by Edward Lee
“It’s time,” she said.
Mavis’ skinny face seemed to narrow. “Can’t we…wait a little while?”
“Why?” Bess snapped back. “The world sucks, people suck, our lives suck. I’m ready now.”
“But-but…” Mavis chewed a finger. “Let’s go back home. We can kill ourselves next week.”
Bess looked angrily astonished. “Mavis, are you stupid? We can’t go back home! Hello! I blew my father’s brains out this morning!”
“Well, I-I… I’ve changed my mind!” Mavis admitted, now close to tears. “I don’t want to do it! I still have things to live for.”
Bess’ gargantuan breasts jiggled when she blurted out a laugh. “Like what?”
“Well… The season-finale of The X-Files.”
Bess scoffed. “That show’s sucked shit since the third season!”
“It has not!” Mavis defended. “And David Duchovny just keeps getting better and better!”
Bess blurted another laugh so hard the raft bobbed. “That piece of wood couldn’t act his way out of a paperbag, and his name is mud in Hollywood!”
“It is not!”
“Don’t be a ding-dong. When that show goes off the air, he’ll never get work again. Ever since he forced the producers to move the show to L.A., he’s number-one on the black list. When that show’s gone, he won’t be able to get a job at a car wash.”
“Shut up!” Mavis shrieked.
“We agreed! We’re gonna DO it! We’re gonna shoot ourselves in the heads. Our bodies’ll fall out of the raft, and we’ll never be found.”
“But I want to go home!” Mavis bawled.
Exasperated, Bess threw the oars into the water.
“Nooo!” Mavis wailed.
“There! Now you can’t go home. ’Cos you can’t swim, you anorexic little nerd!”
“Better than a big fat BLIMP nerd like you! The back of your neck looks like a pack of hot dogs!”
Bess’ eyes bulged in outrage. “At least I’ve got tits! You look like a boy!”
“And you look like Jabba the Hut!”
Soon the two best friends were scuffling, slapping at one another and pulling each other’s hair. Several times the raft nearly capsized but before that could happen—
ker-SPLASH!
Both girls fell out of the raft.
“I can’t swim! I can’t swim!” Mavis shouted.
Thing was, neither could Bess. But even in her thrashing terror, she found solace in the back of her mind. It was her destiny to come out here to die, and die she would, just under slightly different circumstances.
At least that’s what she thought.
Just as she would begin inhaling water, a giant hand grabbed her hair, pulled her up, and began dragging her to the island.
««—»»
“Well I shore don’t know where my brother Enoch is,” Esau announced, “but you’ll get to meet him soon enough. How long will you’n yer friends be stayin’ at the lake, Mr. Morrone?”
They were back out in the stinky bait shop. “Oh, I don’t know,” Ashton said.
“Couple days, at least,” Bob offered.
“Well that’s just great, Mr. Morrone,” Esau said. “The longer the better. Anything in particular you’re fishin’ for?”
“Uh…”
“The trout’s bitin’ now. That’d be the north end of the lake, on the other side’a the island. East side, you got yer carp and yer pike. And yer catfish you’ll find on the west.”
Aston whipped out his billfold. “Sounds, great, Esau. Now, we owe you for the pull-ferry, parking, electric and water, plus we’ll need some bait. So what’s all that come to?”
“Uh-uh—” Esau scratched his nose. “Usually it’s my brother Enoch who does the calculatin’. Uh—”
Ashton snapped out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “This should cover it for today, shouldn’t it? You can keep the change.”
Esau audibly gulped. “Why, that’s a might generous of ya, sir!”
“It’s our pleasure.”
“You’ve been very accommodating,” Bob added.
Esau rushed to the refrigerator. “Let me get’cha some bait here real quick. Get’cha some worms, get’cha some slugs—fer catfish, mind ya—get’cha some baby crickets fer trout—” As he rushed along, he dropped the variety of bait into a box.
“Say, Esau,” Ashton asked. “I’ve always heard that eel makes for good bait too.”
