Winner in the Dahlonega Arts Council Literary Festival, this story
will appear in Golden Short Stories-Signature Series, Volume
II , to be released at The Dahlonega Literary Festival in February
2006.
Unfaithful
The door slams open
against fake stucco, sending a hunk of El Rey’s façade skittering
down the wide, clean sidewalk.
The drunk braces his
arms in the doorway. “Please, Jimmy.”
Jimmy shoves him
through. “Out.”
The drunk stumbles
into the fake daylight of The Strip. “I’ll make it up to ya- I
swear. C’mon Jimmy, when the deep pockets get here they’ll pay¾
everyone wants to buy The Guy a drink.”
The drunk laughs, a
choking sound that turns into a phlemy cough and doubles him over.
Coughing turns to retching and he falls to his
knees vomiting a yellow stream.
Someone shouts from
inside, “Hey, Bartender! How about another round of them
magga-riters?”
Jimmy calls over his
shoulder, “Be right with ya!” He pulls the door shut, but not before
he balls up a twenty and tosses it toward the drunk, saying, “Get
yourself cleaned up, Guy. You’re disgusting.” And then louder, “And
don’t come back!”
There are cheers from
inside the cantina.
“Game and MATCH!
Buster Quinn!”
Across town at
Harrah’s, cameras flash and spectators applaud as Buster Quinn
defeats George Land, “The Python,” in the World Pool Championship.
Buster shakes the
loser’s hand¾a chubby man
with a bad comb-over and watery eyes¾a
man who got his nickname a long time ago, when he could squeeze his
opponents and smother their shots. But the years have been bad to
George. He’d never handled his winnings well, usually walking away
from the match owing more than he’d won. Today was no exception. He
has two ex-wives waiting in a pop-up camper in the parking lot
drinking Cristal and anticipating a win that wouldn’t materialize,
even though they were in Las Vegas, where magic happens twice daily.
The Python and his
straggly entourage skulk away, replaced by photographers and
blondes.
Buster Quinn glances
at the glossy-lipped girls in low-cut blouses, then slips his arm
around a pale, slender woman with the eyes of a panther and long
black hair down to her ass. She stands with him as he accepts the
trophy¾a
hefty, golden cue stick adorned with precious gems and Russian
crystals.
Buster’s eyes well
up. “I’d like to dedicate this to my beautiful wife, Lullaby, and my
best friend, “Number One.”
At the sound of his
name, Number One yells, “Who’s Number One?”
The crowd cheers as a
path is made for a rolling black iron cage. Number One is a large
white crow with pink eyes. He struts the length of a gold branch as
he sings, “We are the champions, my friends,” sounding exactly like
Freddy Mercury. And when Lullaby joins in, it’s intoxicating.
In the limo, Buster
says, “That went good, don’t you think?”
Lullaby strokes his
arm. “You were wonderful, darling.”
Buster stares at his
wife, his gorgeous living doll. There is nothing about her he
doesn’t adore. For a second, he gets a cramp around his heart to
think he’ll have to share her at the party, that other men will see
her in this clinging silk dress¾that
they might imagine what’s beneath the fabric is one thing, but if
they touch her or kiss her- Buster winces.
“Darling?” Lullaby
holds Buster’s face in her hands. “Are you all right?”
Her voice soothes him
like a fragrant garden to the blind. And when she says, “I love
you,” the pain goes away.
Number One hops from
his perch in the rear window onto Buster’s shoulder. He squawks,
“Love you. Love you.”
The limo pulls up to
the restaurant where fans and photographers wait. Buster tells the
chauffeur to drive Number One around then pick them up in two hours.
Just before they exit
the car, Lullaby kisses Buster, whispers in his ear, “Darling, thank
you for letting me come tonight. I’m so glad you changed your mind.”
Buster glances out
the window. “Just stay behind me, Lullaby.”
Then the door opens
and the night is filled with flashbulbs and cheers.
