It rang again. I went to the door, looked through the peephole, and saw a familiar face: big and broad and lumpy, almost boyish except for the acne pits that blanketed the cheeks. Coarse black hair, slightly graying, cut unfashionably close around the ears and neck and left long up on top, with a Kennedyesque shock falling across a low, square brow and sideburns that reached to the bottom of fleshy earlobes. A big high-bridged nose, a pair of startling green eyes under shaggy black brows. Pallid skin now lacquered with a hot pink coat of sunburn. The nose, red and peeling. The entire ugly assemblage, scowling.
I opened the door.
“Four days early, Milo? Crave civilization?”
“Fish,” he said, ignoring the question and holding out a metal ice chest. He stared at me. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks. You look like strawberry yogurt yourself. Stirred from the bottom.”
He grimaced. “Itching all over. Here, take it. I have to scratch.”
He shoved the chest at me. The weight made me step backward. I carried it into the house and placed it on the kitchen counter. He followed me in and flopped down on a chair, stretching out long legs and running his hands over his face, as if washing without water.
“So,” he said, spreading his arms. “What do you think? Pretty goddamned Abercrombie and Itch, huh?”
He had on a red-and-black plaid shirt, baggy khakis, rubber-soled lace-up boots, and a khaki fisherman’s vest with about a dozen zippered compartments. Trout lures hung from one of the pockets. A fishing knife in a scabbard dangled from his belt. He’d put on some weight- had to be pushing 230- and the shirt was tight, the buttons straining.
“Stunning,” I said.
He growled and loosened the laces on the boots. “Rick,” he said. “He forced me to go shopping, insisted we had to outmacho everyone.”
“Did you succeed?”
“Oh, yeah. We were so goddamned tough it scared the shit out of the fish. Little suckers jumped right out of the river, landing in our skillets, lemon slices in their mouths.”
I laughed.
“Hey,” he said, “man still remembers how. What’s the matter, guy? Who died?”
Before I could answer, he was up and prying open the chest, removing two big trout wrapped in plastic.
“Give me a fry pan, butter, garlic, and onions- no, excuse me, this is an upscale household-
I got a Grolsch from the refrigerator, opened it, and gave it to him.
“Going temperate on me?” he asked, tilting his head back and drinking from the bottle.
“Not right now.” I gave him the pan and a knife and went back to rummage in the refrigerator, which was near empty. “Here’s the butter. No shallots. No garlic either, just this.”
He looked at the wilted half Bermuda onion in my hand. Took it and said, “Tsk, tsk, slipping, Dr. Suave. I’m reporting you to the Foodie Patrol.”
He took the onion, sliced it down the middle, and immediately his eyes teared. Moving away and rubbing them, he said, “Better yet, we play hunters and gatherers. Me catch,
He sat down and worked on the beer. I lifted a trout and inspected it. It had been gutted and cleaned, expertly.
“Nice, huh?” he said. “Pays to take a surgeon along.”
“Where is Rick?”
“Getting some shut-eye while he can. He’s got a twenty-four-hour coming up at the E.R., then twenty-four off and back on again for the Saturday night shift- gunshots and malicious foolishness. After that he’s started heading over to the Free Clinic to counsel AIDS patients. What a guy, huh? All of a sudden I’m living with Schweitzer.”
He was smiling but his voice was heavy with irritation, and I wondered if he and Rick were going through another tough period. I hoped not. I had neither the energy nor the will to deal with it.
“How were the great outdoors?” I asked.
“What can I say? We did the whole Boy Scout camping bit- my daddy would have been heapum proud. Found a gorgeous place near the river, downstream from white water. Last day we were there a canoe full of executive types came coasting by: bankers, computer jockeys- you know the type. Play it so straight all year ‘round, the moment they’re away from home they freak and turn into blithering idiots? Anyway, these yahoos come barreling downstream, stinking drunk and louder than a sonic boom, spot us, lower their pants, and flash us the moon.”
He gave an evil grin. “If they’d only known who they were shoving their asses at, huh? Panic time at the GOP convention.”
I laughed and began frying the onions. Milo went to the refrigerator, got another beer, and came back looking serious.
“Nothing in here,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I need to shop.”
“Uh-huh.” He reached under his shirt and scratched his chest. Paced the kitchen and said, “How’s the lovely Ms. Castagna?”
“Working hard.”
“Uh-huh.” He kept pacing.
The onions turned translucent. I added more butter to the pan and put the trout in. They hissed and sizzled and the smell of fresh fish filled the room.
“Ah,” he said. “Nothing like a friend at home in the kitchen. Do you do windows too?”
“Why’d you come back early?” I asked.
“Too much pristine, unspoiled beauty- couldn’t take it. Amazing the things one learns about one’s wretched self out in the wilds. Seems both of us are urban sleaze-junkies. All that clean air and calm and we were going through the shakes.” He drank more beer, shook his head. “You know how we are, marriage made in heaven until we spend too much time together. But enough about the sweet agony of relationships. How’re the trout?”
“Almost done.”
“Be careful not to overcook.”
“Want to do it yourself?”
“Touchy, touchy.”
I gave him one and a half trout and put half a fish on my plate, then filled two glasses with ice water and brought them to the table. I had a bottle of white wine somewhere but it wasn’t chilled. Besides, I didn’t feel like drinking, and the last thing Milo needed was more alcohol.
He looked at the water as if it were polluted but drank it anyway. After finishing the trout in a few moments, he looked at my uneaten food.
“Want it?” I said.
“Not hungry?”
I shook my head. “I ate just before you dropped in.”
He gave me a long look. “Fine, hand it over.”
When the half-trout was gone, he said, “Okay, tell me what the hell is bothering you.”
I considered telling him about Robin. Told him about Sharon instead, honoring my pledge to Leslie Weingarden and leaving out the patient seductions.
He listened without commenting. Got up and searched the refrigerator for dessert and found an apple that he demolished in four bites.
Wiping his face, he said, “Trapp, huh? You’re sure it was him?”
“He’s hard to miss with that white hair and that skin.”
“Yeah, the skin,” he said. “Some sort of weird disease. I described it to Rick and he gave me a
