House of Skin (20 page)

Chapter Fourteen

February, 1982

Cold as hell outside and stuck in here with his brother-in-law. Sam Barlow wondered why he bothered to visit Addie at all. His little sister spent all her time breastfeeding her twin boys, so he had to sit in the basement listening to his brother-in-law’s stories. The guy was insufferable. Sam couldn’t decide which of Raymond’s two habits were worse, his answering his own questions or his insistence on talking about the hell he’d raised as a younger man. As a state trooper Sam had precious few vacation days. Why he wasted them sitting in a basement with a blowhard jackass, he’d never know.

“Were we drunker’n shit?” his brother-in-law was asking. “You bet your ass!” Guffawing like driving drunk down Shadeland’s main drag was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Me and Fogerty, we were so shit-faced we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us, but we still made it to the tavern.”

Sam regarded Raymond sourly, wishing he’d give it a rest but knowing the asshole was just getting started. Raymond stared back at him, smiling with his mouth, his eyes daring Sam to say something, to judge him.
What a creep
, Sam thought. Not even noon yet, the guy already half soused. His poor wife upstairs with a baby on each teat, her sack of shit husband telling stories about the laws he’d broken, the women he’d screwed. Sam looked at the guy’s weak chin, his receding hairline, wondered how he’d ever talked girls into sleeping with him.

“So I says to this redhead—and believe me, Sammy Boy, she was a true redhead—‘You wanna have a little party? You, me, an’ Fogerty here?’”
 

Sam rubbed his eyes, wished Addie would get done nursing so he could spend some time with her. Raymond prattling on about pulling a three-way with the redhead, all the time calling him Sammy Boy. The guy never stopped talking, only paused occasionally to break violent, reeking wind. Raymond had gotten to the part where he was riding the lady doggy style, slapping the redhead’s ass while she gave Fogerty a blowjob, and Sam knew he had to get out of there.

He stood. “I’m heading into town.”

“Great,” Raymond said, standing. “I’d like to see what’s shaking down at Redman’s Bar. Shoot me some pool.”

Sam thought of telling him no, he was going to the library instead, knowing that would put the guy off, but then he thought of Raymond here alone with Addie and the twins, drunker than drunk and telling his stories to her. How did she ever get mixed up with a guy like this?
 

“Alright,” he said. “But leave the rest of that six-pack here.”

Raymond slapped him on the back. “What’s the matter, Sammy Boy? That badge makin’ you feel uptight? I ain’t gonna get us arrested.”

Sam drove them to town in Raymond’s rusted out Ford. The heater barely worked, and Sam could see the road below them through holes in the floorboard. His brother-in-law told him about a time he and Fogerty had set off cherry bombs outside the police station, daring Sam with his eyes to say something about it, tell him what a crazy guy he was. Instead, he held his tongue until they got to the bar, Raymond switching gears, telling dead baby jokes as they went inside.

Sam saw her the moment he walked in.

Long dark hair, cheekbones like an Indian princess. She stood there at the bar looking uncomfortable, not seeing him yet. Raymond was asking how many dead babies it took to feed an alligator, but Sam no longer heard. The bartender offered the girl a cigarette, hitting on her. She shook her head, stared at the slice of lemon on the napkin beside her glass of water. A million pick-up lines raced through Sam’s head as he approached. Dismissing them all he wondered what she was doing here, in this dive, in the middle of a weekday. She looked like she should be in the movies, not sitting at a bar alone in this little burg. The jukebox played Merle Haggard, a song Sam didn’t like. Raymond was droning on behind him. Back to his heyday again.

“Did we give a shit there were pigs sitting two tables over? Hell no we didn’t! Fogerty says to the faggot waiter, you’ll bring us another pitcher or I’ll shove this empty one up your ass. One of the cops, he gives me a look, but I just stare back at him like ‘what the fuck you gonna do about it?’ Waiter, he goes off an—”

“Shut your mouth for a second, Raymond,” Sam said and stared his brother-in-law down. He was a full six inches taller, so that as he talked, his breath made the remaining hairs on Raymond’s forehead wiggle.

“I’ve put up with your bullshit stories for two days. Your jokes about babies in blenders and how many colored guys does it take to screw in a lightbulb—”

“Now listen,” Raymond said, hiking up his jeans.

“No, you listen, you stupid sack of shit. You’re my sister’s husband and I’ve got to be nice to you. Why she married your dumb ass I’ll never know, but now you two have children, so I guess I’m stuck with you.”

Raymond took a step forward, breathed beer fumes up at him. “What makes you think you can talk to me like that? That fuckin’ badge in your wallet?”

Sam stayed put, stayed on top of his cresting anger. “You know what your problem is Raymond? No, you don’t. You’ll never know so there’s no point in me breaking you in half.” Sam poked him once in the chest, hard, lowered his voice so no one would hear. “But if you ever—and I mean
ever
—lay hands on Addie or the boys, I swear to God I’ll rip out your liver and feed it to you. You hear me?”

Raymond’s eyes shined, and he no longer smiled. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind and trudged over to the pool tables where two old men were playing eight ball.

When Sam turned, the girl was staring at him. He’d forgotten about her, so seeing her there at the bar was a surprise. She had the most striking green eyes, glittering jade ovals that reminded him of jungle creatures, jaguars or panthers maybe.

“You sitting with anyone?” he managed to say.

“Not at the moment.”

“Someone’s meeting you here.”

“My ride’s picking me up in a few minutes.”

“You mind if I sit with you until your ride comes?”

