agents, and sales, and to gossip about one another.
“Lee-Lee, don’t hurt me, okay? Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt the baby.”
Lee-Lee. Jesus wept.
Oh, and another one; score one more. The baby. Please don’t hurt the baby. Welcome to the fucking Lifetime Channel.
Dykstra’s rapidly beating heart seemed to sink an inch in his chest. It felt as if he had been standing here in this little cinder-block notch between the men’s room and the
women’s for at least twenty minutes, but when he looked at his watch, he wasn’t
surprised to see that not even forty seconds had passed since the first slap. It was the
subjective nature of time and the eerie speed of thought when the mind was suddenly
put under pressure. He had written about both many times. He supposed most quote-
unquote suspense novelists had. It was a goddam staple. The next time it was his turn
to address the Florida Thieves, perhaps he would take that as his subject and begin by
telling them about this incident. About how he’d had time to think, Second
Drunkalonians. Although he supposed it might be a little heavy for their biweekly get-togethers, a little—
A perfect flurry of blows interrupted this train of thought. Lee-Lee had snapped.
Dykstra listened to the particular sound of these blows with the dismay of a man who
understands he’s hearing sounds he will never forget, not movie-soundtrack Foleys
but a fists-hitting-a-feather-pillow sound, surprisingly light, actually almost delicate.
The woman screamed once in surprise and once in pain. After that she was reduced to
puffing little cries of pain and fear. Outside in the dark, Dykstra thought of all the
public-service spots he’d seen about preventing domestic violence. They did not hint
at this, how you could hear the wind in the palm trees in one ear (and the rustle of the
missing-child posters, don’t forget that) and those little groaning sounds of pain and
fear in the other.
He heard shuffling feet on the tiles and knew Lee (Lee-Lee, the woman had called
him, as if a pet name might defuse his rage) was closing in. Like Rick Hardin, Lee
was boots. The Lee-Lees of the world tended to be Georgia Giant guys. They were
Dingo men. The woman was in sneakers, white low-tops. He knew it.
“Bitch, you fuckin’ bitch, I seen you talkin’ to him, tossin’ your tits at him, you
fuckin’ hoor—”
“No, Lee-Lee, I never—”
The sound of another blow, and then a hoarse expectoration that was neither male nor
female. Retching. Tomorrow, whoever cleaned these restrooms would find vomit
drying on the floor and one of the tiled walls in the women’s, but Lee and his wife or
girlfriend would be long departed, and to the cleaner it would be just another mess to
clean up, the story of the puke both unclear and uninteresting, and what was Dykstra
supposed to do? Jesus, did he have the sack to go in there? If he didn’t, Lee might
finish beating her up and call it good, but if a stranger interfered—
He could kill both of us.
But…
The baby. Please don’t hurt the baby.
Dykstra clenched his fists and thought, Fucking Lifetime Channel!
The woman was still retching.
“Stop that, Ellen.”
“I can’t!”
“No? Okay, good. I’ll stop it for you. Fuckin’… hoor.”
Another whap! punctuated hoor. Dykstra’s heart sank even lower. He would not have thought it possible. Soon it would be beating in his belly. If only he could channel the
Dog! In a story it would work—he’d even been thinking about identity before making
the evening’s great mistake of turning into this rest area, and if that wasn’t what the
writing manuals called foreshadowing, then what was?
Yes, he would turn into his hit man, stride into the women’s room, beat the living shit
out of Lee, then go on his way. Like Shane in that old movie with Alan Ladd.
The woman retched again, the sound of a machine turning stones into gravel, and
Dykstra knew he wasn’t going to channel the Dog. The Dog was make-believe. This
was reality, rolling out right here in front of him like a drunk’s tongue.