Judge liked Victorian B&Bs, the antiques, the architecture, the gaudy tile bathrooms with period fixtures, the frilly beds, and the high-calorie, pomp-and-circumstance breakfasts. It was how he’d met his girlfriend Geenie, a B&B proprietor when she wasn’t filling in as a nurse, her inn tucked into coal country in a small burg in the Pocono Mountains. Meeting Geenie solidified his love for B&Bs. His love for her hadn’t trailed far behind.
Judge picked up his key, apologized to the manager for his physical appearance yet offered no details. He retrieved Maeby from the van but left J.D. there to chill. He liked his crate. It was another security blanket for him, like keeping his leash on. He settled Maeby into their second-floor room. Judge’s face was smeared in fire soot he couldn’t scrub off, his jeans soaked in urine from the boy and his mom. Add tequila breath and a pervasive dead-body bouquet, plus a torn Cream Live! tee shirt, and it all conspired to sell him as homeless. Still, if he didn’t eat breakfast right then, he wouldn’t get to eat it at all.
The B&B’s enclosed porch served as the breakfast room, its old-fashioned wooden floor-to-ceiling windows crisscrossed with hand-painted white grilles, the panes individually puttied into place. Small flat-screen TVs were affixed to the porch ceiling, bookending the seating area. A fresh fruit cup topped with homemade whipped cream awaited each guest at café tables set for two. The aromas of spinach quiche and seasoned potatoes drifted in from the kitchen. Everything looked and smelled fantastic. In contrast, Judge didn’t. The couple at the café table next to him was unimpressed, the guy an older GQ type with sculpted white-gray temples, his tablemate a woman half his age with a dreamy-eyed, post-coital glow.
Consenting adults, Judge reminded himself.
‘Unimpressed’ was too positive a term. Mr. GQ Perfect Posture’s jaw muscles started tightening. He was loading up, readying for a confrontation about Judge’s appearance. Absent his dogs, Judge was vulnerable. Upscale B&B, conservative patrons, with both flat screens tuned to a sermon by televangelist Higby Hunt, a blustery Texas preacher with a nationwide ministry. Okay, Judge got it, so maybe he could have asked the kitchen staff to put together a plate for him to eat upstairs. Too late. Out of respect, he ate quickly. This only added to the man’s agitation, since it looked like Judge hadn’t eaten in days.
“Looks like you had a tough night, fella,” GQ said to him. “I’ll give you one hundred dollars if you leave right now.” His stare drilled into the side of Judge’s head. If Judge had sideburns, or any hair for that matter, his head would have ignited.
Custom-fitted, tight white dress shirt, each collar bearing a “JESUS” stickpin in gold block letters, the guy and his health-club physique looked a tad precious, much more Lucille Roberts than Gold’s Gym. Gold tips decorated his bolo tie, its etched, oval Western slide in gold as well. Above the collar was a body-shop tan and a silver-flecked blond mustache. In contrast Judge looked like he’d spent a night in a landfill and was in need of a hazmat scrub.
“One hundred dollars,” GQ repeated. “Take it outside, and when I’m finished eating you’ll get your money. How’s that sound, old man?”
Good diction. A smirk-laden, condescending pal-o’-mine delivery. A presence. The guy had done this before and gotten his way. And whomever he’d suckered into the offer had never seen the money.
Hell, Judge was game. “So if I stop eating right now, and I wait outside, you’ll come out when you’re finished your quiche and give me some money? You know, champ, you’re right. My bad. A poor choice on my part, ruining breakfast for the rest of these nice folks.” Judge drained his coffee and pushed his chair back. “But as far as you and your girlfriend here are concerned,” he stood, producing his wallet, “I couldn’t give a shit.” He slapped two one-hundred-dollar bills onto GQ’s table. “To reimburse you for your stay. Old man.”
The money next to the man’s half-eaten fruit cup should have been statement enough, but Judge felt feisty. He dropped another bill onto the woman’s plate.
“And for you, young lady, here’s a twenty in case he didn’t tip you for, you know, renting your cu…cu…”
He got stuck on the hard “c,” which tangled his throat up, nearly choking him while he tried to hold back the rest of a mounting verbal assault.
“…cuh, cuh, cuh…”
His subconscious loaded up for an explosion of shit-talk, readying a barrage of streaming profanity set to sprint off his tongue into an abyss of deranged utterances unfit for human consumption, offensive to all within earshot if they got out.
“…cun, cun, cun-cun-cun…”
To those nearby, he presented as a stuttering adult trying hard to complete a sentence, not what he was, a guy with a severe potty-mouth disorder about to bust a gasket trying to dam up the diarrhea.
GQ’s date was super pissed, which made GQ super pissed, which made him toss his napkin and get to his feet.
