Read Online The Moon Around Sarah by Paul Lederer - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Lederer
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times, but he couldn’t!
He swung the car in at the curb, parking in a red zone. If the cops didn’t like it, they could go to hell, too. What were they going to do? Write him a ticket or scare him with jail? He had seen a few of those, and tougher than any they had around here; from La Mesa prison in Tijuana to Ban Tho in Vietnam….
His thoughts drifted briefly. All right, he was lying: those places had scared the hell out of him! He watched the crazed reddish streaks and neon green ripples reflected against the rain-smeared windshield.
He knew that he had just never learned to control his temper. No one had told him how it was done. A man fights. A dog sniffing through the alleys, that was what they all were. You sniffed their butts and that told you if they wanted to fight or fuck. Beyond that there weren’t any significant relationships.
Raymond sat with his hands resting limply on the steering wheel. The changing colors of the neon bar sign continued to streak the gray day and the cold windshield. There was a different world just outside the car door.
The thought came from nowhere. ‘I am sorry, Eric,’ he said deep inside himself, ‘my baby boy.…’ But he could not sustain the emotion and his rage returned. How could any boy do that to his own sister? It was so disgustingly distant from his own inculcated morals that it was completely incomprehensible. His own father wouldn’t have only horse-whippedhim, he likely would have pulled his old Colt .44 from his desk and shot him in the balls….
‘I am,’ Raymond thought, rubbing his forehead, ‘growing very old and tired.’
He climbed heavily from the car and walked through the silver rain toward the bar, wondering what he might do or say when he did find Ellen. He knew only that it would not be pretty.
Three
T HE BAR WAS dark, subdued, when Raymond Tucker shoved his way through the door. He bumped shoulders with a young blond guy in a green jacket and Red’s baseball cap who was just leaving, but Raymond didn’t even nod an apology; that, of course, would be a sign of weakness.
There were only a handful of men drinking draft beer scattered along the bar, wearing cowboy hats or yellow Caterpillar caps – construction guys knocked off the job because of the rain. The place smelled of wet flannel shirts and green beer. The jukebox, flashing red and yellow lights, was playing, but it was turned down so low that Raymond couldn’t even hear the words to the song. A cowboy-type in cheap boots, hat tilted back, was hunched over it, studying the selections. A big Budweiser sign with its ‘B’ burning out, flickering against the dark mustiness of the bar, hung above a long mirror. The bartender was a doleful, balding man. Short, thick, with hound-dog eyes and a swollen nose. Someone ordered a pitcher of beer and the bartender nodded and filled one from the tap. He took a five-dollar bill from the guy, swept up some change left as a tip from thebar and pocketed it, whistling along silently with the muted jukebox tune.
‘Hey bartender!’ Raymond said. Heads turned. His voice was loud in the quiet bar.
‘One second…’ the bartender closed the register drawer and ambled to where Raymond stood, his stance and crossed arms aggressive, ‘what’ll it be, friend?’
‘I’m looking for a woman.’
Ike held up an interrupting hand, ‘about five-three, maybe 45 years old? Wearing a blue dress and hat.’
‘How in hell do you know that?’ Raymond asked.
‘She’s the only woman’s been in here this morning. She fairly well screwed up my morning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She came in. Got real drunk. Fell off the stool and cracked her head open. I had to call an ambulance … say, I just told your friend all of this. What’s up?’
‘What friend?’ Raymond asked suspiciously. His eyes narrowed ominously as the bartender answered him.
‘That guy that just went out. You must have seen him. Young guy in a green quilted jacket and red
He swung the car in at the curb, parking in a red zone. If the cops didn’t like it, they could go to hell, too. What were they going to do? Write him a ticket or scare him with jail? He had seen a few of those, and tougher than any they had around here; from La Mesa prison in Tijuana to Ban Tho in Vietnam….
His thoughts drifted briefly. All right, he was lying: those places had scared the hell out of him! He watched the crazed reddish streaks and neon green ripples reflected against the rain-smeared windshield.
He knew that he had just never learned to control his temper. No one had told him how it was done. A man fights. A dog sniffing through the alleys, that was what they all were. You sniffed their butts and that told you if they wanted to fight or fuck. Beyond that there weren’t any significant relationships.
Raymond sat with his hands resting limply on the steering wheel. The changing colors of the neon bar sign continued to streak the gray day and the cold windshield. There was a different world just outside the car door.
The thought came from nowhere. ‘I am sorry, Eric,’ he said deep inside himself, ‘my baby boy.…’ But he could not sustain the emotion and his rage returned. How could any boy do that to his own sister? It was so disgustingly distant from his own inculcated morals that it was completely incomprehensible. His own father wouldn’t have only horse-whippedhim, he likely would have pulled his old Colt .44 from his desk and shot him in the balls….
‘I am,’ Raymond thought, rubbing his forehead, ‘growing very old and tired.’
He climbed heavily from the car and walked through the silver rain toward the bar, wondering what he might do or say when he did find Ellen. He knew only that it would not be pretty.
Three
T HE BAR WAS dark, subdued, when Raymond Tucker shoved his way through the door. He bumped shoulders with a young blond guy in a green jacket and Red’s baseball cap who was just leaving, but Raymond didn’t even nod an apology; that, of course, would be a sign of weakness.
There were only a handful of men drinking draft beer scattered along the bar, wearing cowboy hats or yellow Caterpillar caps – construction guys knocked off the job because of the rain. The place smelled of wet flannel shirts and green beer. The jukebox, flashing red and yellow lights, was playing, but it was turned down so low that Raymond couldn’t even hear the words to the song. A cowboy-type in cheap boots, hat tilted back, was hunched over it, studying the selections. A big Budweiser sign with its ‘B’ burning out, flickering against the dark mustiness of the bar, hung above a long mirror. The bartender was a doleful, balding man. Short, thick, with hound-dog eyes and a swollen nose. Someone ordered a pitcher of beer and the bartender nodded and filled one from the tap. He took a five-dollar bill from the guy, swept up some change left as a tip from thebar and pocketed it, whistling along silently with the muted jukebox tune.
‘Hey bartender!’ Raymond said. Heads turned. His voice was loud in the quiet bar.
‘One second…’ the bartender closed the register drawer and ambled to where Raymond stood, his stance and crossed arms aggressive, ‘what’ll it be, friend?’
‘I’m looking for a woman.’
Ike held up an interrupting hand, ‘about five-three, maybe 45 years old? Wearing a blue dress and hat.’
‘How in hell do you know that?’ Raymond asked.
‘She’s the only woman’s been in here this morning. She fairly well screwed up my morning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She came in. Got real drunk. Fell off the stool and cracked her head open. I had to call an ambulance … say, I just told your friend all of this. What’s up?’
‘What friend?’ Raymond asked suspiciously. His eyes narrowed ominously as the bartender answered him.
‘That guy that just went out. You must have seen him. Young guy in a green quilted jacket and red
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