“May I help you please?” the worker asked. Like the others, she wore the tan uniform of a Beast House guide. Owen guessed she was no older than twenty. She had short brown hair and large, nervous eyes. Her nameplate read, WINDY.
“We’ll have two Polish sausages with the works,” Monica told her.
“Are you a guide?” Owen asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“I work at the snack stand,” she said, smiling a little.
“I thought be did,” Owen said, and nodded toward loverboy.
“Warren? He owns it. I help out part time at the windows. I served your lunch yesterday.”
“Really?”
“You and your friend.”
Holy shit!
“Ah,” Owen said. He smiled and nodded as if nothing had gone wrong. “That’s right. I remember you now.”
Windy turned away to finish preparing the sandwiches.
“What friend?” Monica asked.
“Just some guy I met.”
“Guy. I’m sure.”
Windy came back with two paper plates. On each was a Polish sausage in a long roll. They were gloppy with yellow mustard, onions and peppers. Steam rose off the grilled sausages as she handed the plates to Monica and Owen.
“Enjoy them,” she said, smiling pleasantly.
“Thank you, Windy,” Owen said.
“You’re an absolute treasure,” Monica said.
Windy’s smile slipped crooked.
Owen cringed.
As he hurried away, Monica kept pace beside him and said, “So, Owie, tell me more about your mysterious friend.”
“It was a guy.”
“Mmm. I’m sure.”
“If you don’t believe me, go back and ask Windy.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I believe you. If you say your friend was a guy, your friend was a guy.”
He hurried to the nearest picnic table. A few people were already there, but one of the side benches had room for two. “Mind if we join you?” he asked.
“Sit, dude,”
“You, too, dudette.”
They climbed over the bench, placed their plates and glasses on the table cloth, and sat down.
“Hi,” Owen said. “I’m Owen and this is Monica.”
“Dude. I’m Dennis.”
“I’m Arnold.”
“We’re A.A. and D.D.”
“Nice to meet you, guys.”
Monica, ignoring them, took a drink of wine.
“Dr. Clive Bixby, here!” proclaimed Jungle Jim. He waved from the other end of the table, then bit into a hamburger.
Ignoring it all, Monica set down her glass. She turned her head toward Owen, smiled with mocking sweetness, and said, “So, what was your friend’s name?”
“John.”
“What an unusual name.”
“It is?”
“For a girl. And how was she in bed?”
“John was a guy.”
“So you say.”
He stared into Monica’s eyes. In them, he saw cold, amused contempt.
He picked up his icy glass in one hand, his Polish sausage sandwich in the other, stood up and climbed off the bench. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Where’re you going now?”
“Just stay here.”
He rushed away. After a few seconds, he glanced back.
Monica was twisted around on the bench, watching him but still seated.
Fucking bitch, ruins everything!
She was still on the bench when he reached the corner of Beast House.
He hurried to the rear patio area and entered the men’s restroom.
It was well lighted, clean-smelling, and it seemed to be deserted. It had five stalls. He entered the one in the middle. The toilet seat looked clean. He locked the stall door, then sat down.
And drank his drink.
And ate his Polish sausage sandwich.
And struggled to keep from crying.
After a while, Owen began to feel better. The vodka tonic had warmed him up inside, calmed him down—and the sausage had tasted awfully good.
He looked at his wristwatch.
8:40
The movie wouldn’t be starting for another hour and twenty minutes.
I oughta just wait here, he thought. Let Monica enjoy her own company till ten, see how she likes it.
But I’ll miss the whole picnic.
I want another drank. I want a cheeseburger. I want to be where I can at least look at Dana every once in a while.
He suddenly imagined John Cromwell chuckling, shaking his head and saying “What’s the matter with you, buddy? Hiding in the john ‘cause you’re scared of that smirky twat? Fuck it, man. Go out and have a good time. She gives you any trouble, stomp her ass.”
Owen smiled. Right on, he thought.
Then he heard the restroom door swing open.
Shit!
He heard footfalls on the tile floor. Someone took two or three steps, then stopped. The door bumped shut.
Silence.
More silence.
Is it Monica? Would she really dare come into a men’sjohn?
It didn’t seem likely...but she might.
Why is she just standing there? he wondered.
He didn’t like that.
“Helllowwww, Owennnn!” Not Monica’s voice.
“Youuu-whoooo.” A second voice. Also, not Monica’s.
One sounded like a female voice, but the other...sounded like Darke.
It’s them.
Vein and Darke.
Oh my God!
“We know you’re here,” Vein said.
“Are you trying to hide from us?” asked Darke.
“I’m not hiding,” Owen said. “I’m having...a little stomach trouble.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” sang Darke.
“We know why you’re here,” said Vein.
“She isn’t coming,” Darke said.
“Nobody is.”
“We’re all alone.”
“Just the three of us.”
Trying to keep the worry out of his voice, Owen said, “Uhhh.... This is a men’s restroom, you know.”
“Woops,” said Vein. “Are you going to report us?”
“No, but...”
Footsteps.
Here they come!
“I’ll be done in just a minute,” Owen said. “Why don’t we meet outside, or something?”
“This is such a nice, private place,” Vein said.
The door of the stall to Owen’s left squeaked open. Footsteps strolled past his bolted door. A second later, the stall door to his right swung open.
What’re they doing?
They won’t try anything...
He tipped back his head.
Vein on the left and Darke on the right grinned down at Owen from the top of the stall partitions. He supposed they must be standing on the toilets.
“There you are,” said Darke.
“Such a modest boy,” said Vein. “Takes a crap with his pants up.”
Blushing fiercely, he said, “I just came in here for some peace and quiet.” He stood up. He shifted his empty glass to his left hand. With his right, he snapped the bolt clear. “You can have the place to yourselves, now.” He pulled the stall door open. Stepping out, he said, “I’d better be getting back to the picnic.”
Vein and Darke leaped from their stalls, Vein in front of him, Darke behind him.
Vein blocked his way to the exit. Leering, she stretched her arms to each side. The motion spread the front of her black leather jacket. He glanced at her canyon of cleavage, at the snowy white breasts bulging from the cups of her bra. “You don’t want to leave,” she said.
“I’d really better be going.” He looked over his shoulder.
Darke gazed at him with languid, half-shut eyes and whispered, “Stay.”