Buster greets the
crowd, poses for pictures and signs autographs.
An eager fan holds up
a cue ball. “Buster! Hey Buster! Sign my balls!” Someone elbows the
fan, saying, “Good one, pal!” The fan drops the ball.
It bounces once, then
rolls across the red carpet to Buster. When he bends down to scoop
it up, everyone sees his beautiful wife.
“It’s Lullaby McKay!”
“Sing for us, Lullaby!”
The cameras swing her
way, and zoom in.
Buster on his knee,
cue ball in hand, watches his wife open her mouth and sing, “Oooooh,
love to love you, baby. Ooooh. Love to love you, baby...” without
hesitation. The lighting is perfect, the setting sublime. Her voice
envelops the crowd until they sway in unison, the seduction
complete. Buster can see tomorrow’s headline. It’s all Lullaby.
He stands, wraps his
arms around his wife and sings the final bars with her¾his
voice, a perfect compliment, until he holds the final note a second
longer.
After the applause
dies, someone claps—three distinct hand slaps.
“Look! It’s Buster’s
ex-partner, Guy Patrone!”
Guy cleaned himself
up since this afternoon at El Rey. He turned Jimmy’s twenty into a
couple hundred bucks at the slots¾and
because he’s Guy Patrone, that wasn’t enough. He took it to the
craps table and a few hours later had enough to buy shoes, a suit
and a date. The redhead hangs on his arm like licorice.
Guy grins at Buster.
“Congratulations.”
“What are you doing
here? I thought- ”
“What, Buster? Did
you think you’d find me facedown in a gutter somewhere?” Guy laughs,
showing perfect teeth. No one would believe this was the
piss-stained puking drunk they’d walked past on The Strip earlier.
Buster recovers,
laughing along with the others. “No! I meant what are you doing over
there? Join us!”
Guy bows. “Don’t mind
if I do.”
A TV reporter turns
to her camera. “There you have it, folks. Mystery solved. Guy Patron
is alive and well in Las Vegas, reunited with his ex-partners,
Lullaby McKay and Buster Quinn.”
The viewing audience
watches Guy and Buster wave to the crowd and as the foursome walk
away it looks like Guy’s arm around Lullaby slips, his hand resting
for a second on her red silk butt.
Buster leaves the
lights off in the bedroom¾so
unlike him, who usually has every soft light lit, the better to
reflect his image in the mirrors above the bed.
Buster covers Number
One’s cage. He says, “Good night, One. I love you.” The bird answers
from under the cloth, “I love you,” which makes Buster smile.
His teeth are the
only things Lullaby sees before she feels Buster’s skin against
hers.
In the morning, the
phone wakes them. Number One imitates the phone’s trill from his
perch on the bedside candelabra.
“One?” Buster says.
“What are you doing out of your cage?”
“Oooh. Love to love
you baby.” Number One sings, sounding exactly like Lullaby.
The phone rings
again. Buster snaps his fingers and the bird flies to the window
ledge.
Buster sighs and
leans over Lullaby to answer the phone.
A minute later he
hangs up. “Guess who’s making a million dollars tonight at the
Tropicana?”
It’s all over town.
The comeback of Guy Patrone, a showdown match with Buster Quinn,
invitation only.
“I can’t believe
this!” Buster yells into his cell phone. “You’re telling me that
because of some virus in the aviary, I can’t bring Number One? Sal,
that’s bullshit! Who’s going to call my shots?” Buster slaps the
phone shut and slumps into a chair.
Lullaby massages his
shoulders. “Shhh.”
She hums something
soft and Celtic and Buster relaxes. He reaches up and pats her
hands. “At least you’ll be with him.”
“Yes,” she says. “I
will.”
