I Remember You

by Joyce Armor

  “Tell me about Sludge again,” Wesley said. “They can’t stand him, can they?”

  He had only been at Full Court Press about nine months, and Chantella only about six months. It wasn’t a subject that came up often at all. Or maybe it never had since they’d arrived.

  “They don’t talk about him much,” Ellie explained. “And you’re right, there’s no love lost there. He owns Hubba Hubba Press in San Francisco, which hasn’t published anything in the last year, I don’t think, and we don’t sell their stuff anyway.” She stood up and stretched. “Sludge was partners with Roger, Bonnie and Spencer when they first started Full Court Press in San Francisco with ‘Muskman.’ And it definitely all went to hell. Bonnie said when the fire destroyed the first warehouse, Sludge accused Spencer of causing it. Roger and Bonnie took Spencer’s side and Sludge accused them of being in on it to anyone who would listen. Fortunately, there was no proof.”

  “Jerk.”

  There was a big investigation, she told him, with no charges filed against anyone, although the fire was ruled “suspicious.” She guessed that was somewhere between “accidental” and “definitely arson.” Bonnie and Roger ended up buying Sludge out shortly after that, and within a few years, the company was quite successful, beyond their dreams. “Sludge, apparently, has always thought he should have gotten more, that they cheated him. I think about 10 years ago, Roger and Bonnie bought Spencer out, too.”

  “Look out!”

  Ellie looked over her shoulder and jumped out of the way as the backdrop creaked and fell over with a thud, hitting the table and the chair where she’d been sitting. It knocked the fishbowl and other items off the table, but at least the container was plastic and didn’t break. Stunned silence prevailed for a moment before a familiar voice called out.

  “Never fear, Muskman is here.”

  Russell, in the Muskman costume, strode to the backdrop and tried to lift it. It was too heavy for him. He looked around. “A little help here?”

  Wesley gave him a hand as Roger, Bonnie and Spencer returned. They didn’t say a word. They just stood and took in the scene.

  “We need to stabilize this,” Russell said.

  “Where’s Number One?” Spencer looked around.

  Roger indicated a locked display case. “Safe from marauders.”

  Wesley found a two-by-four and wedged it against the backboard as Ellie picked up the items that had been knocked off the table and set them back in order. Thank goodness the salt- and-pepper boobs were unscathed. As the others stood there admiring the board, a gaunt, somewhat disheveled man in his 60s, Sludge Dupree, approached from the other side of the backboard. Had he been the one to knock it down? They all had their suspicions. Ellie tried to be objective, yet it would be so easy to blame him. He did have motive and opportunity. Watching “Forensic Files” again, are we?

  Sludge had that kind of dissolute look, thought Ellie. Nothing specific she could point to, just an overall “ick” factor, like he’d been rode hard and put down wet or whatever that saying was. He had straight brown, kind of stringy hair, a face that might have been handsome at one time but now included bags under his eyes and broken capillaries on his nose. His jeans looked like they could stand a wash, and his gut, even though he was not heavy, bulged through his light blue shirt. It was as if his evil soul showed in his outer appearance. Like a comic character.

  Sludge thought he was good at hiding his anger, and he was right, if you didn’t count his eyes. He hated the Full Court Press triumvirate so much he should have been shooting red smoke out of every orifice, and his dark eyes held spite. Nothing had gone right in his life since the fire, and he blamed them, for that and for turning on him. Most of all, he blamed them for buying him out right before the company became more successful than he ever had thought possible. It’s like they knew it and goaded him into selling out. They screwed him royally.

  He had long since justified in his mind the fact that he had set the fire that night, thinking he could cash in on his share of the insurance payout. He had also absolved himself of the bonehead mistake of not mailing in the insurance premium on time. They had asked him about it at the time, and he had lied about the payment getting lost in the mail. But they knew. They had to know. Why hadn’t they ever said anything about it? They were probably saving it to screw him later or were just too stupid to realize the implications of it. Over the years, Sludge’s failings had become Roger’s, Bonnie’s and Spencer’s. They had cheated him out of his rightful share of the business, and this was the year he was going to make them pay. Big time.

