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  You think I’m stretching things saying that beating Trudy could save Darrell’s life?

  Think about it.

  What type of life expectancy does Darrell have in the meth business? This guy’s a Grim Reaper trifecta: a meth cooker, meth dealer, and meth addict all rolled into one.

  I try singing it out loud, in my car: I beat a girl and I li-iked it!

  Katy Perry, eat your heart out.

  All jokes aside, I didn’t enjoy it, and I’d never do it again.

  But it wasn’t that bad.

  For me, anyway.

  I drive another twenty minutes and decide I really miss Trudy. And not just because she let me beat her up.

  I miss her.

  Why did I give her all that money after knowing her a single night?

  Because I’m a nice guy?

  No.

  Because I feel guilty for beating her up?

  Partly.

  But if I’m being honest, the main reason I gave her all that money is because I can.

  It’s chump change to me.

  Go ahead and hate me for saying that.

  Elvis was known for giving women Cadillacs just for being pretty. Does that make him a great guy?

  It does?

  Well I’m not a great guy. I just think Trudy’s a great girl who deserves a break.

  What I’m saying, I was extremely wealthy before one of the world’s richest men paid me a hundred million dollars to perform an unauthorized surgery on his girlfriend. How much is a hundred million bucks? The interest alone pays me a hundred grand a week!

  I’d like to see you try to spend that much money without doing something nice for someone along the way.

  Of course, by removing Trudy’s money issues, I’ve removed the only reason why she could possibly be interested in me. So I go back to visualizing Faith Hemphill naked on all fours. This time she’s wearing one of her custom-made saddles on her back. I expect (and hope) I’m too big to ride her and switch her ass with a riding crop, so I visualize someone smaller doing it.

  A few months ago I met a midget, a dwarf, and an elf at a government facility near Bedford, Virginia.

  At least I think Charlie’s an elf.

  I picture Charlie riding Faith Hemphill, switching her ass with a half-sized riding crop.

  “Giddyup!” he shouts. He whacks her rear flank. “Trot!” Whack! “Canter!” Whack!

  I shake away the image. It’s doing nothing for me.

  My mind drifts back to Trudy Lake. She was all bruised up, in the hospital bed, telling me what a wonderful girlfriend she’d be.

  I believe her.

  I had an eighteen-year-old girlfriend a few months ago.

  Well, that’s a stretch.

  She wasn’t my girlfriend, I was paying her for sex.

  Wait. That is a girlfriend.

  But anyway, it was a great relationship.

  For me.

  Maybe Trudy would be willing to live with me a while for a fee. She could bank the gift I give her each month, and I’d handle her expenses.

  I have half a mind to turn the car around and see if Trudy might be interested in this type of relationship. You know, until she can find a nice guy. My guess is no, but it’s worth asking.

  Except that I’m about to turn off the highway onto Leeds Road, which puts me less than two miles from Faith Hemphill’s ranch. I’ve come all this way, I should at least meet her.

  As I start my turn I see a car broken down on the side of the road a hundred yards ahead. It’s an isolated area, and this guy clearly needs help. His hood is up, his wife is sitting on the ground, holding a baby. He’s waving at me.

  My plan is to pretend I don’t see him. I’m a New Yorker, so this is status quo for me.

  But this guy won’t be denied!

  He sees me and suddenly starts jumping up and down and flailing his arms in a way that makes him impossible to ignore. He’s actually stepping into my path on the road, putting himself in danger, determined to flag me down. A guy this determined has to be in serious trouble.

  But I view this situation the same way I view religion.

  If your religious beliefs bring you joy and comfort, I’m happy for you. Because the world needs good, positive people who believe they’re here for a purpose. To me, the best of the bunch are those who get involved and willingly help others.

  There are good, solid, decent country people all over this fine state. And I believe almost anyone who lives in this isolated area would be thrilled to stop and help this poor family. They wouldn’t think twice about the hassle, the heat, the inconvenience, or the blood or vomit that might wind up getting on their car seats.

  Since I’m not like these people, I don’t want to deprive those who are. Doesn’t it make sense this family should be helped by those whose joy in life is to help others?

  I think so.

  I flip him the finger and keep going.

  As I drive toward Faith’s house I decide I don’t really want to see her. What I really want is to drive back to Starbucks County Hospital and spend the rest of the afternoon sitting with Trudy, keeping her company. We’ll talk, laugh, and get to know each other better.

  That’s what I’d like to do.

  But what if Trudy doesn’t want me?

  I’d be driving all that way only to be turned down.

  She’s probably already asked Robert Bothwell to wire the first ten grand to her personal account. If so, he’s already explained she gets the money whether or not we’re a couple. By now she’s come to the conclusion the money’s enough. She can finance her new life and find a good man closer to her age. That would be in her best interest.

  But you know what I’m thinking right now?

  Trudy’s young and impressionable. And I might be able to talk her into a relationship that would be in my best interest.

  To put it another way, Trudy’s worth fighting for.

