“That’s the truth,” said Herb, after another sip of the coffee. He shook his head. “One deputy and six volunteers. I feel like that one-legged man in the ass-kicking contest.”
“You’re doing all you can, Herb. This isn’t your standard Friday-night drunk.”
Yeah, ain’t that right! he thought. And then another thought occurred to him. He unbuttoned the flap to his shirt pocket and dug out the check on which Fran had scribbled her message. He stared at it a moment, admiring how nice the handwriting was, even though Fran had done it in a hurry.
He glanced up at the clock. Ten forty-five.
“Something wrong?” Sally asked.
“Just worried about a friend of mine,” said Herb. “Guess I’m worried about everybody tonight.”
He squeaked out of his chair and got ready to go.
“Think you can hold the fort around here for an hour or so, Sally?”
“Sure. That’s my job.”
“Good girl. I’ll bring you back some doughnuts.”
“Aren’t you gonna finish your coffee, sheriff?”
He looked down at the coffee. “Yeah. I guess I better have a little more. Something tells me I might need it.”
He managed to drink down half of it.
It was a heavy-duty kitchen, the old-fashioned type with zinc sinks and a mammoth grill, and chipped dishes skulking beneath the counters. Fran Hewitt had seen dozens like it in her waitressing peregrinations across the US of A.
Fran had always wanted to do something more than be a waitress, but it always seemed like the fastest and easiest way to do short-term work. Besides, it was the job she always found most available. She’d waitressed in L.A., in Denver, in New Jersey—all over the place. Wherever the men went with whom she was involved, there went Fran Hewitt, and she could rely on a waitressing job waiting for her that had a big grill, a Formica counter, greasy refrigerators, and a large industrial sink by the dishwashing contraption.
She carried the last of the dirty dishes back to that sink now, looking forward to her date with Herb Geller coming up in just a few minutes. Just a couple months ago she wouldn’t have gone out with him. Not that she hadn’t liked his rugged Western looks. No, she’d been living with Freddy Nichols then, the guy she’d come west with. Freddy was a ski instructor looking for work, but the job never really went anywhere. And so he had taken solace in lots of drugs and alcohol. Then, in July, when he’d finally come out of his stupor, he’d just up and gone, leaving her in the lurch. Now she had to keep working here until she scraped up enough money to go somewhere else.
Or got hitched up with another man.
With a sigh Fran dumped the heavy plastic box onto the sideboard by the sink. George would deal with this mess; that was his job. And she’d be able to split this joint for her date with Sheriff Herb Geller. She’d gone out with cops before, but never with a sheriff. The idea intrigued her.
Clump! went the dishes, silverware rattling.
And then she noticed the gurgling sound coming from the main sink. Fran walked over and looked down into the yawning basin.
The drain was backing up. Filthy water was welling up a good eight inches into the basin. Greasy bubbles broke the surface.
Goddammit, she thought. What a time for catastrophe to strike! Before a big date! Usually it struck a few months
She was about to put the base of the plumber’s helper down over the lips of the drain, when George entered the kitchen.
“Hey, didn’t I hear something about a date with the sheriff?” George said.
“That’s right,” she said.
“You ain’t got no time to be muckin’ around with that!” George was a squat man of forty or so, big and not handsome. He grabbed the plunger and smiled at her. “Now, shoo!”
“Hey, knock yourself out!” she said, smiling with thanks for his chivalry.
The sink gurgled behind her as she left.
Fuckin’ sink!
George was a short-order cook, not a plumber, but he could fix a sink or a john as good as anyone. All it was usually was just some shit clogging up the pipes—figuratively or literally.
George attacked the sink with the plunger, wanting to beat his record at quick solutions to life’s little problems. “Simple!” That was George Ruiz’s dictum for life. You have to stop being scared of it, then just go in for the attack, and bang-o—your problem is solved.
He put the black rubber base of the plunger down into the water and started plunging. The sink rattled and thumped, and the greasy water in the basin splashed around. After a half a minute of serious plunging he removed the plunger and took a look down at his handiwork.
A couple of bubbles wavered up. Nothing more. The sludgy water hadn’t gone down an inch.
“Hell,” said George. What this place needed was a plumber’s snake, but the owner was too cheap to get one. Still, maybe the obstruction was near the drain, and he could work it out with his bare hand.
George rolled back his shirt sleeve and stuck his hand in. All the way up to the elbow. He felt around down there, but his groping fingers didn’t touch anything.
What the hell could it be? he wondered. It must be farther down.
He pulled his arm out and leaned over the sink, looking down into the drain, contemplating the problem. Maybe he could use a coat hanger, sometimes that—
A slimy red coil shot up from out of the drain. Before George could move away, the tentacle was wound around his neck and face like an insanely long frog’s tongue.
He was yanked headfirst into the mucky water with a great splash.
Fran could tell the kids were having a heavy-duty conversation. As she approached, she could hear Brian Flagg saying, “Look, even if I
No, he wasn’t that for sure, thought Fran. But she liked Brian. For some reason, despite the way he dressed and acted, she could see that he wasn’t hard-core punk. After over twenty years of relationships with men, Fran Hewitt knew hard-core baddies, all right. Brian Flagg wasn’t one—not yet, anyway.
She arrived at their table and set down the two plates she carried. On each was a slice of apple pie.
Brian looked up. “Gee, Fran. The sandwich busted me.”
“On the house,” said Fran, getting a charge from being charitable with the boss’s goods. “Eat up or I chuck ’em in the garbage!”
“I’m not proud,” said Brian, pulling his plate closer and digging in. The girl, though, didn’t touch hers. Fran gathered up the sandwich plate and went back to the kitchen.
Weird seeing Brian Flagg with that corn-fed preppy sort, Fran thought. She’s cute, though, and probably just what he needs to help straighten him out.
She hit the swinging doors to the kitchen, calculating that if she could finish this stuff in under five minutes…
She heard the sounds first. She turned the corner, to where the view of the kitchen—as well as to the hallway leading to the the office, stockrooms, and freezer in the back—was unobstructed.
There was a body sticking out of the sink, legs kicking convulsively into the air, arms splashing out great gobs of water onto the floor! George’s body, George’s legs, George’s arms!
And the water that splashed out—it was red with blood!
Wrapped around the part of the torso still visible was a filmy red coat of slime. Slime that rippled and sucked, dissolving skin and bone.