  “I had to see for myself that you yahoos are still in business.”

  “Quality lasts, Sludge,” Bonnie said, venom in her eyes.

  It was a side of Bonnie Ellie had never seen, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. Bonnie was no shrinking violet, that was for sure. She would have made a good bail bondswoman. Or female wrestler.

  “How would you know?” Sludge smirked. He pointed at Russell. “Who’s the rat?”

  Russell gave him the Muskman dirty look. “Don’t make me doom you.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I heard you’re trying to sell “Muskman” Number One. A real classic,” he scoffed.

  What an irritating guy. He made Russell look like Mr. Perfect. Stop thinking about Russell. Stop it right now. I mean it.

  “It’s not in the same class as ‘Happy Housewife Harlots,’ of course,” Roger said.

  “I’m glad you recognize that.” The slimy instigator started to head off but turned back. “Stop by the booth if you need any pointers, pagans.” And then he slithered off.

  Ellie felt like she needed a bath and a good scrub brush. And deodorizer. Logically she knew that nobody had zero redeeming qualities, but somehow in this world of comix, characters seemed exaggerated. The good guys were really, really good, and the bad guys were really, really bad. She felt like she was fighting on the side of right and justice. Yeah, you and the Lone Ranger. And Tonto, of course. And Muskman.

  Roger looked at Russell. “Go pee on him.”

  * * *

  By early afternoon, the convention hall floor was positively thrumming with the owners and employees of comix and graphic novel publishers, record labels, video companies, printers, even paper manufacturers and video firms interacting, as well as writers, artists and hundreds of excited shoppers and browsers. Backs were slapped, deals made and laughter rang as an announcer addressed the burgeoning crowd.

  “Welcome, folks, to the 12th annual Desert Underground Comix Expo, where you’ll find it all—fabulous thought-provoking and titillating underground comix, expressive graphic novels, wild t-shirts, an unusual array of DVDs, amazing novelties and various other interesting products from a host of reliable vendors. You will also enjoy surprisingly good food, including hot dogs, burgers, nachos and Sno-Cones, at several booths with the red and white awnings, along the outer aisles. For those of you who don’t know the difference between mainstream comic books and underground comix, the underground works date back mainly to the late sixties and early seventies, and they include social and political relevance, a little, and sometimes a lot of, sex and a whole lot of irreverence. There’s an information booth on the east wall—that’s to your right as you enter the hall—where you can find an exhibition map and get any questions answered. Enjoy your stay and don’t forget to visit all the booths and attend the auction on Sunday.”

  At one booth, Russell schmoozed with two beautiful young women. “No, actually, it’s very soft. Doesn’t itch at all.”

  Spying him in the distance as he flirted shamelessly, Ellie shook her head and marched up to him. Pinned to his costume was a button that said, “It’s not who you sleep with, it’s who keeps you awake.” Russell watched her approach, a woman on a mission. She should have been wearing boots and high-stepping. Or stiletto heels. And nothing else. Stop that. She’s off limits. As she neared, he shifted gears. “Ben Burrows, mild-mannered gardener by day, the intrepid Muskman by night
.”

  “Roger wants to make sure you hit all the booths, Muskman,” Ellie said, eying the young babes judgmentally.

  “I will,” he assured her. “I’m on it.”

  “And how many have you visited so far?”

  He pulled a ball of fuzz off his hip. Looking around and not spying a trash can, he put the fuzzball in one of the hidden pockets Dee had so cleverly included in the costume so he could carry his wallet and other small items. “The longest journey begins with a single step.”

  She hooked her arm at his elbow and dragged him off. They started walking.

  “Listen, grasshopper, I don’t care what you and Tiffy or every busty airhead in Las Vegas do on your own time, but Roger and Bonnie are wonderful people and this is really important to them.”

  He stopped. “I love Muskman, too, but it’s not cancer research.”

