He looked around the spacious room. A stone bust of some guy named Caesar stood on a pedestal by one wall, and another one of some guy named Alexander the Great stood next to the window. Jiff guessed these guys were relatives of Liberace, maybe helped get him started in Vegas. There was also a chess table made of checkerboarded marble and pieces that looked made of silver and gold.
Lucky bastard
…Jiff knew that his client’s money came from an inheritance—he was the last of the line.
Ain’t no way that fat pansy’s ever gonna have a kid to inherit what’s left.
Jiff knew he could steal a chess piece or two, but that wasn’t his style. He was just a hayseed male hooker, not a thief.
An old, fancy armoire stood opened, revealing cans
of nuts and boxes of chocolates. “Hey, can I have some’a this?”
“All that I own…is yours.”
I guess that means yes.
Jiff knew he had to get the gears shifted fast now, otherwise the man’d just get all depressed and mushy. He opened a box of Trufflettes. “Wow, these are good.”
“Take the whole box, I’ll get you more. I order them special from France.”
Jiff shook his head. The antique cupboard was
full
of such stuff.
The poor bastard. Aside from me comin’ over here and treatin’ him like dog shit, all he’s got to look forward to is food.
“But, you know, you ought’a cut down on this stuff. It’s bad for your heart’n all.”
A grateful sob. “You care about me!”
Christ.
Jiff knew that the sight of his naked body was just riling the old man up. He began to dress.
“I’m nothing,” his client croaked. “I’ve got nothing.”
“Aw, don’t start talkin’ like that now. Shee-it, you got quite a bit from what I can see. Nice car, nice place, money.”
“Don’t you understand? None of that means anything, not without love. I’ve got no true happiness at all…”
“Stop feelin’ sorry for yourself!” Jiff snapped.
I gotta get out’a here!
“Come on, now, none of that. Look, I got work to do, so where’s my money?”
A trembling hand pointed to an inlaid dresser. Jiff picked up the check and folded it in his pocket.
“At least, tell me…Tell me you like me! Please!”
“A’course I like ya—”
“Then love me, too!”
“We been over it’n over it. This ain’t like that, and never will be. This is just fun and games. We’re
friends,
that’s it. You help me out, I help you out. We play a
game.
What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with bein’ friends?”
Teary eyes looked up. “Do you ever…think about me? I mean…when we’re together?”
Jiff was getting sick of this.
Man, when I’m with you, all I think about is Christian Bale in his Batman suit, you pathetic fat slob
…But Jiff just couldn’t be that much of a prick. The man was too harmless to be disgusted by. “A’course I think about you sometimes,” he lied.
The client clasped his hands. “Thank you!”
Jiff needed to split. He needed to be around some real men. “Now you give me a call next time you want me to come by.” And then he headed for the stairs.
Halfway down, he heard the plea: “Marry me! It’ll be our secret! You can have as many lovers as you want! I’ll give you everything! Just…marry me!”
Jiff hit the back door fast.
Collier woke at just past noon, a seam of sunlight from the curtains laying a bar across his eyes.
What a slug,
he thought. He felt sick from some inner confusion, then in bits and pieces everything resurfaced: the atrocious nightmare, Lottie, the hole in the wall…and the voices he thought he’d heard.
He frowned it all away and quickly showered, only now noticing a numb erection.
What a night.
The stair hall bloomed in the sun, flagging a distant headache that was no doubt the by-product of drinking too much. Just as he began to take the stairs down, he heard children laughing, and an excited voice like a little girl’s exclaim: “Here, boy! Come get the ball! Here, boy!”
Like a kid calling a dog,
he thought. He walked back up and looked but no one was there.
Mrs. Butler was dusting the banister down below. She looked up at him, as Collier was forced to look
down,
where his eyes targeted her cleavage. Today the stacked old woman wore a smart frilled blouse and blue skirt. Collier felt a covert thrill, now that he’d seen her naked in the peephole.
“Good morning, Mrs. Butler—er, I should say good afternoon.”
Her withered face beamed. “Ya missed breakfast but I’d be happy to fix ya up somethin’ for lunch.”
“Oh, no thanks. I’m going to walk into town. I’ll pick something up there later.”
“And again, Mr. Collier, I’m so sorry about my silly drunken daughter bein’ a thorn in your side last night—”
“Don’t mention it. I was a little drunk myself, if you want to know the truth.”
“So what’cha lookin’ for in town? Anything in particular?”
