Tough Baby (Martin Fender Novel) by Jesse Sublett Read Free Book Online Page B

the wrong guy home with her—what does that have to do with me?”
“She was raped too, more than likely, Vick. My blood type is B positive. I wonder what yours is.”
“I’ll be glad to tell you, you buy something.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, say a pack of strings. You use those Rotosound round-wounds, don’t you? Give me twenty-five bucks, I tell you my blood type.”
“I’ll give you something else, you fat son of a bitch.”
    “You feel froggy, Martin, go ahead. Jump.” He folded his hands over his belly, closing his eyes and tilting his head back so that the fold of his extra chin disappeared. The old notion of fat people being jolly came to mind. Vick was too strange for the word jolly to fit. But there was something unformed and boyish about his big round face. The fat seemed to inflate all the details out of his expressions, making them seem like childlike curves drawn on a ball of dough. He was smiling now.
    I wanted to slug him but I didn’t. He leaned forward and backhanded me playfully on the stomach. I didn’t like it.
    “Martin, do I look like a rapist?” he said, holding his hands out to his sides, emphasizing his bulk. “She wasn’t squashed flat like a tostada, was she?”
“This is not a joke, Vick. And you haven’t answered any of my questions.”
“Go to hell or Hollywood, man. You ain’t the police. I told you I was here. I don’t hardly go out anymore anyway.”
“And Ed was here with you. After the party.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s very convenient. Especially since we both know Ed has a temper.”
    “Fuck you, man. I’ll talk to the police, straighten this shit out. While I’m down there, I’ll ask ’em if they checked you out properly. They’ll tell me, too. Vick Travis been an institution in this town a long time. I’m big, man. Ha, ha, ha.”
    I could hear him still laughing as I went back through the store.
    “I’m big, man,” he bellowed. “I’m big as shit.”
     
     
    &&&
     
     
    I went home and moped. The cat crawled up in my lap and rubbed against me, breathing asthmatically, his eyes big and round as marbles. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to give or receive sympathy. It didn’t much matter. I called the police station a couple of times, but Lasko never came to the phone. I called his trailer, but there was no answer. I called his beeper, but no one called me back. There was one message on my machine, from Billy, returning my call. Call me tomorrow, he said, he
    was going to bed. He felt like the road was catching up to him.
    I got back inside my jacket and walked down to the Continental Club to catch last call. Other than the bartender, who gave me a couple of drinks on the house, there was no one there who could help me. I thought about Ladonna and wondered if she was awake, and, if so, if she was thinking about me. Those thoughts got me nowhere. I bought a pack of cigarettes and lit one for Retha Thomas. It wasn’t a candle, but I wasn’t Catholic. I set the cigarette in an ashtray and watched the smoke curl up from it, hoping that she’d be OK. When there was nothing left but a slim finger of ash, I put the pack in my pocket and walked home.
     
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    “Hello?”
“Martin?”
“Lasko? What is it? What’s the word?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, Martin. It’s Jeff LeRoy. I’ve got a gig for you.”
“Uh . . . I’m sorry. I just dropped the phone. I was expecting another call. What’s the deal?”
    I supposed I’d gotten two or three hours of deep sleep and a couple of hours of unpleasant horizontal time, eyes peeled back, cold sweat, shaking hands, ice cube toes. I accepted the gig and digested the details pretty professionally, considering the fact that my frayed nerves were taking to raw wakefulness like a naked person diving into a snowdrift.
    The gig was a part of the local chamber of commerce’s efforts to help out the music scene. They felt a bit guilty after relentlessly promoting the type of economic