“Eel? Oh, sure, and I’m just about ta fix ya up with some,” Esau replied. “The bigger fish like the carp, pike’n muskie, they jump all over eel chunks. And we won’t even charge ya fer the eel. We got all kinds of that junk. South side’a the lake is fulla the damned things.”
Ashton’s brow rose. “Is…that so?”
“Yes sir, see there’s a run-off stream from the mountains, keeps the south side colder. And this funky eel we got out here? It prefers lower temperatures. None of the other fish go near the south side ’cos they’re scared’a the damn things. But, see, the eel don’t eat other fish, all they eat’re zebra mussels, and we got trillions of ’em on the south side.”
“Is…that so?”
“Shore is, Mr. Morrone,” and then Esau grabbed a handful from the fridge and showed them. Three-inch-wide chunks of chopped eel lay bloody in his hand. He dropped it in with the rest of the bait.
“Say, Esau?” Bob asked. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of those eels lying around whole, would you?”
“You kiddin’?” and then Esau opened the second refrigerator, hauled out a big plastic box, and plopped it on the counter. “See? Ugly soms-a-bitches, ain’t they?”
Ashton and Bob’s jaws both dropped instantaneously. What Esau displayed for them was a box containing at least thirty pounds of Crackjaw eel.
««—»»
“Where are those fucking idiots?” Carol said, lighting a Salem. She and Sheree sat on the pier with their feet in the water. “They’ve been in there with that fat rube for half a fucking hour.”
Sheree needed a moment to break from her distraction. All she could think about was Carol’s previous sexual advance, and the promise of more to come. Though she’d never really enjoyed her trysts with women while in the porn business, there was something about Carol that had her sexual engine running red-hot.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“The Blobsy Twins—you know, our boyfriends?” Carol responded. “What the hell’s keeping them?”
“Ashton’s all hard because the redneck kid’s a fan of his show,” Sheree speculated.
“Yeah, but could you smell him? I’ll bet the guy hasn’t taken a shower in month.”
“At least. He smelled worst than the dumpsters at Pike’s Market during the summer.” Sheree looked out onto the lake. “At least we’ve got some scenery.”
“Yeah, it is pretty out here.” Carol spewed a thin stream of smoke from her lips. “But I could sure as hell use a drink.” She jerked an impatient gaze over her shoulder. “Where are those two hams?”
Just as she’d said it, though, Ashton and Bob’s trumpet-loud laughter belted out from the bait shop. “See ya soon, Esau!” “Thanks for everything!”
Sheree and Carol went to meet them by the path. Ashton rushed up and put his arm around both of them. “Girls! You’ll never believe it!”
What? Sheree thought. You eat a lot?
“Yeah,” Bob jumped in. “Ashton was right. The southern end of this lake is teeming with Crackjaw eel!”
Wonderful…
Ashton’s breath gusted on their bare necks as he giddily explained, “That hayseed in there had a whole box of Crackjaw eel! He thinks it’s junk! He cuts it up for bait!”
If he cut you up for bait, he’d have enough to last ten years…
“Yeah!” Bob said just as giddily. “This guy’s got no idea what kind of gold mine he’s sitting on.”
“Shit, I’ll bet just the eel he had in that box is worth ten grand alone!” Ashton hugged up aga
inst Sheree. “So here’s the plan. We act like we’re just fishing for trout, but what we’ll really be doing is dropping traps in the south end.”
Bob’s face beamed. “Yeah! As long as that rube and his brother don’t catch on, this lake can be our very own cash machine!”
Bob and Ashton did a high-five. “We’re gonna be rich!” Ashton claimed in glee.
Carol frowned and pointed out, “But you guys already are rich.”
Bob and Ashton brayed laughter.
“Honeybunch,” Bob informed. “Money’s like sex. There’s never enough!”
— | — | —
Chapter Six
Back in Seattle, deep in the recesses of The Rococo Seafood House, a slim, debonaire man with dark slicked back hair and a pencil mustache sat anxiously behind the desk in his office. He chain-smoked Gitanes and was on his third snifter of Louis XIII brandy, which cost $500 per bottle.
