“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” Doug said in a soft, cold voice.
The rage had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “No, I don’t think I’m ‘hot shit’ as you put it so colorfully,” Bob said. “I was just trying to save the bear’s life, that’s all. It lives here. It was only doing what comes naturally to it.”
“Oh, now you’re a fucking wildlife expert,” Doug responded acidly. “I’m impressed. Where did you pick up all this wildlife lore? At the Bel Air Hotel having a power breakfast with some big-time producer?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Doug, let’s not go into that kind of talk again,” Bob said. He tried to push to his feet.
To his startlement, Doug pushed him back so that he landed hard on his tailbone. “Ow!” he said. “What are you doing?”
“I wanna talk about it,” Doug said angrily. “About your big-time career in the biz. About how you could give a shit if I succeed or not.”
“Wait a second, wait a second, what are you talking about?” Bob demanded. Again, he tried to stand up and, again, Doug pushed him back. “Goddamn it, stop that,” he said. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing you can help,” Doug told him. “Nothing you’d care to help.”
“What are you saying?” Bob asked, trying to understand. “That I’m somehow responsible for you having trouble in the business?”
“You haven’t been any help, that’s for sure,” Doug snarled.
“Doug, I have tried to help you—”
“Bullshit!” Doug cut him off. “You’ve said you tried to help me, but I don’t remember any jobs I got because of your help. You think I’m not aware of all the parts I might have played in your scripts that I never got called on to audition for? All you ever recommended me for were a few Mickey Mouse bit parts, a few lines here, a few lines there.”
“Doug, I recommended you for any role I thought you were right for, no matter what the length.”
“Bullshit,” Doug said, scowling. “You never recommended me for any part worth a damn.”
The anger, hot and unavoidable, was surging up in Bob again.
“Maybe if you didn’t always come on like the greatest fucking actor in the world, you might have gotten some of those roles.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault,” Doug snarled through gritted teeth.
“No, Doug. No. Of course not. Nothing at all in your life is your fault. It’s all been just rotten luck. Your marriage, your career, your kids, everything. Someone else is to blame, not you. Just rotten luck, that’s all. Just crappy karma slapping you down at every turn.” Bob knew he was jeopardizing their relationship but couldn’t stop himself. He was fed up with Doug’s everyone’s-responsible-but-me attitude.
He had no idea how much he’d jeopardized their relationship. Not until Doug said quietly, in a malignant voice, “You’re right, Bobby. I do hate your guts.”
Bob was conscious that his mouth had fallen open in reaction to what Doug had said. He couldn’t speak at first. Then he swallowed dryly, trying to draw himself together.
“Well, that’s great,” he said. “Just great.” He drew in labored breath. “How many days left to reach the cabin? Two? Three?”
Doug didn’t answer. He kept staring at Bob, his expression hard, disquieting.
Bob inhaled again. He seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air in his lungs.
“I suggest we pack up and get on our way,” he said. “Go as far as we can before dark. I’ll try to hold myself together so you won’t be inconvenienced anymore. I suggest we travel and don’t talk. We seem—”
“Oh, is that what you suggest?” Doug broke in. “You’re running the show now? How odd. I thought I was running it.”
Bob fought for patience. “Doug, you are running it. I’m just trying to suggest how—”
“Well, don’t suggest,” Doug said with a sneer, and Bob became even more distressed.
“Doug, anything you say,” Bob told him. “Just let’s get going. When we reach the cabin, we’ll go back to Los Angeles. Or if you want to stay at your cabin, I’ll phone for a car.”
“A limo, of course,” Doug said contemptuously.
“Jesus, Doug,” Bob pleaded. “Can’t we—?”
“Well, there is no phone,” Doug interrupted. “It’s not a fucking lodge, you know. I’m not successful enough to afford a phone.”
Bob tried to reply patiently but firmly, “Then you can drive us to the nearest town and leave us there,” he said.
“Oh, is that what I can do?” Doug asked. Amazing how his questions were rarely questions, Bob thought.
“I’ll get ready,” he said, starting to push up.
Doug flat-handed him on the shoulder, knocking him back on the ground.
“Is that necessary?” Bob asked quietly.
Doug didn’t respond.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Bob said. He pushed to his feet and started toward the tent. Again, Doug flat-handed him, this time on the back, this time with greater force. Bob lost his balance, stumbling forward. It took several yards before he could regain his footing. He turned angrily. “Is that really necessary?” he demanded.
“Maybe it is.” My God, was that a smile on Doug’s lips? “Maybe it is, Bobby boy.”
“Oh, God,” Bob muttered.
“He can’t help you here, big man,” Doug said. “Your income doesn’t matter here. Neither does your big success.”
“Oh, Jesus, Doug,” Bob said, turning back toward the campsite.
“Oh, Jesus, what, big man?”
Bob heard Doug moving toward him and twisted around.
This time Doug flat-handed him so hard on the chest, it made him reel back and topple over, landing on his hands; he hissed at the pain on his infected palm.
“What the—?” he began, then broke off, tightening as Doug lurched toward him. Grabbing Bob by the jacket collar, he hauled him to his feet.
“Is this the way it’s going to be?” Bob asked, but before he’d finished the sentence, Doug had slapped him hard across the left cheek, wincing at the pain it caused him on his shoulder.
“Bastard,” Doug snapped. Bob wasn’t sure if Doug meant him or the pain.
He stared at Doug incredulously. “What the hell is happening?” he asked, his voice shaken. “Are you—?”
He gasped in surprise and pain as Doug slapped him again.
“What’s the matter, haven’t you got the balls to defend yourself?” Doug challenged scornfully.
“What the hell are we, two kids in a schoolyard?” Bob demanded. “Are we supposed to—?”
He broke off with a cry of stunned pain as Doug slapped him again, his face contorting from the pain it caused him in his shoulder.
“Goddamn it, cut it out,” Bob cried, shoving out his palm at Doug’s face.
Was it just bad luck, he wondered later, that the flat of his palm hit Doug squarely on the nose? Doug cried out, startled, blood starting to spurt from both nostrils.
“Son of a bitch,” Doug snarled, jerking up his left index finger to press beneath his bleeding nostrils.
The blow caught Bob completely by surprise. Fisting his right hand, Doug hit Bob violently in the stomach, doubling him over. Bob couldn’t make a sound at the pain, his breath knocked out. Gasping for air, he hitched up slowly, an expression of astonishment on his face. “What the hell are you—?” he started, his voice wheezing.
He cried out in dumbfounded shock as Doug hit him again in the stomach. Gagging, he flopped over quickly, pressing both hands at his stomach, unable to breathe, shooting pain in his stomach. Everything went blurry as his eyes teared. He tried to hold himself rigid in case Doug meant to hit him again.