The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [80]
He hopped to his office chair and collapsed into it, all the while holding the washcloth to his wound. He wrapped more paper towels around the whole lot and applied masking tape, propped his foot up, and turned up the volume on the television.
Why don’t you find a good porn movie?
“Stop telling me what to do.”
You never minded before, Fred.
“I don’t have to listen to you.”
Fred ignored himself and took a light nap, but startled himself awake ten minutes later.
She’s telling people about you, Fred!
“Rumors,” Fred replied, half awake.
She’s telling them about your dog. About how you killed your dog.
“I didn’t kill him. He’ll be back later.”
He’s dead, Fred. You killed him.
Fred sat up in the chair and poured another glass of bourbon. He reached in the ice bucket and retrieved two ice cubes and placed them under the washcloth on his foot, then put two more in his glass. He changed channels until he found some light pornography and turned the volume down.
Now that’s more like it. Ooo. Look at her, Fred! What an ass! I bet you could bounce a squash ball off that ass!
“I bet you could.”
I bet you could bury your face in there and never come out.
Fred didn’t answer.
I bet it’s like honey down there, Fred. What do you think?
Fred ignored him.
God, Fred. You are such a faggot!
The guys at Princeton were always calling Fred a faggot. Back then, when he ran with the frat pack as its only exchange student, it didn’t bother him. It was just something to say. Those were the days when the voices were barely audible and the visions were barely visible. They’d all joined the pack the same way (one hundred blows to the ass with a paddle, two from each brother) and they would all leave the pack the same way—as hungover grown-ups with an education that might get them somewhere.
Fred was voted “Most Likely to Direct Porn Movies” at the senior bonfire, a prediction that, at the time, he’d half hoped would come true.
The phone on Fred’s desk rang, and he knew it was Winston.
“Hello, Winston. Fine, fine. How did things go with you?”
Fred drank back the rest of his bourbon and listened. Winston hated the noise and action of Miami and never failed to moan about it. “You’ll be home tomorrow, old boy,” Fred assured him. “Try to think about something else. No. I can’t promise you that, Winston. You know I can’t run this business on my own. We’ll talk about it when you get here, okay?” He eyed his throbbing foot in the flickering pornographic light. “Okay, me too. Right, Winston. Good night.” He placed the phone in its rest and sat back again.
Why did you say that? You don’t love him!
“Shut up. He’s lonely. It just came out.”
It came out because you do love him Fred, don’t you?
“I do not.”
You do. Admit it. You love him. It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.
“I don’t. I just said it because—” Fred paused. He didn’t know why he’d said it.
He’ll be really pissed off about you killing the dog, you know.
“I didn’t kill the dog.”
He’ll see the glass on the patio.
“I’ll clean it up in the morning.”
To hide the evidence of you killing the dog?
“He’s not dead.”
Prove it.
Fred got up from his chair and limped down the stairs and to the side door of the condo. He opened the door and called the dog. Rusty didn’t appear. He waited a few minutes, trying to focus in the darkness, looking for any movement, and then went into Winston’s kitchen and fetched a tin of food. He brought it back to the door and opened it slowly, making sure the dog would hear the familiar sound of the can’s lid popping. But the dog didn’t bounce out from anywhere. Fred left the tin of food by the door and went back upstairs.
I told you. The dog is dead.
“Well, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about a lot of things.”
What things?
“Everything.”
Like what, Fred? What am I wrong about?
Fred turned the office television off with the remote and limped to his bedroom.
Tell me! What am I wrong about?