Her eyes were very large. “As long as you don’t rip out my liver and feed it to me.”

He scratched his chin. “You heard that?”

She moved a thumb up and down her glass of water. “You talk to all your relatives that way?”

He smiled, sat on the stool beside her. “Uh-uh. Only Raymond. He’s the only one brings it out of me.”

They peered across the bar at him. Raymond had lit a cigarette, sat on a stool with a pool cue poised on his knees. A waitress swaggered up to him, took his order. Raymond stared at her ass as she moved away.

“He’s quite a catch,” the girl said.

“Oh, we really lucked out when Addie chose him,” Sam agreed.

“So you’re a policeman?”

“Yeah. I’m a state trooper.” He motioned to the bartender, who looked at him blandly. “Budweiser, please. This isn’t my territory, though,” he went on. “I’m here on vacation.”

“Great choice.”

“It’s the new Jamaica,” he said and she smiled at him.

There was a pause.

“Sam Barlow,” he said and offered his hand.

“Barbara Merrow.”

He took the beer from the bartender, paid and told him to keep the change.

“Where is your territory?” she asked.

“North of here. What about you?” he asked. “What brings you to Shadeland?”
 

“I just graduated from nursing school. There was a job opportunity here, so I took it.”

He sipped his beer, watched her dark skin in the neon glow coming from a royal blue Michelob sign. “What kind of opportunity?”

“An individual who requires a lot of care.”
 

“You only have one patient?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?” he asked, then added, “Sorry. That’s probably confidential, huh?”

“I probably shouldn’t say.”

Sam watched her. “Sounds like a good job, though. Only one patient.”

“It’s going to be harder than you think.”

“Oh?”

“The patient isn’t very stable. She has a condition that makes her dangerous.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Why’d you apply for the job?”

“It’s good money. I get my own house in the country. Free meals.”
 

“The house is near where your patient lives?”

“Uh-huh.”

He sipped his beer. “Free room and board. Good pay on top of that. Only one patient to look after. I guess you’ll have it good out there.”

She opened her mouth to speak and stopped. She was looking past him at the bar’s entrance. He turned and saw a man standing there, a guy that looked like some old-time film actor. Black hair slicked over to the side, black sport coat over a starched white shirt open at the collar. The man was staring at Barbara.

“That your ride?” Sam asked, his stomach sinking.

She nodded.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I don’t trust him.”

She looked at Sam, her green eyes unreadable, but said nothing.

“Can I see you again?” he asked. She stood and shouldered her handbag.

“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know.”

Sam glanced at the guy, who stood watching with arms folded, impatient for her to leave. “You’re still allowed to date, aren’t you?”
 

She smoothed her hair on her shoulder.

“Of course,” she said.

She was almost past him when he said, louder than he’d intended, “I want to see you again.”
 

She stopped, turned. Sam could feel the man’s anger boiling out of him, trying to wither what had begun between him and Barbara. Refusing to let the guy influence them, Sam stood, looked down at Barbara.

“I need to see you again,” he said.

Her eyes brightened and she tilted her head, appeared to consider.

“We’ll see.”
 

She gave him a little smile and walked away. Sam watched the man greet her, noticed the guy staring at Barbara as though she were a choice cut of meat. The guy took Barbara’s hand, bent and actually kissed it. Then, without acknowledging Sam, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her out.

Raymond had moved up beside him, “Tough break, huh Sammy Boy? Tough to compete with a man looks like that. Fuckin’ pretty boy’s what he is.”

Knowing his life had already changed, Sam asked, “Who was it?”
 

“Him?” Raymond laughed. “Myles Carver, the richest prick in town.”

“He can’t have her,” Sam said.

“He will have her, Sammy Boy. His wife’s got syphilis, crazier ’n hell. Your little dish there’s probably his new piece.”

Sam whirled, eyes flashing.

“Jesus, Sammy Boy. Relax already,” Raymond said and backed away. “What’s up your ass today?”

Sam shook his head, sipped his beer.

“Go shoot some pool, Raymond,” he muttered.

Chapter Fifteen

By noon of the second day of his research, Paul came to the realization that he had no more ability to market the novel than he had to write one of his own. Sitting at one of the public library’s computers he surfed writers’ websites, browsed countless articles on how to write a good query letter, how to spot a publishing scam, how to get an agent. Every piece of advice was imparted with an air of haughty exasperation, as though the world of books had already reached terminal mass and needed no newcomers. Publishers pleaded with writers not to do this or that, all the while offering little tangible advice. Suggestions ranged from the obvious: “Be professional” or “Familiarize yourself with our guidelines” to the inexplicable: “Absolutely no sim-subbing,” “Response times may vary from a few weeks to a year.” Paul’s favorite was “No unsolicited manuscripts.”
 

Just how did one break in?
 

In the end, he purged his mind of what he’d read online, shoved aside the breadbox girth of the current market guide, tossed his voluminous notes in the trash and, as a final show of protest, stepped on the power strip button to shut off the still-running computer. He passed the unattended circulation desk and went out into the bright June day.

Flouting every speck of sage advice he’d absorbed, he walked his two Xeroxed manuscripts to the post office and sent them off to the publishing houses he’d seen most often on the spines of his favorite horror novels: Seizure Press and Twice Bitten Books. His query letter was short and direct, and if the folks at Seizure and Twice Bitten couldn’t appreciate that, to hell with them. Paul didn’t want to be published by a place that cared more about a manuscript’s margin size than the quality of its content.