Part 2 (1/2)
”s.h.i.+t,” Tommy said, drawing it out to two words: shee-it. ”You really expect us to believe you saw a wolf that big, and not ten miles out of town . . .”
”Swear to G.o.d,” Syd answered, emphatic.
”. . . and you actually came within spitting distance of this thing, and it just looked at you.”
”Yep.”
”And then it just up and disappeared into the woods and left you there.”
”Uh-huh.” Syd nodded.
Tommy looked at Syd, the car, and back. Then he took a deep breath. ”I just have one question.”
”Shoot.”
”Did you p.i.s.s yourself right when you first saw the wolf . . .”
Budd choked, almost lost it. Tommy, too, barely made it to the punch line.
”. . . or did you wait till the wolf saw you?”
The two of them erupted into gales of laughter. Syd felt his face flush with embarra.s.sment and anger. ”Yeah, well, f.u.c.k you guys,” he muttered.
”Aw, lighten up, son.” Tommy threw a beefy arm around Syd's shoulder. ”You wanna get insulted, check out your paycheck this week.”
Syd resisted for a moment, still p.i.s.sed. Then he sighed. ”It really happened, man.”
”Yeah, well,” Tommy shrugged. ”What do I know? Weirder things have been known to.” He gave Syd a brotherly squeeze. ”C'mon, boy. Let's go see if we work today.”
The three of them walked toward the gate in silence. Tommy's face had taken on a contemplative light. ”This wolf of yours,” he said at last. ”Was it male or female?”
”I didn't ask. Why?”
Tommy shrugged. ”A wolf in estrus can act pretty strange sometimes.”
”What's estrus?”
”Heat, boy.” He paused, thought about it. ”November's kinda early for mating season, but you never know.”
”Ooooh.” Budd leered, lascivious. ”Maybe it wanted you, Syd.”
”Yeah, right.” Irritated.
”Puppy love . . .”
”Put a lid on it, Budd.”
”Doggy-style . . .” he persisted, pleased with himself.
”SHUT UP!!!” Syd and Tommy chanted in unison. Budd's grinning piehole dried up in a flash. Syd studied Tommy's face intently. He knew that Tommy was a whole lot smarter than his mountain-man appearance might lead one to believe. Wheels were turning in there. He wanted to know what they meant.
”So what else?”
”I dunno,” Tommy shrugged.
”Was it alone?”
”Why?” Budd jumped in. ”You think there's more than one of 'em?”
”Beats me,” the big man said. ”But I'll tell ya one thing: if there is a wolf in these parts, I'd guess that it has a mate.”
”Unless it's looking for one.” Syd wasn't sure why he said it.
”Good f.u.c.king luck,” Tommy snorted. ”The only wolves around here anymore are the ones with suits and cellular phones.”
Just then they pa.s.sed a sleek black BMW parked against the warehouse wall, its polished midnight skin and hand-detailed chrome in stark contrast to the gritty ochres and browns of the yard. Tommy nodded at the little corkscrew antenna protruding from its tinted rear window. ”Speak of the devil,” he muttered, and nudged Syd knowingly. ”Looks like Bobo's here.”
Syd groaned and shook his head. A surprise appearance by Beau ”Bobo” Harrell was always good for a laugh, particularly if you thought job security was funny. Harrell was sc.u.m.
More specifically, Beau Harrell was a sour, opportunistic little p.r.i.c.k, and his contracting company was a blue-collar gulag. He got the contract by undercutting every other bid by thirty percent, and in so doing became one of the town's few remaining employers, last refuge for those lucky enough to get a slot and able to withstand the degradation implicit in taking it. As a boss, he was both abusive and unscrupulous; as a human being, abusiveness and unscrupulousness were his most endearing qualities.
They reached the foreman's trailer, got on the crew line. A dozen other disenfranchised souls were there, smoking and shuffling their feet. The three men joined the queue. Just then the foreman came out, a burly barrel of a man with a face like a bulldog and a fur-flapped hunting cap; the short stub of yesterday's cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth like a big tobacco tampon.
”Yessir, Mr. Harrell,” he said, then turned and descended the steps. He waved his clipboard, sent groups of men this way and that. Budd went with one crew. ”See ya later,” he said.
The foreman checked his list, grunting. ”Jarrett, Kramer, this way,” he gestured. ”You're tearing out the boilers in unit five.”
”Lucky, lucky,” Tommy muttered.
”I love my life,” Syd added facetiously. ”My life is great.”
”Beats the alternative,” Tommy replied.
Syd thought of Bobby Carmichael, and wondered.
3.
It was six-thirty when Syd finally arrived at the tiny two-story walk-up he called home, another day of gainful employment safely behind him.
He keyed open the door, pus.h.i.+ng aside the pile of mail laying heaped on the floor. He sighed as he stooped to retrieve it; he was beat to s.h.i.+t, physically speaking, and the day's correspondence didn't help much on the psychological front. Bills, bills, bills, junk mail, and bills. He riffled through them absently as he crossed the room, thinking that the old saying was wrong. There was one more certainty in life, aside from death and taxes.
There were bills.
Every month, in ceaseless cycle, falling through the mail slot like some weird variation on the old Chinese water torture. The phone was overdue, the electric was overdue, his Visa card was maxed to the point of no return. He'd long ago forgone such luxuries as cable TV, so that was mercifully absent. Ed McMahon's preening mug beckoned from a Publishers Clearing House mailer, a.s.suring him that he may already have won a million dollars!!!, but Syd wasn't holding his breath.