip netting at warp speed, pulling up half-full baskets nearly every lift and Frank was wondering who was going to clean the damn things. Hard to picture either Pills or Judy leaning over a tub of fish guts. Maybe there was a service you could hire.
No longer fighting it, Frank stared at Judy, hoping against hope she’d turn and give him some sign, some repeat of Friday’s meaningful glance.
But she never even turned around.
“You don’t want to catch any smelt, Frank?” Waverly said, strutting now as he came across the stones. He squatted at the cooler, his face orange in the fire’s glow.
“Nah, man, don’t want to spoil your fun. Only so much to go around.” Frank was trying hard to picture Judy naked in the hip boots and he just couldn’t get there, couldn’t find the groove. No longer seemed worth the effort. The dark beer had his mouth tasting like the bottom of an old hip boot and, basically, he was resigning himself to the fact that everything sucked. “You want to get out of here, Keith?” he said.
“Sounds good, man. My work here is done. Whattaya say we hit the Metro.”
“Uh, not sure about that… But—ah fuck it, why not? Where particular people congregate, right, Keith?”
“Right on, man.”
(End of Chapter 11)
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