Superbia 3 (11 page)

"She is not
my mother.  She's your ex-wife you forced me to call Mom who left you for the goddamn shift supervisor at Wawa.  Fuck her and fuck her birthday."

Senior crumbled a little and his voice lowered, "It would mean a lot to me if you called her."

"I'm sorry, I can't.  I've got nothing to say to her."

Senior finished the rest of his beer and stood up to carry it and the rest of the empty cans into the kitchen.  His eyes were rimmed red and watery and Frank looked away, trying to spare his father any embarrassment.  The old man walked into the kitchen and cracked open a fresh beer.  "She's a good woman," he called out, choking on his words.  "And she always treated you like a son.  Maybe if you'd been a little more appreciative of her
instead of pain-in-the-ass teenager, none of this would have happened."

"Right," Frank mumbled under his breath.
  "It's my fault she's a whore."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, dad," Frank said.  He stood up and walked into the kitchen, standing in the doorway as Senior unraveled a new industrial-sized trash bag and dropped the three empty beer cans into it.  He saw the flattened cardboard of three other Busch Light cases stacked behind the trashcan.  "Is that what those bags are out front?  All beer cans?"

"I save them to
sell at the scrap yard."

"How long did it take you to fill up those other bags?"

"What are you asking me?"

"Nothing," Frank said.  "I'm just saying, you're hitting it pretty good, it seems."

"So?" Senior said.  "Who gives a fuck?"

"
Well, I give a fuck.  The kids give a fuck.  Dawn gives a fuck even though you tell her you'll come over for dinner and then don't show and don't call."

"Ye
ah, great," Senior muttered.  "Lucky me."

"Nice,"
Frank said.  "Well, thanks for inviting me to your pity party.  I gotta go now."

"
You know what, then?  Go.  Leave me alone.  I don't want to hear this shit anyway.  How much was the beer?"

"Forget about it, I got it," Frank said.

After a moment, Senior reached into the case for another one and held it out to his son, "One for the road?"

"No, I can't.  I've gotta go home and
help Dawn put the kids to bed."

Senior opened his mouth to speak but choked again, watery redness coming fresh into his eyes as he
croaked, "Tell the little ones their Pop-Pop loves them."

"Ok, dad," Frank said, turning around suddenly and heading for the door. 
He felt compelled to flee from the anger and the misery and the drunkenness.  "I'll see you around," he called out over his shoulder.

"
Okay, sure.  Goodnight," Senior grunted, vanishing into the living room.  The TV came back on, followed by the sound of yelling from the television.

He checked his phone on the way to the car and saw a missed call from his wife. 
Probably wondering where the hell I'm at,
he thought. 
At least this time I've got a legitimate excuse.
  He got into his car and pulled down to the end of his old man's driveway, clicking the turn signal to the right.  A long line of cars drove past him, their headlights illuminating the half dozen deer standing by the side of the road, just waiting for the right moment to commit furry brown suicide.  Frank took his foot off the brake just as his phone buzzed with another incoming text message, this time from Ophelia:
Hey hunny. Can u swing by? I've got somethin 2 sho u that u won want 2 miss.

Frank
stopped for a second, looking down the street at the red rear lights of the cars as they vanished into the darkness, going in the same direction he was supposed to be travelling. 
There are a bunch of deer down there,
he thought.  He switched the turn signal to the left and turned the wheel the opposite way as he stepped on the gas. 

The Stretch's parking lot was packed tight with cars that went from the rear of the bar all the way out to the street. 
Tired-looking working men slumping toward the door just looking to get a beer.  Business-types slumming it in hopes that they'd impress one of the girls with their fancy suits and score an under-the-bar groping. 
Chumps,
Frank thought. 
These girls will run game on you so fast that you'll wake up tomorrow morning behind the dumpster with nothing but your boxer shorts and ankle socks.  They run better undercover ops than I do.
 

That's why it works between Ophelia and I.  I know what she is and she knows what I am.  In a world where both of us have to pretend for a living, we found someone
we can be completely honest with. 

Frank pushed the door open and frowned at the crowd of people surrounding the bar.  There were two girls on stage at the same time, their legs intertwined around the pole, locking their lips together to the catcalls and applause from the audience.  Frank walked around the bar and reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet, needing to hit the ATM, needing singles to tip the girls. 

"Nope!" Ophelia called out as she swung up beside him and grabbed his wallet out of his hands.  "You won't be needing that tonight."

He smiled at her, "Why?  What's going on?"

She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I've got something special planned just for you.  Come on." 

She
waved her hand at the bartender and he nodded, waving the riff-raff out of the way as he lowered a bucket of ice stuffed with a bottle of champagne.  "Oooooh," a few of the patrons called out.  "Remember, there's no sex in the champagne room," someone said.

"Of course not," Ophelia said as she grabbed the bucket with one hand and Frank's shirt with the other, "but maybe there's a blowjob."

"Me next!" the guy closest to Frank yelled.

"Just for this guy," Ophelia purred.  She smacked Frank's ass and told him to hurry up and get behind the thick black curtain of the private room.  The music was muffled to a low thump-thump-thump and Ophelia pointed at the black velour couch for Frank to sit. 

"Am I getting a lap dance?" Frank said.  "This does sound fun." 

