Cockeyed - Stevenson Richard (прочитать книгу .txt) 📗

with interest.”

26 Richard Stevenson

“He told me that the other day you demanded fifty thousand dollars. That represents a lot of interest on three K. It’s even more than Citibank charges.”

“I’m charging him a lot because now that he’s won the lottery, fifty K means nothing to Hunny. And because his refusal to pay me anything at all has been a thorn in my side that I am sick of. I have it coming, and, believe me, I am going to get it.”

Doebler looked like a man who, when he made demands, generally had them met. A good six-three, two-forty, with a crew cut above a whiskery moon face, he had the heft and sartorial coloration of a gay bear but not one with a cuddly demeanor.

We were seated at a table in the upstairs restaurant in a noisy bar on Lark Street. The music was some type of heavy metal lite, though the band playing it did not appear on any of the eight large flat TV screens arrayed around the room. These were showing a variety of sporting events — baseball, pre-season football, nAsCAR — and the overall feel of the place was that of a rest home for people with severe Add.

Doebler was chowing down on two double chili burgers, and I was keeping my grip moist on a sweating bottle of Sam Adams.

I said, “Hunny told me that you think he was responsible for wrecking your car. But he says none of what happened four years ago was his fault, and he accepts no financial responsibility.

What’s your side of the story, Mason?”

Through a mouthful of dough and ground beef, Doebler said, “Hunny was sucking my dick while I was driving out Western Avenue near suny, and I ran off the road and smashed into some bushes. The air bags went off, and we didn’t get hurt much. But my Firebird was a mess and my collision insurance had a three thousand dollar deductible. I had told Hunny to wait till we got to his place. But Hunny’d had a few cocktails — as Hunny always does — and he was totally out of control, as usual.

He was smoking a cigarette, too, and we were just lucky we didn’t go up in flames. Getting the Firebird back on the road cost over five thousand, and three thousand of that was out of pocket. My pocket, even though Hunny was totally to blame.”

CoCkeyed 27

“Something doesn’t quite add up here, Mason. Are you claiming that while you were driving your car, Hunny raped you?”

“Of course not.”

“But you are saying, as I understand it, that your erect penis was out in the open air, and Hunny was bent over and sucking it.

Did you take your dick out of your pants, or did Hunny?”

“Well, he did. That’s what I’m saying.”

“It must have taken Hunny some minutes to get your pants open or down around your ankles. During that time, why did you not pull to the side of the road — taking proper care and utilizing your directional signals — and retrieve your dick from Hunny and place it back in your trousers where you claim you wanted it to remain?”

Doebler glared at me and said, “You know goddam well why I didn’t make him stop. If somebody is sucking your cock — and they’re as good as Hunny is at it — you’re not really thinking clearly. But I did tell Hunny to fucking cut it out.”

“If we were in a court of law, I doubt you could fall back on ambivalence as a justification for your behavior. Or temporary insanity, either.”

“Look, if Hunny had not been stinko and out of his mind, the whole thing would never have happened. That’s the point, and that is why Hunny owes me three thousand dollars. No, fifty.”

I said, “Hunny says that when you called him on Thursday, you threatened him. He has this on his voicemail.”

A rivulet of chili sauce ran down Doebler’s chin, and he wiped it off with a napkin. “Oh, Hunny told you that, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, fuck, I was just making a point. And I guess I made it.

What with you all of a sudden ragging my ass.”

“I understand, Mason, that you have a couple of assault convictions on your record.”

“So?”

28 Richard Stevenson

“This has Hunny concerned. If you choose to sue him for three K, that’s your right. But you have no right to hurt him, and I am strongly advising you not to do it.”

Doebler, who was having a Coke with his burgers, said,

“Those incidents were when I was drinking. I’m sober now, and this enables me to manage my anger. What I said to Hunny the other day was just to get his attention. What’s fifty thousand dollars to Hunny, anyway? Why doesn’t Hunny just fucking help me out? He could do it with no sweat. I have issues, and he knows it. The suspension on my Firebird is practically shot and the catalytic converter is shit, and the check-engine light is on, and I know that in October I’m not gonna pass inspection. Fuck, it’s no skin off Hunny’s nose if he helps me out in my time of need. Ah, shit.”

I said, “Hunny is willing to give you a thousand. Not as a settlement but as a gift. He said you two had some nice times together, and he is sorry that there are hard feelings. This present, if you took it, would not indicate that he accepts any financial responsibility for the accident. Hunny is sorry it happened, but he believes that it was your own inebriation at the time that was the main cause of your driving off the road. You were still drinking then, Hunny told me.”

Doebler shook his head. “Fuck.”

“The thousand should cover the catalytic converter and get you an oil change, too.”

“I saw Hunny and Art on TV the other night,” Doebler said.

“That looked like quite a party they were having.”

“If you quit pestering Hunny about the three thousand, my guess is he would be willing to let bygones be bygones and you two could be friends again.”

Doebler had finished off the first chili burger and now he started in on the second. “Well, I could use the thou. I can’t deny that.”

“It’s up to you, Mason.”

Before Doebler could reply, my cell phone went off. I excused CoCkeyed 29

myself and walked back toward the men’s room, partly for the privacy but also so I could hear anything over the barroom din.

Hunny said, “Donald, girl, I’m sooo sorry to be phoning you at this late hour. You’re such a good boy and it’s probably past your bedtime. But Lawn just called me, and he is extremely upset.

He says Nelson has gone off somewhere to deal with a situation I am supposedly the cause of, and he said Nelson told him that I have really done it this time, and Lawn is coming over here to wring my neck.”

ChAPteR five

An Albany police cruiser was just pulling away from Hunny and Art’s brightly lighted house as I drove up, and I wondered if Hunny’s new “situation” had already escalated into a law-enforcement matter. It hadn’t, I soon learned, from a group of men ambling down the front steps. They informed me that the cops had come by in response to noise complaints from neighbors. The officers had asked Hunny nicely — he was a celebrity now — to have some consideration. He had graciously agreed, and now the party was winding down and people were heading off to the bars and clubs. A soft-spoken young Hispanic man with enough metal rings in his lower lip to hang a shower curtain on pointed out that there was still plenty of liquor and drugs available inside, and he suggested that I go on inside and help myself to some of “Hunny’s good shit.”

Hunny’s living room looked like the debris field after an air disaster, with dazed survivors lying around on couches and easy chairs while they snacked on Doritos and chips and Price Chopper clam dip. The twins, clad only in red thongs, were very much a presence, one of them doing some perfunctory tidying up, the other chatting idly as he sat on the lap of a man who looked like Karl Rove but probably wasn’t. A man in a pink ball gown introduced himself as Marylou Whitney and told me that Hunny and Art were in the kitchen.