The man’s name was M. Gerald James, a world-class master chef, three time winner of the James Beard Award, four time-winner of Gourmet magazine’s Five-Star Chef trophy. He’d trained in Brussels, Venice, and Paris, and had once prepared Potage Saint-Germain and Exploding Lobster for the Premier Dung of the People’s Republic of China, and Firecracker Tasmanian Crab Ravioli with Tomally and Buluga Drizzle for Vice-President Al Gore just before he’d been charged with fund-raising fraud. Every Friday night, like clockwork, Governor Gary Locke sent a state police officer to the restaurant to pick up a carry-out order of Deep-Fried Ark Shell Tenders and Cajun Geoduck Fritters. James prepared the order personally.
Does Morrone serve the governor weekly? No! Has the Vice-President of the United Fucking States ever stepped into his restaurant? No! Has Morrone trained the with best chefs of Europe? No!
The source of M. Gerald James’ agitation was an ancient one: professional jealousy. Just as Napoleon was jealous of Hannibal Barca, Lord Byron jealous of Mary Shelley, and Eddie Van Halen jealous of Robert Fripp, M. Gerald James was jealous of Ashton Morrone. For in spite of all of James’ culinary accomplishments, his pride and joy, the Rococo Seafood House, was known as the second-best restaurant in the city.
Goddamn Morrone! The fat pansy! God DAMN him!
It was a professional rivalry, thicker than blood. Every day and every night, his full restaurant notwithstanding, James could barely go minutes without thinking of Morrone, in mental hues painted scarlet by hatred. James had the second-best restaurant in Seattle, but Morrone, with his Emerald Room, had the best.
That critical “assessment” was simply not acceptable.
Rumors had abounded, though, after James’ deepest strike: last summer he’d lucked upon a Thurston County fisherman who’d managed to trap a small supply of the revered Crackjaw eel. When James had served it in his restaurant, the reviews had been out the roof, and Asian investors had been knocking on his door with fists full of dollars.
But, lo, James’ source for the prized mussel-and-clam-eating eel proved to be a fluke. No more Crackjaws were ever caught, and the high James rode on was short-lived.
James was wealthy, but not nearly so as Morrone, who had his Microsoft brother backing him up. Subtle whispers throughout the local culinary community reported back that Morrone was so incensed over James’ small victory that he vowed to find the Crackjaw eel himself, whatever the cost. He’d pay researchers and consultants, recruit zoologists from the college, pay every lake fisherman in the state to go hunting.
And suddenly, James’ sources told him, the ever-corpulent Ashton Morrone was suddenly off on a “fishing” trip, Morrone a man who hadn’t taken a vacation in over a decade.
The bottom of James’ fist ground down against the desk blotter. His face tensed—in hatred. The way he felt now, his ire at high tide, he could’ve stubbed out one of his reeking Gitane cigarettes out in his eye and not feel a thing.
GodDAMN! Where IS she?
After moments, more which seemed like hours, the tiniest rap came at the door.
“Come IN!” M. Gerald James about shouted.
Head bowed and shuffling meekly, in walked the most petite, delectable thing. Short and slim, short-cropped umber hair, and breasts protruding as though ripe Golden Apples had been slipped beneath her blouse. This would be Rochelle, and fine navy stitching over her blouse pocket read: THE EMERALD ROOM
Ministers of war had their spies, but so did ministers of cuisine.
“My dearest Rochelle,” the words etched from James’ mouth like tinders cracking. “I’m told you have some, shall we say, intelligence for me?”
“Yes sir,” the nineteen-year-old girl peeped in response. “Ashton Morrone has gone on a fishing trip with his brother and their two girlfriends.”
James’ fist landed on the desk top as solidly as a twenty-pound railroad hammer. “I already KNOW that! I’m employing you to tell me what I DON’T know!”
The small woman quaked at the sudden uproar. She looked on the verge of tears. James’ had hired her at $250 per week to secure a job as a busgirl at Aston’s restaurant, and to subsequently eavesdrop and snoop around, to keep a close tab on James’ greatest rival.
“I know he’s gone on a FUCKING fishing trip, you stupid girl! I need to know WHERE!”
Rochelle blinked mist from her eyes. “Mr. James…he, I mean, er—”
“WHAT?” James exploded.