Ophelia grinned slyly and said, "Just sit back and get comfortable."  She withdrew the thick green bottle from the bucket of ice and popped the cork
. 

He watched her lick up the white foam as it spilled across her hand and said,
"I never thought I'd be jealous of a champagne bottle." 

Ophelia took a deep swig from the bottle, then passed it to him.  "Sorry, no glasses."

"It's all right," he said.  He lifted the bottle and drank from it as well, smiling despite the cheap apple cider quality to it.  Ophelia slid onto the couch next to him and lifted her legs, settling in beside him.  "I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure this isn't how a lap dance works," Frank said.  "Aren't you supposed to take your top off?"

She smiled wickedly and stroked the underside of his chin with her red fingernail, "
Your name is Tom and you work in construction."

"Huh?" he said, but his attention was torn from her by the sound of someone whipping the curtain back and standing over them in the private room.  The woman's body was silhouetted by the bar lights, but Frank could make out her bright blonde hair and the ridiculous sweep and swell of her figure.  She threw the curtain back behind her and planted a high-heeled boot on the sofa between Frank's legs, "Is this him?"

"Yep," Ophelia nodded.  "Tom, this is Sapphire.  Sapphire, this is my honey."

"Mmm," Sapphire said approvingly.  She bent over in front of him and jiggled her massive breasts.  She leaned in close to his face and kissed him lightly on the lips, "He's handsome."

"I know," Ophelia said.  She reached between his legs and cupped his groin, squeezing it through his pants as Sapphire turned around and began to slide her g-string down over her round buttocks. 

The undergarment hit the floor and Sapphire stepped out of it, just as Ophelia reached down and began to fumble with Frank's zipper.  The two of them leaned forward and pressed their lips together, opening their mouths and intertwining their tongues. 
When they stopped, they looked back at him with feral, hungry stares.  "Oh shit," Frank whispered. 

A half
hour later Frank emerged from the private room staggering and trying to adjust his pants.  His shirt was on crooked and his legs as weak as if he'd run ten miles.  He slumped into the bar stool and said, "I need a drink."

One of the old salts sitting nearby laughed
at Frank with an open, toothless mouth and said, "I'm buying that guy a beer.  Good for you!"

"Thanks," Frank mumbled. 

The music started up again and he saw Ophelia march across the floor to get up on the stage.  She wiped the pole down with a damp cloth, then slithered around it and stuck her leg in the air to give the audience a wide view of her crotch.  Frank ignored the way the crowd talked about her.  He was trying to get used to it.

"So, you aren't married?" a woman said, jumping into the seat beside him. 

He turned to see Sapphire drop her blue Crown Royale bag on the bar and drag an ashtray in front of her.  She didn't ask if he minded if she smoked.  Considering what had just happened between the three of them behind the curtain, he figured she had the right to give him a little cancer.   

"No," he said. 

"Any kids?"

He smiled, knowing this was a trick question.  A guy his age, with a job and a car and all the things that went with a respectable lifestyle should have some sort of an established family life.  Otherwise, he was gay, or had been in prison, or was simply too much of an unrepentant asshole for any woman to put up with.  "I've got two," he said.  "Their mother and I are divorced."

"I hear you," Sapphire said.  She raised her hand to light another cigarette and Frank saw the tattoo scrawled on the inside of her wrist that read,
Ralphie P.  Forever loved, forever missed. 
There was a date inked at the bottom of the memorial that stuck in Frank's mind like a sliver of a popcorn kernel stuck between his molars. 
That date,
he thought. 
Ralphie P.

He turned to look at Sapphire again, this time trying to place her among the thousands of contacts he'd had with strippers, junkies, losers and all manner of assorted scum.  It didn't work.  He sipped his drink and played it cool.  "Who died?"

"Huh?"

"That tattoo on your wrist?"

"Oh," she said, shaking her head sadly.  "My boyfriend.  He was killed last year by these bumblefuck cops up in Potter County."

Frank saw the small, fragile figure with twisted arms curled up in her wheelchair.  Her legs were strapped down to the kickplates.  There was blood spattered on the far wall of her room, under the framed pictures of horses and puppies and
cartoon characters.  He could still see the Disney pillowcase pulled over her head, covering the misshapen lump Ralph Polonius had turned it into.  Blood seeped through the fabric and dripped down her arms, leaking onto the floor. 

Frank drank again.
"No kidding?" he said, stiffly. 

"It was a tragedy.  His ex-wife murdered their disabled daughter while he was up at his mountain house.  They thought he did it and killed him." 

Frank drained his beer and stared down at the empty bottle, "I think I read about that.  Didn't the ex-wife die too?"

"Yeah.  She must have fell down the steps or something, or threw herself down out of guilt.  The cops tried to say he did all that, but that's bullshit.  I mean, he was up in the cabin when they found him!  How the hell could he be in two places at once?"

"It's a mystery," Frank said softly.  He raised his hand for another beer, hoping it would quell the flood of bile pouring into his gut. 

Sapphire leaned close to his ear and said, "I hope you don’t get the wrong idea about Ophelia from what happened back there.  She's a good girl, and deserves a good man in her life.  She just wanted to do something special for you because I think she really likes you." 

Frank looked up and saw Ophelia dance, saw her long, dark hair sweep the floor.  She caught him looking and her large, almond-shaped eyes widened as she smiled.  "Good," Frank said.  "I really like her too."