  She stopped. “No, but it’s probably Roger and Bonnie’s best chance to sell ‘Muskman’ Number One so they can move to France. Didn’t you ever have a dream?”

  “I have dreams,” he said defensively.

  She started walking again, then stopped. Sighed. “Just go circulate and get the word out, would you?” She wanted to apologize for stranding him at the hotel this morning, but he wasn’t saying anything about it, so she didn’t either. Coward.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He started to walk off in another direction, then stopped and turned and started walking with her again. “Wait. They’re selling Number One?”

  “Yes. How could you not know that?”

  “I guess I wouldn’t know it if nobody told me. I wouldn’t have forgotten something like that. I thought they were just displaying it because it’s so cool.”

  “Well, now you know, so you can go off and do what you’re supposed to do.”

  But he didn’t. The annoying furball kept walking with her. She had to say something about this morning.

  “Um, about this morning.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry we didn’t make it. We overslept.”

  She felt immense relief, not that it actually let her off the hook for her petty behavior. Still…“I just wanted to let you know it was okay.”

  He smiled that irritating, knowing smile that made her think they had come down 30 seconds late and she had stranded them. Like he didn’t want her to feel bad about it. Which made her feel worse.

  As Ellie and Russell approached the Full Court Press booth, she thought proudly that it looked awfully spiffy. Roger and Bonnie sat behind the table, and Spencer sat off to one side, sketching, as Chantella straightened up merchandise. How could she have thought she was cut out for something better? What was better than this? She loved these people and her work. She might not be saving lives, but between them, they made a lot of people happy, and maybe even educated one or two. And they weren’t hurting anybody.

  Ellie looked at her boss and cleared her throat. “Um, Roger, do you mind if I take off a little early today?”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “We can handle it. Will you be coming to the kickoff?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Thanks. I’ll see you there later.”

  She grabbed her purse under the table and started off back down the aisle.

  Russell followed. “This is it, huh?”

  “What?”

  “The rendezvous. The tete de tete. The big one. You want me to give you a little spray to help things along?” He exposed his armpit.

  She looked around, embarrassed. “Get away from me.”

  “I’m just trying to help. I know how you feel.”

  She stopped. He stopped.

  “That would be so incredibly impossible for a guy like you.”

  He was smiling again. How dare he?

  “Oh, really? What kind of guy am I?”

  She locked into his eyeballs. “A chameleon. The I’ll-be-whatever-you-want-me-to-be kind of guy. The eat, drink and be merry, tomorrow may never come, why make a commitment kind of guy. The I-never-met-a-booby-blond-I-didn’t-like kind of guy.”

  People were streaming by on either side of them, and they started to take notice, some slowing down and one or two even stopping. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene. She sucked in a deep breath and walked off. He hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

  “And this is bad?”

  She started to head out the door into the hallway but suddenly stopped and turned around. Her shoulders kind of sagged. She looked almost beaten. And kind of sad.

  “No. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. You should be whoever you want to be, Russell. Honestly. I’m sure your people are very proud. I’ve gotta go.”

  His people? That would be his mother.

  As she exited into the hallway and strode off, a middle-aged couple wearing matching green sweaters and black slacks approached Russell.

  “Muskman, will you bless us?” the woman asked.

  “I think you want Priestman,” he said absently, watching Ellie’s sleek form disappear in the distance.

  Chapter 8

  The object of Russell’s attention, always a little—and sometimes a whole lot—navigationally challenged, was somewhat surprised she found her truck so easily in the sea of vehicles now filling the convention center’s parking lot. Truthfully, she had mixed feelings about this endeavor and wouldn’t have minded if she’d had to search for a while. A long while. Or a day or two. Or maybe a month. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, eh?

  She drove slowly down the Strip, trying to calm her nerves. What the hell was she doing? Being proactive, my dear, like that ever got you anywhere. Russell was right; you couldn’t go back. She should just turn her truck the heck around, head back to the hotel and soak her head in the sink until her face got numb. But while her mind said, Run like the wind and don’t look back! her foot stayed on the gas pedal and her truck kept moving forward. To your destiny?