She stepped aside as he descended; Collier’s eyes groaned against her plush body. “Actually, the bookstore. Is that on the main street?”
“Yes, sir, right on the corner. Number One Street and Penelope. It’s a fine little shop.”
Something nagged at him—besides her blaring curves. “Oh, and I wanted to ask you something. Do you allow guests to bring pets to the inn?”
Her eyes seemed to dim. “Pets, well, no. But of course if you’re thinkin’ of bringing a pet on some future visit, I’m sure I could make—”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that—” Suddenly he felt foolish bringing it up. “I thought I saw a dog last night.”
“A dog? In the inn? There aren’t any here, I can assure you. And we don’t own any pets personally.”
What a mistake. I was seeing things because I was drunk and stressed out from her psycho daughter.
“I’m sorry, I guess my head wasn’t on straight last night. Let me just say that the beer at Cusher’s was so good, I drank a few too many.”
She tried to laugh. “Well, we want ya to have a good time, Mr. Collier.” She paused and pinched her chin. “There is a stray dog ’cos these parts that some folks see. What kind’a dog was it you thought ya saw?”
“I don’t even know. A mutt, I guess, about the size of a bulldog. Kind of a muddy brown.”
Did she throw off a moment of fluster? “Well, if some stray got in here, we’ll have it out of here a mite fast. Lottie leaves the back door open sometimes. Honestly that silly girl runs me ragged, but you have a nice time in town, Mr. Collier.”
“Thanks. See you later.”
Collier went out the big front doors. Did her reaction strike him as odd, or was it just more overflow?
There’s no dog. I’m the one who’s overreacting.
He let the winding road out front take him down the hill, into warm sunlight.
After a hundred yards, he felt better; something more positive began to supplant last night’s foolishness. He’d brought one of his boilerplate permission forms because he’d already decided that Cusher’s Civil War Lager would be the final entry in his book. He’d found what he’d been looking for, and the brightest sideline was the brewer herself.
She’s so cool,
he thought in a daze. “Dominique…” The name rolled off his tongue. He’d already assured himself that his professional motives were intact.
I’d give the beer a five-star rating even if the brewer were ugly.
Still, he couldn’t wait to see Dominique…
Downtown, the lunch crowd was out, filling the picture-postcard streets with smiles and shining eyes.
Money first,
he reminded himself. He didn’t have much cash on him, and right there on the corner stood a bank.
FECORY SAVINGS AND TRUST
.
Odd name,
he thought, but who cared? There was an ATM.
Several people stood in line before him. Collier waited idly, looking down the rest of Penelope Street. When he turned, he noticed a mounted bronze plaque bolted to the front of the building.
THIS BUILDING WAS CONSTRUCTED ON THE ORIGINAL SITE OF THE FIRST BANK OF GAST, AND NAMED FOR THE TOWN’S PAYMASTER, WINDOM FECORY. IN
1865,
UNION SOLDIERS CONFISCATED THE
BANK OF MILLIONS IN GOLD THAT HAD BEEN HIDDEN BENEATH THE FLOOR, THEN BURNED THE BUILDING TO THE GROUND TO RETRIEVE ITS NAILS FROM THE ASHES
.
Interesting,
Collier thought, but now the only thing on his mind was Dominique.
I’ll have lunch there today, and give her the release form.
“And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier,” he remembered her saying. Collier was so distracted by the thought of her, he didn’t even take note of the tube-topped/cutoff-jeaned Paris Hilton look-alike who was now bent over the ATM tapping in her PIN. Collier’s resurgent lust, in other words, was thwarted by thoughts of someone else.
“Oh, hey there, Mr. Collier—”
Collier looked up, surprised to see Jiff standing right before him in line. “Hi, Jiff. Didn’t even see you there. Guess I’m preoccupied or something.”
“Hard not to be on a beautiful day like we got.” Jiff stood lackadaisically in his work boots, scuffed jeans, and clinging T-shirt. “Out for a stroll?”
“Yeah, but I saw the bank here and thought I’d grab some cash first.”
“I just stopped by to deposit a check real quick, and then it’s back to work.” He’d pronounced “deposit” as “deposert.” “And thanks again for last night. I had me a lot of fun.”
“Me, too. We’ll do it again before I head back to L.A.”
Jiff grinned ruefully, arms crossed. “Ma told me ’bout your little problem last night with Lottie. She can be a right pain in the ass, she can.”
You’re telling me?
