and a loose denim jacket, he didn’t look much different from anyone else in the bar.
He stared at the window opposite his table but couldn’t see further than his own reflection, which was haloed by the image of a neon BUDWEISER sign that hung behind the bar. His other senses painted a picture for him-he heard waves lapping against the pier outside, and the sound calmed him. He could almost feel cold saltwater pumping through his veins.
Relief. That’s what this feeling was. Royce Lewis was going to be okay. The tough little umpire had survived a beating, a near-drowning, and insulin shock. And, when it came to his run-in with Steve, Lewis’s mind was pure tabula rasa. Blank slate, for all intents and purposes.
The waitress brought his cheeseburger and another beer. Someone fed a quarter into the jukebox. The sound of a bass guitar vibrated across uneven floorboards. An old song from the fifties. A guy singing softly about a black night, and rain falling down, and his baby who wasn’t around.
Steve smiled, sure that his baby was around. She waited for him at home. And, after his visit to the hospital, he was ready to see her, because it was April who had taught him to believe in portents, both good and bad. And the news concerning Royce Lewis was definitely a good portent.
The cheeseburger was rare and juicy, with plenty of mustard. Steve enjoyed it. Food had never meant anything to him. Tonight the cheeseburger and the beer felt good inside him, and he had a little buzz going. He stared at his dark image on the barroom window, and suddenly he could see outside. Just a few inches into the black night.
Three moths danced over his reflection, ash-colored wings fluttering, attracted to the glass by the light inside the bar. Steve grinned, because he had once been just like the moths. His window had been the distance inside him, the mechanical brain that kept him from touching the light, but now that window in his soul was broken forever.
April had broken it.
The jukebox song ended, and it was a happy ending.
Steve sipped his beer, set the glass on the table. A dry crack exploded behind him-the distinct sound of a cue ball smacking a full rack of billiard balls-and Steve exploded out of his chair, barely catching his glass of beer before it toppled off the table.
Behind him, the sound of laughter was a cold black wave inside the barroom. Steve didn’t turn. He glanced at the mirror above the bar, saw the reflection on dirty glass.
A pool table. Four young guys leaning on four well-abused cues.
“Good break, Joey,” someone said. “Good my ass,” came the answer. “Just watch this.” It wasn’t April’s nightmare. It wasn’t. It was just four kids playing pool.
The door to the bar swung open, and a girl stepped inside. She was young and blonde. Her wild hair dangled across her face in sweaty ropes. Steve spotted a welt on her left eye, recent and stark red. She hurried past his table, and the overpowering smell of her perfume surprised him until he noticed the fresh stain on her backpack.
His eyes had to follow her. One of the pool players dropped his cue and hurried toward her. Steve was wearing a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his baggy denim jacket, and his hand drifted…
No. Not here. The nightmare wasn’t going to bloom right in front of him. He wouldn’t let it happen, not in the real world, not to someone else.
“Shelly!” The kid’s arms opened wide. “Jesus Christ!” The girl fell into the kid’s arms, sobbing. Brief whispers were exchanged, and the kid grabbed his coat. His buddies did the same, and they started toward the door as one.
Worry swelled in Steve’s gut. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Was this how people felt? He didn’t even know these kids, and yet he could feel their pain as if they were- What? His friends?
One of the boys slapped open the door. The others started through. “Hey,” Steve said. “Just a minute.” The girl stared at him. Her eyes were wary. Her boyfriend stepped in front of her, and his eyes were dark and hard.
Steve said, “Maybe there’s something I can help you with.”
The kid waved him off. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can.” Steve was looking at the girl; he pointed at her eye. “But how about you? That eye looks pretty nasty.”
Her fingers went to her face. She hadn’t realized how bad the swelling looked. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she said, “I ran into a door.”
“Yeah,” the boyfriend said. “I can fix the problem. I’m a carpenter.”
“You sure you’ve got the right tools?” Steve asked, knowing full well that he was way out of bounds.
“Yeah.” The boyfriend turned and started through the door.
The girl smiled at Steve before following. “Thanks.”
It was a word Steve heard a dozen times a day, but this time it meant something to him.
9:55 P.M.
Shutterbug lathered his hands with Ivory dishwashing liquid, whistling “Tiny Bubbles” as if he were Don Ho. He rinsed under the running tap in the kitchen sink and then lathered again, because he didn’t want the stink of Shelly Desmond on his fingers.
The little whore. Thinking she could put one over on him like that. And the pure hell of it was that she had succeeded. God knew how much money she had skimmed during her little excursions to the bedroom. All that time he had spent waiting for her down in the basement. All those evenings. And what an actress. She had remembered to flush the toilet, every time. He could still hear the sound of the pipes rattling over his head as he shouted, “Quiet on the set!”
Shutterbug rinsed, shot creamy white soap into his palms, lathered again. He had shown Shelly Desmond, all right. Damn little method actress. She wasn’t going to forget his method. She wasn’t going to forget his warning either. He had told her that she could expect worse from the organization that bought his films if she ever talked, but that was only threat number one. Threat number two was less violent but no less frightening-he had promised to spread Shelly’s videos all over town if she gave him any trouble. If necessary, he would shove them into her neighbor’s mailboxes, and he would personally stuff a copy into every locker in her high school.
The tap water was getting really hot. It felt good, purifying. Shutterbug smiled at the memory Shelly’s expression-the sick little dribble of tears that had smeared her makeup as he worked her over, the ditches of pain dug in her forehead as he shoved her naked into his front yard, tossing her clothes and backpack after her, not caring anymore what the neighbors thought.
The filthy names he had shouted after her still rang in his ears. Daddy must be rolling in his grave, Shutterbug thought. Just hearing those words spill my mouth must have him screaming bloody murder on Devil’s big rotisserie.
But every word had fit Shelly Desmond like a fucking glove. She wouldn’t dare come back. She wouldn’t say one goddamn word to-
The doorbell rang.
Amazing… Shutterbug strode to the front door, not bothering to grab a hand towel, white suds dripping from his fingers. It was definitely quick kiss-off time. He didn’t have the time or inclination for other visitor. His fingers slipped off the doorknob but he got it open, caught the door with his foot; swung it wide.
The woman who stood on the front porch wasn’t bad looking. Young, but not too young. Straight dark hair and lips that betrayed nothing. A black coat that was a little too big and a white cotton shirt that looked to be buttoned tight all the way to her damn chin. New black jeans, a belt with a silver buckle, and black shoes that weren’t much more than tennies but showed a little style.
Enough with the fashion report. Get on with it. “Look,” Shutterbug said. “Whatever you’re selling…I’m just not buying tonight. Don’t think less of me for it. I gave a hundred bucks to save the whales last time Greenpeace knocked on my door, and I don’t like nuclear power, and I hope that every spotted owl in California has a tree to roost in.”