  And then she spied it, on the left-hand side, just where it was supposed to be, the Back in the Saddle Casino. It looked like a fancy saloon, with handwritten signs in the window touting whiskey and sarsaparilla. A brightly lit red, white and blue sign announcing GRAND OPENING SATURDAY flashed off and on in front of the small casino, at least small by Bellagio and Caesar’s Palace standards. She pulled into the parking lot, where there were only a few vehicles, mostly commercial.

  No sooner had Ellie parked the truck than she suddenly shifted into reverse and started backing out. “I can’t do this.”

  You are such a sniveling coward. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

  All right, now her head voice was playing both sides, trying to make her crazy, no doubt. She was a hair’s breath away from hyperventilating and sucked in air slowly, in juxtaposition to how frantic and out of control she felt. Just as suddenly as she had shifted into reverse, she slammed on the brakes. Looking around to make sure no one was witnessing how crazed she was, she took another deep breath and pulled back into the parking space. She rested her head on the steering wheel for a few moments. You don’t want to go in there with a steering-wheel imprint on your forehead, do you? She sat up, took another deep breath and put on her best determined expression. She could do this. She could. Probably. Her future might depend on it. Yes, that’s the spirit. It was only Brian, for heaven sakes. He’d seen her naked many times. How hard could this be? Too hard. Way too hard.

  “The longest journey…”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Slowly she got out of the truck, brushed off her gray slacks, although there wasn’t anything on them, straightened her burgundy blouse with the puffy sleeves that said “feminine but not too frou-frou” and checked her pits to make sure she wouldn’t humiliate herself—at least in that arena. She popped a breath mint into her mouth and slowly walked to the front door of the casino. She was glad she had worn flats, as there were 2 by 4’s, plywood, orange and black electrical cords and other obstacles along the way. She peered in a large window with a sign announcing “Liberal Slots” as the sounds of saws, drills and hammers filled the air. As she stood
there taking it all in, the door was flung open and would have smacked her in the forehead if she hadn’t jumped back. A workman in a paint-stained jumpsuit emerged and headed toward a panel truck.

  “Sorry,” the guy said over his shoulder, and Ellie waved him off. Being whacked in the head with a heavy door might have brought her to her senses.

  She caught the door just before it closed and walked into the casino, her heart thudding in her chest and pulsing, for some reason, behind her ears. She looked down absently to see if any of the throbbing would be obvious to others. She must have a pretty healthy heart, or surely she’d be dead by now with all the out-of-control beating it had been doing lately. Yeah, who needs exercise? And all those out-of-control heartbeats were related to men. Hmm, she was seeing a pattern here. Turn around and run, you fool! You can’t go back! Was that Head Voice bleating or Russell? What would Russell be doing in her head? That was a downright frightening thought. And she honestly had to stop thinking about him. Now and forever. Just say no. What was she doing here? She should just go back to her hotel room and veg for about a week.

  Yet still her feet trudged forward, almost as if they were detached from her body. Maybe she should have unbuttoned another button on her blouse. Maybe she should have worn her black, ass-grabbing pencil skirt. There was still time to run like the coward she was, but now her feet felt like she was walking in glue. She kept her feet pointing forward, concentrating on the task at hand. And what, exactly is that task? Finding true love? Oh, please.

  At this point she made a conscious decision to shut down Head Voice and was thrilled to realize it had actually worked. Once she somehow managed to get out of her own head, she could see that it was a madhouse inside the casino with a cowboy motif. Workers hammered away on the stage, laid carpets, set up tables and booths and delivered slot machines, liquor and food. Ellie realized everyone seemed to be consulting a tall, buff, good-looking fellow near the bar whom she recognized immediately as the inimitable Brian Marshall. God, he looked even better than she remembered him, his sandy hair shorter and more professionally cut than the surfer look he’d worn five years ago.