“It was no big deal. She’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, but it’s too bad she’s the way she is. Don’t fit in proper with everyone else, not bein’ able to talk and all, and a’course that goofy grin.”
“Hopefully she’ll come out of her shell someday.”
Jiff waved a hand. “Naw, that’d just get her into more
trouble. She’s best just doin’ her work ’cos the house’n stayin’ put.”
The poor girl’s doomed in that house of bumpkins
…But by now, Collier noticed the lithe blonde at the ATM, and several other men in line were eyeballing her, too. But when Collier looked to Jiff…
The man didn’t seem to be aware of her.
Just like last night at the bar,
Collier remembered. Then, very quickly, he noticed the top of the check in his hand.
JOSEPHAWITZ-GEORGE SUTE
, the name at the top read.
The local author,
he thought. Collier hoped to be running into him today. He noticed that the check was made out for thirty dollars.
Side work,
Collier recalled. Jiff had already mentioned that he was also a local handyman.
The blonde left; then Jiff stepped up and deposited his check. “Guess you’ll be stoppin’ by Cusher’s for lunch, huh?”
“As a matter of fact I am. I’m going to write up the lager in my book and I need Dominique to sign a release form.”
Jiff grinned over his shoulder and winked. “It’s a mighty fine beer, but you know, Mr. Collier, my
mom
makes her own spiced ale on occasion. I’m sure she’s still got plenty in the fruit cellar, and I’m
double-
sure she’d love for you ta try some.”
He’s trying to fix me up with his sixty-five-year-old mother again.
Collier squirmed for a response. “Oh, really? That’s interesting. I enjoy homemade ales.” But, sixty-five years old or not, he still remembered that body of hers, in the peephole—
Man…
—then the odd notion that Mrs. Butler herself had drilled that hole…“You’re welcome to join me for lunch,” he added, if only to blot out the image of the plush, large-nippled breasts all glimmering in lather.
“Aw, thanks much, Mr. Collier, but I still got some fix-it jobs around town ’fore I head back to the house.” He flashed a final grin. “But you have a fine day.”
“You, too, Jiff.”
Jiff strode off, whistling like a cliché. Collier took money out of the machine and continued into town.
A quick look into Cusher’s showed him a full house and full bar.
Shit. I’ve got to get a seat at the bar, otherwise I won’t get to talk to her
…The lunch crowd looked heavy everywhere, so he decided to kill some time roving in and out of some knickknack shops, tourist crannies, and the Gast Civil War Museum. On the corner, then, he noticed the bookstore.
Might as well go in now and see if I can run down J.G. Sute…
A bell jingled when he pushed through the door. It was a small, tidy shop, with more tourist buttons, shirts, and related trinkets than books. Several browsers milled about but none of them could be Sute.
Jiff said he was close to sixty
…Collier shouldered into a cove and found it full of Civil War tomes, mostly pricey picture books.
Wouldn’t mind picking up a few books on Gast, though,
he told himself. One shelf was filled end to end with the same title:
From Branch Landing to Gast: A Local History
. The author was J.G. Sute, but,
No way!
Collier rebelled. The downsized hardcover was fifty dollars. Another book, more like a trade pamphlet, showed the title,
The East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad Company
, also by Sute. The same title filled the next shelf:
Harwood Gast: A Biography of Gast’s Most Sinister Figure
. It was very thin, but,
That’s more like it,
he thought of the five-dollar price tag. It was not a quality printing, and the photo-plate section looked xeroxed, but as Collier flipped through he found some curious tintypes of the town in the 1850s and through to the end of the war. One plate, of Gast himself, Collier found chilling in the way the subject’s eyes seemed to burn through the photo’s fuzzy surroundings. The well-dressed, mutton-chopped plantation baron looked exactly like the huge portrait in the atrium. Another plate showed a sturdy wooden building with the text below:
THE FIRST BANK OF GAST
.
I was just there,
Collier thought. An opposite daguerreotype was devoted to
MR. WINDOM FECORY: HARWOOD GAST’S CONTROVERSIAL BANKING OFFICER
.
What could be controversial about him?
Collier wondered with a smirk, but the more he appraised the picture—a wiry, thin-faced man with a peculiar nose—the creepier he found the image. One surprisingly clear plate showed Mrs. Penelope Gast standing elegantly beside one of the house’s entrance pillars; she looked demure and beautiful in an elaborate bustle dress and corsetlike top. The cleavage in the lowcut top couldn’t have been more apparent.
What a rack!
Collier admitted.