“I’m a doctor, that’s the difference. Don’t move now, I think I’ve got an extra brace in the trunk of the car.”
After James had left the room, Catherine came over and knelt down on the floor next to Decker. “Tell me what’s happened, Rage.”
“Somebody’s trying to frame me for a murder.”
“Who? Not the Fish People!”
“Afraid so,” Decker said. He was ready for a trenchant scolding—this was Catherine’s specialty—but for some reason (probably pity) she refrained.
“The guy out back, Grizzly Adams—”
“He’s all right,” Decker said.
“James is scared of him.”
“So am I, but he’s all I’ve got.”
Catherine kissed him lightly on the ear. “Is there anything I can do?”
For one flushed moment Decker felt his heart stop. Bump, bump—then dead air. All from a whiff of perfume and a silly peck on the earlobe. It was so wonderful that Decker almost forgot she’d dumped him for a guy who wore ninety-dollar bathrobes.
Catherine said, “I want to help.”
“Does James have a broker?” Decker asked.
“Yes. Hutton, Shearson, somebody big like that. It’s a VIP account, that much I know. They sent us a magnum of champagne last Christmas.”
Decker said, ‘This is what I need. Tell James you got a tip at the beauty parlor—”
“Oh, please.”
“Or wherever, Catherine, just tell him you got a tip on a stock. It’s traded as OCN, I think. The Outdoor Christian Network. See if your husband’s broker can send over a prospectus. I need a copy as soon as possible.”
She said, “He’ll think it’s odd. We never talk about his investments.”
“Try it,” Decker said. “Play dumb and sweet and just-trying-to-help. You can do it.”
“You’re still an asshole, Rage.”
“And you’re still a vision, Catherine. Would your husband get too terribly upset if you and I took off our clothes and hopped in the shower? We can tell him it’s part of my medical treatment. Hot-water traction, they call it.”
At that moment James walked in, too preoccupied to notice his wife scooting back to the ottoman. James was carrying a foam-padded brace, the kind that fastens around the neck like a collar.
“That man,” he said indignantly, “has built a bonfire in our backyard!”
Catherine went to the window. “For heaven’s sake it’s not a bonfire,” she said. “It’s just a barbecue, honey, no worse than you and your hibachi.”
“But the hibachi is gas,” James protested.
R. J. Decker pushed himself off the sofa and went to see for himself. Skink huddled in a familar pose beneath the avocado tree; crouched on his haunches, tending a small campfire.
“He looks like a damn hobo,” James said.
“That’s enough,” Catherine snapped. “He’s not hurting anybody.”
Decker observed that Skink had fashioned a rotisserie spit out of dead branches. He was cooking a chunk of gray meat over the fire, rotating it slowly by hand.
“What do you suppose he’s got there?” Catherine said.
“Probably something gross he scrounged from the garbage,” James said. “Or maybe a duck out of that filthy canal.”
In the flickering shadows Decker couldn’t be sure, but he had a pretty good idea what his friend was fixing for dinner. It was Bambi, of course. Skink was serenely roasting the doctor’s pet poodle.
R. J. Decker took a bed in one of the guestrooms, but he couldn’t sleep. Dancing on the walls were cartoon sheep in red tuxedos—wallpaper for a baby’s room, obviously, but Catherine had never been too wild about kids. On this matter the chiropractor had failed to change her mind. Still, Decker admired his optimism for leaving the nursery wallpaper up.
When Decker closed his eyes, the tuxedoed sheep were replaced by the face of Dennis Gault: the seething visage of a man trying to strangle him. Decker wondered if the fistfight at Gault’s condominium had been an act like everything else; he wondered if Gault were really that clever or ballsy, or if things had just fallen right. Decker couldn’t wait to meet up with Gault and ask him. Afterward it would be nice to choke the sonofabitch so decisively that his eyeballs would pop out of his skull and roll across his fancy glass desk like a couple of aggies.