The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove by Christopher Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

Theo asked. “A disappointed romantic?”
    â€œThe only man I ever loved died.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Theo said.
    â€œMe too.” She drained her cup of wine.
    â€œEasy on that, Estelle. It doesn’t help.”
    â€œI’m not a drinker. I just had to get out of the house.”
    There was some shouting over by the pool table. “My presence is required,” Theo said. “Excuse me.” He made his way through the crowd to where two men were squaring off to fight.
    Estelle signaled Mavis for a refill and turned to watch Theo try to make peace. Catfish Jefferson sang a sad song about a mean old woman doing him wrong. That’s me, Estelle thought. A mean old worthless woman.
    Â 
    Self-medication was working by midnight. Most of the customers at the Slug had given in and started clapping and wailing along with Catfish’s Blues. Quite a few had given up and gone home. By closing time, there were only five people left in the Slug and Mavis was cackling over a drawer full of money. Catfish Jefferson put down his National steel guitar and picked up the two-gallon pickle jar that held his tips. Dollar bills spilled over the top, change skated in the bottom, and here and there in the middle fives and tens struggled for air. There was even a twenty down there, and Catfish dug in after it like a kid going for a Cracker Jack prize. He carried the jar to the bar and plopped down next to Estelle, who was gloriously, eloquently crocked.
    â€œHey, baby,” Catfish said. “You like the Blues?”
    Estelle searched the air for the source of the question,as if it might have come from a moth spiraling around one of the lights behind the bar. Her gaze finally settled on the Bluesman and she said, “You’re very good. I was going to leave, but I liked the music.”
    â€œWell, you done stayed now,” Catfish said. “Look at this.” He shook the money jar. “I got me upward o’ two hundred dollar here, and that mean old woman owe me least that much too. What you say we take a pint and my guitar and go down to the beach, have us a party?”
    â€œI’d better get home,” Estelle said. “I have to paint in the morning.”
    â€œYou a painter? I never knowed me a painter. What you say we go down to the beach and watch us a sunrise?”
    â€œWrong coast,” Estelle said. “The sun comes up over the mountains.”
    Catfish laughed. “See, you done saved me a heap of waiting already. Let’s you and me go down to the beach.”
    â€œNo, I can’t.”
    â€œIt ’cause I’m Black, ain’t it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œâ€™Cause I’m old, right?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œâ€™Cause I’m bald. You don’t like old bald men, right?”
    â€œNo!” Estelle said.
    â€œâ€™Cause I’m a musician. You heard we irresponsible?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œâ€™Cause I’m hung like a bull, right?”
    â€œNo!” Estelle said.
    Catfish laughed again. “Well, you wouldn’t mind spreadin that one around town just the same, would you?”
    â€œHow would I know how you’re hung?”
    â€œWell,” Catfish said, pausing and grinning, “you could go to the beach with me.”
    â€œYou are a nasty and persistent old man, aren’t you, Mr. Jefferson?” Estelle asked.
    Catfish bowed his shining head, “I truly am, miss. I truly am nasty and persistent. And I am too old to be trouble. I admits it.” He held out a long, thin hand. “Let’s have us a party on the beach.”
    Estelle felt like she’d just been bamboozled by the devil. Something smooth and vibrant under that gritty old down-home shuck. Was this the dark shadow her paintings kept finding in the surf?
    She took his hand. “Let’s go to the beach.”
    â€œHa!” Catfish said.
    Mavis pulled a Louisville Slugger from behind the bar and held it