Whale Season by N. M. Kelby Read Free Book Online Page A

the trademarked Bob the Round-Up Cowboy and his lasso aimlessly spinning in the air—coming up short, coming up short again—and, surprisingly, what appears to be Jesus walking in the center of the road toward her.
    At first she thinks it’s a hallucination. But as she drives past, he waves a bony hand. It catches her attention and the eerie delicate prayer of Preacher’s song came back to her.
    Buddha heart, she thinks. Never know where you find one.
    She slams on the brakes. The car fishtails. She idles for a moment.
    Dagmar has never picked up a hitchhiker before. She looks at the man in the rearview mirror. He is slight of build, and too thin. Doesn’t seem armed, just lost. Maybe he’s on the way to a church pageant, she thinks. Backs up slowly. Have a little faith, she tells herself but her heart beats even faster.
    â€œNeed a ride?”
    The man leans into the car. Looks at her closely. His sheet billows in the cold morning air. For some odd reason he smells like devil’s food cake.
    â€œYou must be Dagmar,” he says and smiles.
    â€œHappy Birthday,” she says, without thinking.

Chapter 6

    L eon stands in his stocking feet, eel-skin boots in hand, and stares for a moment at the American Dream. The keys make his hand itch. It’s Christmas morning, just past six. Leon wants to call Carlotta but figures she’s turned her cell phone off, so he doesn’t bother. Figures he’ll deal with it later.
    The chrome of the Dream shimmers in the sunrise. Leon shimmers, too.
    Carlotta, however, is not currently inclined to shimmer. She is hungover and seasick in Leon’s custom waterbed. In her dreams, she is screaming at him with hurricane force. The words hit at 100, 110 miles per hour, roar around Leon, ripping off his shirt, making his hair stand on end. He’s wet and cringing. Toasters, TVs, Castro Convertible sofa beds fly through the air at him, nearly missing, but she just keeps on screaming. In the corner of her dream a meteorologist with Super Doppler Radar is tracking her in a live shot. The world spins around the weatherman in his perfect trench coat, his TV tan, and bleach bright teeth. His hair doesn’t move. Carlotta likes that.
    â€œThat’s the kind of man I want,” she thinks, still sleeping. Rolls over.
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    Leon is in trouble and he knows it. Can sense it. Knows he should go home and see Carlotta. Leave right now, and, on the way, stop at the 7-Eleven and buy a gallon of Rocky Road just to help smooth things over. And a fashion magazine. Maybe some piña colada air fresheners. A silk rose. Mars bars—bags of them. At this point, he knows it’s going to take a lot of stuff to make Carlotta happy again, more than just the usual beef jerky and unsalted pumpkin seeds. Besides standing her up last night, Leon has also forgotten to buy a Christmas gift. Once the Rocky Road is gone, Carlotta is sure to notice. He knows that. Even the American Dream can’t change that fact.
    But, instead of climbing into his mandarin orange 1975 El Dorado—a ragtop complete with matching citrus-toned leather and whitewall tires, a “Pimp Daddy Caddy” that could be a collector’s item if it wasn’t nearly rusted through—Leon walks over to the Dream. He walks in his stocking feet, boots in hand, carefully, gently, slowly over the broken clamshell driveway, over the frozen burrs that cross-hatch the weeds. Doesn’t even want to take the time to put his shoes on. Just wants to look inside. He’s never owned anything this beautiful before. Just one look before he goes. That’s all he wants. One look can’t hurt anything.
    â€œYou sure are nice,” he says under his breath. “You sure are pretty.”
    One quick look. Then over to the 7-Eleven. Then home.
    In the distance, there’s the sound of eighteen-wheelers on U.S. 41, roaring like the ocean. You can also hear the faint bark of