“Now, remember,” Jay said. “You got your ride waitin’ for you. You better get on.”
“Yeah.” Eric started to turn away, as from a moment of preternatural awareness. Dynamite nudged Shit’s bare foot with his work shoe — Shit was prodding again in his nose with a thick middle finger. This time, though, Shit ate it himself, as unconcerned as Eric might have been, alone, exploring an empty Atlanta alley.
That unconcern, finally, was the most erotically loaded thing Eric had seen in the crowded john.
One of the drivers laughed, possibly at something else, while again more electricity pulsed through Eric. “Hey, thanks.” That was to Mex, who smiled at him, nodded.
Would he see the black kid again?
Approvingly, Jay nodded. “Come on.” The boatman’s hand tightened on Eric’s shoulder, then tugged. “You don’t wanna get in no trouble — ”
Wondering if he’d ever get closer to Al’s black markings (and, he thought, I didn’t get to tongue fuck yet with Mex…), Eric glanced at the tattooed boatman, to realize, as they pushed from the john door, now he could see all Jay’s smaller pictures.
[1] EIGHTEEN MINUTES AND nine seconds after going in through the saloon-style doors, the hempen giant (with his arm fur, belly hair, and tattoos) came out, red shirt opened, jeans closed, his Turpens cap folded in his back pocket. Beside him, Eric tugged up his zipper.
In the hall, Jay chuckled.
When they reached the turn, ahead Eric could see the inside window — and the inside door — of Turpens Parts & Notions.
“Um…I gotta go.” Eric didn’t move but rocked a little, as if half paralyzed. “This was great. Really. I hope I…see you again — ” Fascination held him.
“Awww — ” At once the boatman’s arm swung around Eric’s shoulder for a surprising hug. He tugged. One of Eric’s sneakers left the floor. “I’d count on it, if I was you. Diamond Harbor ain’t that big, son. Mex ain’t gonna believe this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if maybe we got us another puppy.”
Steadying himself, Eric found his hand plowing the hair on Jay’s belly. Jesus, the guy was hard — and warm. “Hey…but, see, I need to get a cap. Real quick.”
Jay released him. “Go on, then.” Eric got his balance.
Eric grinned. “My name’s Eric. Eric Jeffers. And you’re…? I’m sorry — I forgot…”
“I’m still Jay MacAmon. Just like Dynamite told you. Like I say, Mex and me run the scow out to Gilead Island. Don’t worry. We’ll see you in the Harbor. Look for me or a barefoot spic. We’re about as easy to find as fish scales on a fisherman’s feet — though there ain’t even too many of those ’round here no more. So are the garbage men — the one walkin’ ’round with no shoes half the time is Shit.” He winked an amber eye. “Morgan. That’s his regular name. But I guess you know that.”
He hadn’t. “Yeah…” Eric said. “Okay. Sure. But I need that cap.”
Jay nodded — and Eric turned, ran up the hall to the glass door, and pushed inside.
[2] BRAVES, MARLINS, CARDINALS, Senators, Orioles, Rangers, Astros, Yankees, Pirates, Red Sox — ball caps hung on the backboard’s hooks. (I just got loads from five of them eight guys — some good cheesy ones, too. That ain’t bad for fifteen minutes. And one’s still in my pocket…) Eric took down an orange one — Turpens, with its departing eagle — and walked toward the counter.
The unshaven counterman wore a cowboy shirt. His hair was salt and pepper gray. (I even ate snot from that black kid…Wow! That was a first! Shit’s nose was even wider than Mike’s. I wonder if I’ll ever get my tongue up that…) Between his dark and light blue lapels, a rug of black covered his chest.
Eric passed a dummy in camouflage fatigues. “How much is this?”
“Baseball caps is nine fifty. That’s just five. Not too many guys get the Turpens ones.” Thrust from blue snap cuffs, on six inches of wrist, at the ends of long, long arms, a high-veined fist, with big knuckles, opened flat on the counter glass.
Eric reached in his pocket — and for a heart-thudding moment thought his wallet was gone. Then he felt his KY tube, below the folded paper Bottom had given him and Dynamite had written on. With a deeper prod, his fingers stubbed leather.
Someone said, “What took you so long?”
Eric turned sharply to see Mike. “Hey — I went as fast as I could.”
“Actually,” Mike said, “you did pretty well. You said twenty — and it’s just that now. I came in to try the AC — ’cause I don’t like to leave it on in the car when I’m not drivin’. Uses up the battery.”
“That’s the God’s honest truth,” the counterman said. “You with the kid, here?”
Without looking at Mike, Eric said: “This is my dad.”
“His step dad,” Mike corrected. (Why did he do that? Eric wondered. He wished Mike would let them figure it out.) “I’m taking the boy to stay with his mama, at Diamond Harbor.”
“Oh,” the older man said. “Yeah. The Harbor’s a nice place — now that it’s summer. Nobody’s around the rest of the time, though. Even this summer’s pretty slow. Ain’t hardly no fishin’ boats at the marina. Runcible ain’t doin’ too well, either, with all them new tourist cabins they built goin’ beggin’. Five dollars twenty-eight cents — with tax. That orange is a good color for you, son. Hell, ’cause you’re gettin’ a Turpens one, I’ll forget the twenty-eight cents. Just gimme five.”
He smiled at Mike, then at Eric.
By a corner, Eric pulled the bill with Lincoln’s picture from his wallet. “Thanks.”
Someone else said, “Hello, there, Abbott.”
Eric looked over.
And started.
He looked at Mike, who’d begun paging through a catalog on the counter.
With his jaw clenched, Eric tried to make himself relax.
The guy in the yellow shirt — and the handkerchief — strolled up. On his neck was Al’s purple hickey, like wrestling crayfish.
As Eric took the cap, the register man said, “Hi, Ted. What can I do for you?”
Eric felt as if he were plunging down some well with sparkling walls.
“Nothin’—I’m good. I came in to use the facilities and say hello, that’s all. This is a scorcher, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” Rangy Abbott looked at Eric. “You want that in a bag, son?”
“Thanks,” Eric said. “No. That’s okay.” He opened his mouth, took a very slow, very long breath.
Ted said to Mike and Eric, “You guys picked a hot day to travel.” He did not look at Eric, and Eric’s heart got faster, then began to settle.
Mike said, “Mmm,” pushed over a page of pictures, pushed over another, then turned away.
Jesus, Eric thought. He ain’t gonna say nothin’. I gotta stop this…
Ted said, “’Bye.”
But Eric’s throat was so tight, the Good-bye, sir, he tried to get out would not sound.
Orange cap still in his hand — his thumb sweaty on its stiff material — Eric followed his dad.
(Maybe Ted had been so intent on Al’s cock, he hadn’t recognized…?)
With Mike slowing at piles of CB radios and racks of manuals and sparkplug boxes, they walked to the door.
As Eric pushed out behind his father into sweltering day, across the lot a blue pickup backed from its parking place. On the sagging tailgate, in silver gaffers’ tape, someone had spelled out:
DYNAMITE
REFUSE
As it swung around, Eric made out where someone had filled in “Shit &,” with a broad black Sharpie, probably like the ones in Eric’s backpack behind the seat on the Chevy’s floor mat.