The crowd at the
Tropicana is classy. They speak in whispers, flare five hundred
dollar bills and sip forty-year-old scotch. Buster prepares himself
in the leather and lace Celebrity Lounge dressing room¾a
space decorated by the sultry lounge singer, Francesca¾who
becomes LeeAnn Petrofski with a Volvo and three kids when she clocks
out each night.
Sal says, “It’s time.
You ready?”
Buster caps the
eyeliner, speaks to Sal’s reflection. “Is he here?”
Sal shakes his head.
“But I want you out there first¾
take away his thunder.”
Buster smiles. “We’ll
wait.”
Fifteen minutes
later, Sal says, “They’re getting restless out there. Maybe you
should do a little demonstration, you know, warm up the felt.”
Buster hesitates,
until he hears the foot stomp and clap of his theme song.
Sal says, “Your
public awaits.”
Buster kisses cheeks,
feels phone numbers slip into his pocket. He smiles for the cameras,
then turns to the billiard table. The room goes quiet as he
approaches. He runs his palm down the long side, turns the corner
and squats. He dips his head to the table’s edge and spreads his
arms, caressing the rounded edges like a lover.
A woman in the
audience gasps.
Buster stands, hips
against the table, his eyes glazed. He reaches for the cue ball and
rolls it under his palm, closes his eyes, then tips his head back.
He extends his arm and Sal hands him his stick. Buster pushes
himself away from the table, opens his eyes and stares into the
crowd¾slowly
slipping his long fingers into the front pocket of his tight leather
pants.
The gasping woman
moans.
There’s a collective
inhale as Buster rubs the cube of chalk on the tip of his stick.
When he blows the powder off the end, everyone exhales.
Guy never shows. The
press puts the coward spin on it, saying he knew he’d lose and
that’s why he forfeited. He’ll get his cut either way, as previously
agreed. The tabloid shows go straight to the dirt¾pointing
to Guy’s alcohol and sex addictions¾dredging
up stories from years on tour with Buster. They run his photo in the
upper corner of the screen for an hour, giving Guy Patrone more
coverage than he’s had in a lifetime.
Buster unlocks the
penthouse door. Lullaby, in a white silk robe reclines on the suede
couch with a book and a glass of wine.
“Darling! You’re home
early!”
Buster comes to her,
buries his face in her hair and breathes shampoo.
He looks at her,
steps back. “You’ve already bathed? You know how I like- ”
“I know, darling, but
I was- ”
Number One sings,
“Love to love you, baby!”
Buster whirls
around. “What did you say, One?”
The bird says, “Love
to love you, baby.”
Buster looks at his
wife who hangs her head. He snaps his fingers and the bird lands on
his arm. “Tell me, One.”
The bird bobs,
saying, “Guy’s number one! Guy’s number one! He, oooooh loves to
love her baa-aby.”
“NO!” Buster says.
The crow says, “Oh
yeah,” sounding exactly like Guy Patrone.
Buster pushes One off
his arm. “NO!”
The crow screams,
“No! No! No!” as he flies around the room.
Buster grabs the
first thing he sees¾the
new cue stick trophy¾and
stabs the gold tip in Lullaby’s chest, piercing her heart. Her head
drops back, her beautiful mouth falls open, silent, as blood runs
down her arm and drips from her fingertips onto the white rug.
Buster rages¾smashing
glass trophies, breaking cue sticks, kicking out windows, screaming
and crying until Number One says, “I love you.”
Buster stops,
red-eyed, snot-faced. He holds out his arm.
When One lands,
Buster grabs him by the neck and wedges the bird in his armpit.
“Don’t ever- ” he
says, pulling out a handful of white feathers.
“Tell another man- ”
He plucks more feathers.
“When his wife- ”
More feathers.
“Is unfaithful!”
With the crow’s white
plumage gone, only the downy black undercoat remains.
Buster releases the
crow, who circles overhead crying, “Unfaithful. Unfaithful,” until
the words are lost in a shrill caw, an incomprehensible screech, and
the black bird flies out the window.