  She’s absolutely worth fighting for, and I’m willing to drive all the way back to Starbucks to see if I can find some common ground that would give us a chance to be together, even if it’s only temporary. If necessary, I’ll spend all evening trying to convince her. Then, if she still doesn’t want me, I won’t badger her. I’ll accept her decision and move on.

  I wonder if I’m starting to fall in love with her.

  God, I’d hate to lose Trudy tonight.

  Of course, I’d feel a lot better about losing her if I fuck Faith Hemphill first.

  20

  Darrell Lake.

  “What do you mean he drove right past you?” Darrell yells into the phone. “You should’ve flagged him down!”

  “I did flag him down,” Cletus says. “I jumped up and down and waved my arms and got halfway in the lane.”

  “That’s bullshit. If he’d a’ seen you, he would a’ stopped.”

  “He saw me, all right. Gave me the finger.”

  “What?”

  “He looked at Maisie and the baby sittin’ on the ground, then looked at me, swerved into me, to force me to jump off the road, then flipped me the finger as he went by.”

  “What the fuck kind of doctor does a thing like that?” Darrell says.

  “A bad one, you ask me.”

  “Now what’re we gonna do?” Darrell says.

  They pause, thinking about it.

  “It was such a simple plan,” Darrell says. “He pulls over to help you, you bash his head in, and rob him.”

  “And make sure he’s dead before drivin’ off,” Cletus adds.

  “That’s right. We’re eighty-six hundred richer, and he can’t run off with my wife.”

  “Sister.”

  “Whatever.”

  Cletus says, “You sure he’s got that much cash on him? ’Cause that’s a lot of cash.”

  “Accordin’ to Scooter he’s got five grand and Trudy give him another thirty-six hundred this mornin’. ’Course, Trudy might a’ lied about that part. But even five grand’s a lot of money. And he’ll have d
rugs in his medical bag.”

  “We still know where he’s headed. And I still got Maisie and the baby with me, if that helps.”

  “Are you really that stupid?” Darrell says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s a doll, not a baby. And there is no fuckin’ Maisie.”

  “Right. I know that. I’m just sayin’, me and Renfro can keep pretendin’ to be husband and wife, with a baby. If it helps. So what do you want me to do?”

  “Let me think on it a minute and call you back.”

  21

  Cletus Renfro.

  If you’re out in the middle of nowhere, thirty miles north, east, or west of Clayton, Kentucky, and happen upon an old, beat-up motor home, and the fumes coming out of it suggest someone inside might be conducting illegal, non-agrarian chemical experiments, you’ve likely stumbled on Darrell Lake’s mobile crystal meth lab. And if you’re dumb enough to get close enough to holler the name Cletus Renfro, it won’t be one person shooting at you, it’ll be two.

  Because Larry and Tulie Renfro named both their twins Cletus.

  Not that they looked the slightest bit alike, one being a girl and all.

  The problem was the parents were told by the ultrasound lady at the hospital that Tulie was going to have a boy. Larry and Tulie fought like cats and dogs over the name. Larry was fond of Clem, Tulie wanted Brutus.

  Their arguments went far beyond the type you’d find in civil homes. By the time Larry and Tulie compromised by taking three letters from each name, to arrive at Cletus, only three teeth remained attached to Tulie’s gums, and Larry had lost all feeling on his left side.

  It was Larry by day with his fists, Tulie by night with her frying pan, and they surely would’ve killed each other had it not been for Social Services who threatened for the first time in Wilford County history to take someone’s children before they were even born!

  Even so, theirs was an uneasy truce. So incendiary was this issue of names, when Tulie popped out the second child, Larry said, “Fuck it. Name that one Cletus, too.”

  “But it’s a girl,” the doctor said.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Tulie said. “They’ll both be Cletus, and they can work it out on their own.”

  Growing up, it didn’t matter to the twins what they were called. But their first grade teacher insisted the girl have her own identity, so the female Cletus said, “Call me Renfro.”

  And that was that.

  Renfro Renfro?

  Why not?

  But the kids at school called her Cletus anyway, and that’s what stuck. Except that Cletus continues to call his sister Renfro, which pleases her. Of course, when she’s pissed at him, she pushes his buttons by calling him Renfro, which makes for classic, and interesting, arguments.

  Cletus and Renfro toss the fake baby in the trunk and climb in the car to avail themselves of the air conditioning.

  Only to find it’s broken again.

  He starts the car up.

  “What’re you doin’?” she asks.

  “Darrell said Dr. Box is courtin’ a woman, Faith Hemphill. Figured we’d drive to her house and stake it out.”

  “And you’re goin’ there now?”

  “I thought I would. If we roll down the windows we’ll get some air circulatin’.”

  “And you’re just gonna head on over there right now.”

  “That’s right. You got a problem with that?”

  “Can you see out the front window at all?”

  He looks.

  He can’t.

  The hood’s still up.

  She laughs.

  “Shut up, Renfro!” he says.

  “You shut up, Renfro!” she snaps back.

  22

  Dr. Gideon Box.

  I’m at Faith Hemphill’s, counting the misrepresentations.

  First, she lives in a ranch house, not on a ranch. There’s a lot of acreage surrounding her house, fields, scrub pine…but none of it belongs to her.

