The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [40]
“Get me that house and get your ass back here,” Fred snapped. “Or else you’ll be a beach bum again, eating from hotel garbage bins!”
After slamming the phone down, Fred stood by his window and bit his fingernails. A dog barked from deep inside the condominium and he realized he’d not fed Rusty, his large Doberman Pinscher.
He arrived in his kitchen to Rusty jumping up and down like he was in some sort of circus act. Fred kicked him hard in the ribs. “Down, boy.”
Rusty winced and cowered low to the ground, looking up with dumb, lovesick eyes. As Fred went to the cupboard to find dog food, Rusty jumped up again, planting both of his huge paws on Fred’s back.
“Rusty, get down,” Fred boomed, and punched the dog in the face.
Rusty knew the routine. Every day was like this. Even when Winston was around to feed him, Fred would always get a kick or a slap in somehow. Soon it would be Rusty’s fifth birthday, and as far as he could remember, every day for five years Fred Livingstone had beaten him. Most times, Rusty pretended it was nothing and acted playful, but sometimes he felt fierce, like a dog his size should, and would growl a warning under his breath. Once he even had a dream that he’d swallowed Fred whole.
“Hello,” Fred said into the phone while Rusty ate his dish of canned meat. “I was wondering if I could make a reservation for two … nine o’clock? Livingstone. Splendid, splendid. See you then.”
He dashed to his bedroom and undressed, leaving the pile of clothing where it fell, and stepped into the shower. After a quick shave and his ritual application of athlete’s foot cream, Fred stopped and peered into the mirror. No longer able to pass for forty-something, he’d stopped dying his hair and working out. It left him looking like his father. Gone were the days he could flex a bicep in the mirror to feel better about himself—now he felt upbeat when the shower drain wasn’t clogged with runaway hair or his skin wasn’t blotchy. The best days were when he could avoid seeing his reflection completely.
He got dressed in a white linen suit, a short-sleeved, pink, button-down shirt, and a pair of loafers. He transferred a bulging wallet to his back pocket, combed his hair, and turned off the light behind him. After stopping at the marble bar in the foyer for a quick shot of bourbon, he looked down at Rusty, who was now standing at the front door. “If you shit on the carpet, I’ll kill you.”
Fred Livingstone felt the stares of a dozen husbands as he walked to his private table. He felt them slice into his back, his sides, his groin. How many of them would be surprised to see him here with Sarah? Had they watched her walk the same route earlier and tried not to notice her? Would they envy him?
When he rounded the corner to find the table empty, he turned to the maitre d’ and barked an order.
“A bottle of your best red,” he snapped, and sat down facing the dining room. He felt silly and stupid. A dozen husbands would snigger to themselves, knowing he was eating alone.
He looked at his watch, drank a glass of wine, then looked at it again. For a half an hour, he looked and poured and drank and looked. At nine thirty, he ordered a second bottle. At ten, he ordered a small plate of salad. He ordered a third bottle at ten thirty.
“Surely she knew I was serious,” he mumbled to himself. “Or did she stand me up on purpose? Fred Livingstone, you know how women are. Especially the married ones. One can never tell what they want. Roses? Jewelry? Too much expectation, not enough instinct, I say. Women always want too much anyway.”
He thought like that for the rest of the night, his dark eyebrows burrowing deeper and deeper into a frown, making his usually attractive face seem ugly. When he was finished, he swaggered to the door, muttering. “I’ll find her on the beach tomorrow. She’s probably a little prick tease anyway. She’ll soon find out who owns this town.”
The Island Hotel Restaurant was empty but for the staff and two tables of tourists. Fred knew, somehow, that the dozen