Read Online The Z Club by J.W. Bouchard - Free Book Online Page A

motivation by ultimatum.  She had died of a stroke two years later, having lived long enough to see Fred Jr. become a carbon copy of his father; long enough to see him make something of himself by playing around in other peoples’ shit.
    No one had ever accused Fred of being particularly lucky, but he had inherited a livelihood, and when his mother passed away, he had inherited the same house he had grown up in.  Some might say he inherited his entire adulthood, but those that did never put it quite so delicately.  The words ‘freeloadin’ sonofabitch’ had been uttered more than once behind Fred’s back.
    He followed his normal routine that Saturday morning.  He slept in, and around ten-thirty he opened his eyes and rubbed one out under the sheets as he imagined the cute blonde cougar from the day before.  It took longer than usual because her huge black husband kept crowding the memory.  Breakfast consisted of beer and cold pizza.  He gazed at a framed picture of his mother and father on their wedding day that hung on the imitation wood paneling in the living room.  For two years he had tried to exorcise the feeling of emptiness from the house, but the house had remained steadfast in its duty as a harbinger of loneliness.  Fred, although not especially superstitious, believed that the house simply refused to move on; it was his parent’s house, and in a way, it always would be. 
    After that, he put on his navy coveralls and headed out for his twelve o’clock appointment.
    Fred took his time driving across town.  The job was over on Stilson Avenue, which was on the west side of Trudy, a few blocks from the hospital.  It was only a seven minute jaunt across town, but it took fifteen because he had to wait for a train.
    Quiet for a Saturday, he thought as he pulled up in front of a ranch-style home with a cobblestone path leading to the front porch.  Before exiting the truck, he flipped open his appointment book and glanced down to the twelve o’clock slot.  All he had written was: Clogged sink.  Sexy voice.
    After yesterday’s events, Fred told himself to be cautious.  Look for a ring .  He hadn’t remembered to do that when the cougar had answered the door.  That lack of foresight had led to an embarrassing situation.  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.  Like it matters, he thought.  Never leads to anything except food for the mental spank bank.
    He rooted around in the back of his truck, bringing out his tool belt, a fifty foot extension cord, and selected a handheld auger with drill attachment.  More often than not, standing water in the sink meant the clog was nearby.  Running the snake down the pipe under the sink usually did the job; no need to break out the big guns.
    When Fred reached the top of the steps, he found the front door slightly ajar.  He knocked anyway.  No one answered.  He waited.  Finally, he pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside.  The house was meticulously kept, which Fred took to mean the woman who lived there probably worked at home.  He had seen the inside of a lot of houses, and he had gotten good at determining what kind of work the people who resided in them did for a living.  The woman who lived in this house, for instance, probably either worked remotely, or was a stay-at-home mom, and if that was the case, he guessed she didn’t have more than one kid otherwise there was no way she could have managed to keep it as clean as it was.
    The only thing out of place was a set of muddy tracks in the white carpet.  There was a continuous trail of footprints running from where the carpet started in the living room and leading up the stairs.  He called out again.  “Anybody home?”  No reply, but he thought he heard movement from above.
    If Trudy had been a big city, he would have turned around and left.  But it was a small town, and since people mostly trusted each other, he wiped his boots on the mat and headed into the kitchen.
    The sink