“I had to do…some bad things…to get into Morrone’s office…”
James jerked upright behind his desk. “You got into his office? At the restaurant?”
“Yes sir. And I had to—” She sniffled, more tears flowing. “I had to do some bad things.”
James couldn’t have cared less about the bad things. “WHAT WAS IN HIS OFFICE?” he rocketed.
“There was a notepad. He’d written ‘Crackjaw eel’ on it, and ‘Delectable Edibles, page 23.’ I’m assuming it was a reference to some book.”
“Let ME do the assuming! What ELSE?”
The girl seemed to shrink at each further rant. “At the bottom of the pad, he’d written the word ‘Sutherland.’”
“Sutherland? What the FUCK is that?”
“I didn’t know,” the girl sobbed. “But then I noticed on the wall was a map of Washington state.”
“You paltry ridiculous BITCH!” James screamed. “So what!”
By now the sensitive girl had nearly backed up into the corner of James’ office and curled up into a fetal position. Her words choked out through more sobs. “On the map I saw a red circle, you know, like it was written in Magic Marker.”
“YES?”
“The circle was drawn around a lake, about thirty miles south of Port Angeles.” The girl wiped her wet eyes. “Sutherland Lake.”
James sat behind the desk as though he were cast in molten iron. Sutherland Lake, the words played in his mind. He stared at little Rochelle. “My girl. My dear, dear girl. You may well have solved the greatest crux of my life.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a handful of $100 bills, then slipped them across the desk to her.
“Here’s a little extra something…to help you out.”
“Thuh-thank you,” and she picked up the bills.
“Sometimes I can be…quite caustic and belligerent,” he confessed. “But that doesn’t mean anything, that’s just me. Do you understand, my dear?”
“I-I think so.”
“You’ve done much for me, and I’m very grateful. And if your intelligence data proves to be true, I will fulfill my promise to you. You do…trust me, don’t you?”
“I… Yes,” she said.
James’ mouth went dry at the excitement. “You know how much I detest Ashton Morrone. He’s a gormandizing faggot. He’s an egotistical globose slob who revels in my total embarrassment and probably voids more shit from his bowels than a typical school of sea cows. If what you’ve done for me leads to his dethroning amongst the city restaurant critics, then I will do for you as I’ve said. I will make you assistant general manager here at a salary of $35,000 per year.”
&
nbsp; Rochelle blanched.
Sutherland Lake, Sutherland Lake, James thought. Now—now he knew. The sudden excitement filled his penis with blood, stiffened it out like a ripe tuber.
“And I’ve been fair to you thus far, have I not?” he continued. “I’ve employed you when no others would, yes?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“I’ve said nothing of your past history of cocaine abuse, which surely would preclude you from respectable employment, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve said nothing of your past criminal activities, your multiple shop-lifting arrests, your check kiting, and then there’s always that old boyfriend of yours who went to prison for car-jacking, right? And that innocent family he murdered? I’ve kept that to myself, have I not?”
“Yes, you have, and I’m very grate—”
James’ held up a hushing hand. “You’ve, uh, you’ve seen to my satisfaction in the past…and now I have to ask you to do so again. You do receive my meaning, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rochelle groaned. She kicked off her shoes, slipped off her panties, and hiked up her skirt. She walked around James’ desk and immediately slapped him hard across the face.
“Get on the floor, bitch!” she shouted. “Now!”
James pushed his chair out from under the desk. He wore no pants, and his penis was charged up, a furious erection. Oh, God, he whimpered to himself.
“Get on the fucking floor, you fucking piece of shit!”
James flopped out of the chair and lay on the floor.
Rochelle stepped over him, her long white legs spiring upward. Where the legs joined, he could se the precious slit and the muff of hair.
Right over his face.
“You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes!” the respectable M. Gerald James pleaded.
“And bad boys get—what?”
“They get, they get…pissed on by mad mommies!”
“That’s right,” Rochelle said.
She placed her hands on her hips, and her legs and stomach tensed. Then she began to urinate directly into James’ face.
The abundant cascade roved across his forehead, his eyes, and then fell directly into his mouth.