  Including the ranch house.

  She rents.

  So the first misrepresentation is there’s no ranch. And the house itself is old and dilapidated. When I crossed the front yard to the porch a few minutes ago, a two-headed cat climbed out from under the car port to meet me, which I took to be a bad sign.

  The second misrepresentation is Faith is larger than her photos indicated.

  Much larger.

  To put the size differential into perspective, if the Faith in the photos is a penny, the Faith I’m staring at is the piggy bank it goes in. This is a large woman. She could use sheep for tampons.

  The third misrepresentation is she’s half-again older than she claimed.

  That, or she’s had a helluva rough life.

  On the other hand, she’s pleasant-looking, and seems nice. I won’t pretend she’d transition smoothly into the Manhattan club scene, but I don’t hang in those circles anyway, so that’s not an issue.

  For me.

  Having said that, I could fit in with that bunch if I wanted to, and Faith could not.

  I’m sitting in her cramped den, drinking home-made lemonade, squinting hard, trying to recognize her from the photos on her profile page.

  She’s not the same woman.

  Period.

  We’re making small talk.

  “Nice watch,” she says.

  “Thanks. Nice…” I look around, trying to find something to compliment. And come up with, “Nice taste you have. In watches.”

  “Why, thank you!” she says. “What is it? A Timex?”

  “Piaget Altiplano.”

  “Is that Italian?”

  “Swiss.”

  “I love Swiss cheese,” she says.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  She sees me eyeing her and says, “I may be a little curvier than you expected.”

  No shit? A little curvier? You think?

  “Those pictures were taken a few months ago, and I’ve put on a couple of pounds since then. But I can lose them back, stay the same, or put on some more weight, if it suits you.”

  I look at her and think I’ve figured out where all the lost pounds go from other people’s diets. In the same way elephants have been known to travel many miles in order to die at the elephant graveyard, lost pounds find their way to Faith Hemphill’s ass.

  My smart ass remarks aside, I don’t mind her being heavier than she advertised, and I don’t mind her lying about the photos. I don’t care that she embellished her lifestyle by claiming to live on a ranch. The fact I’ve been in her home a half hour and no one’s tried to hang me yet is enough to keep me content.

  “What was it that attracted you to my profile on the dating site?” she says.

  The truth? Her web name.

  Horny Hottie.

  But what I say is, “You seemed interesting.”

  “In what way?”

  I start to say something about her ranch, and horses, then realize ninety percent of her profile might be a lie. So I say, “Tell me about your saddle business.”

  “Well, aren’t you the eager beaver!” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “If you want to see my horses, just say so, silly man!”

  “You have horses?”

  She winks.

  “Where are they?”

  “You know where!” she says.

  I’m confused. Does this mean she doesn’t have horses? Or she does, but they’re somewhere else?

  She says, “The horses I’m referrin’ to can be found right where you’d expect.”

  “Which is where, exactly?”

  “In my bedroom, of course!”

  I raise an eyebrow. Could “horses” be a euphemism for something sexual? And do I want to do something sexual with this older, plus-sized saddle-maker?

  I think about Trudy. If I knew for certain she wanted me, I wouldn’t even consider entering this woman’s bedroom. I suppose I could call Trudy and ask her if she wants me, but that would be rude to Faith.
<
br />   “Ready to see my horses, cowboy?” Faith says, adjusting her bosoms.

  I still can’t imagine what she means.

  Horses?

  In the bedroom?

  Weird.

  Then again, I suppose it can’t hurt to at least find out what she’s talking about.

  “I’m ready,” I say. “I think.”

  She smiles, takes my hand, helps me to my feet, leads me to her bedroom. When we get close, she says, “Put you ear to the door and listen.”

  I do, and she says, “You hear it?”

  I do hear it. But have no idea what I’m hearing. Some sort of humming or buzzing sound. Like the sound a giant neon sign makes when you’re standing beneath it. I’m also detecting an occasional gurgling, bubbling sound. The kind half a dozen stoners might make while smoking water pipes at the same time.

  I briefly wonder if she could possibly be running an opium den in her bedroom.

  She puts her palm on my cheek and says, “Once you enter this portal, your life will never be the same.”

  “That sounds rather hyperbolic,” I say.

  “Just you wait,” she says.

  Then she opens the door.

  And my jaw drops.

  23

  It’s not what you think.

  Meaning, it’s not what I thought.

  Nor what anyone would think.

  24

  Faith Hemphill has seahorses.

  Hundreds of them.

  In tanks, covering every square inch of wall space in the room.

  The tanks are different shapes, sizes and colors, but all contain seahorses.

  “Pick a favorite,” she says.

  “There are hundreds. It would take me all day.”

  “Welcome to my world!” she says.

  Then-I shit you not-she starts introducing them to me, one-at-a-time.

  “This one’s George,” she says. “And this here’s Lucas. That’s Gracie. And this little guy’s Jimmy. Hi, Jimmie!” she says. “There’s Lucy, and…and…there’s Desi, and Fred.”