Judge powered through the pending barrage, defused it by locating his rabbit’s foot keychain. He finally squeezed out the last word like he was passing a kidney stone.
“…companionship.”
There. Whew. Judge smiled at him. All better now.
It might as well have been the c-word; the sentiment was the same. Mr. GQ’s manliness got the better of him. The two men were now nose to nose, and they were gonna go.
From over Judge’s shoulder: “Mister Drury! Please!”
A silver-haired man in a Kiss-The-Cook bib apron separated them with arms to their chests. The cook’s younger partner, also male, pulled Judge aside. “I’m sorry, Mister Drury, but I can’t have you upsetting our other guests like this. I think it best that you leave. We’ll refund your deposit. I’m sure you understand.”
It was as much a plea as it was a directive. The fear in the man’s eyes made Judge back off, and he was about to apologize for scaring him when his partner’s nervous glances past Judge’s shoulder said he was less afraid of Judge and more afraid of Mr. GQ. The man’s dress, his confidence, and his need to assert himself. This was a self-righteous conservative who could make trouble for this gay couple trying to make a living in Texas, the straightest state in the Union, or so its residents wanted everyone to believe.
So be it. GQ got to keep his dignity and his balls because of Judge’s read of the situation. He went upstairs to collect Maeby.
Saddled up in the van, Judge reached behind Maeby’s ears and gave her a quick scratch. Finding another place to stay that was pet friendly on short notice would be a challenge. Nothing within twenty miles, and he was deathbed tired. Against his better judgment he keyed in a certain phone number. After many rings:
“…mgglumph…”
“Owen. Judge Drury.”
“…orggg.”
“Wake up, Owen.”
“Leave me the hell alone, Evans. I filed the story. I accept your edits, whatever the hell they are.”
“Owen, it’s not your editor. It’s Judge Drury, the bounty hunter. I need a favor.”
“What.”
“I need a place to stay for a few days.”
“Fine. Door’s open. I’m going back to sleep.”
The answer he expected. God help him.
Owen’s front door wasn’t open. Judge walked his dogs, both leashed, around back. Deep-throated moos and other animal noises greeted them from the edge of the property. They also got an ominous snort from Señor Q, his black bull eyes following them. The monster looked bigger than he did yesterday, all eighteen- hundred of his pounds full of mean. The sliding glass door to the family room was ajar. With some effort Judge ushered his dogs inside.
No welcome from Owen, only snoring from another room. Judge cleaned off one of the couches and lay down. The dogs settled in next to him on the cluttered floor, exhausted.
Judge woke up, his face full of cat. Bruce retreated.
From his space on the couch Judge smelled bacon, then saw bacon, greasy undercooked strips of it silhouetted against an overhead light in the kitchen, dangling from each of Owen’s hands until he released them into the dogs’ patiently waiting mouths. Judge checked his phone. One-thirty p.m. Afour-hour nap would have to do. Owen was now dressed in street clothes with bib jeans and a yellow tee. Much better than his Cowboy Black Bart clown outfit. Without the cowboy hat, his dreads were in full display. Not a bad look for him.
“You’re going to make my dogs sick, Owen. They’ll shit when and where you don’t want them to. No more greasy bacon.”
“How about you? Want some? I’ll microwave another pound. I’m starving.”
He declined, and asked if there was coffee. Owen’s chin directed him to a Keurig at the end of the counter. Five minutes and eight consumed ounces later, Judge was alert enough to remember he was a day and a half overdue for a shower.
“Guest bathroom is down the hall, on the right. Enough of the plumbing works so keep your mouth shut about the rest of it, capisce? I had a girlfriend a while back. It was her bathroom. We didn’t part on good terms.”
Judge grabbed his toiletry kit. Owen called after him. “Oh. And I think I got all the broken glass, if that crosses your mind.”
Two white sinks, a dripping spigot. Brown hair, strands and stubs of it, in both sink drains; it was also on the floor, the light-colored walls, and the sweating toilet tank. A wide mirror spanned both sinks, with cracks spidering away from a bulls-eye impact at eye level. Shelves with women’s cosmetics. And splashes and drips of glow-in-the-dark nail polish everywhere, the bottles not in evidence.
Jackson Pollock’s bathroom, in 3-D. Judge planned on taking the quickest shower ever, and with his eyes closed.
“She did like my genitals,” Owen volunteered when he returned from the shower, “after I validated the black myth for her. But you know the type, Judge. ‘I love you, you’re perfect, now change.’ For some reason she thought she could make me taller. Or maybe she wanted me to quit drinking. Can’t remember which. Either way, she lost. By the way, Frannie Kitchens called.”
“And he would be…?”
“Glenn Heights Chief of Police. We’ve known each other since we were kids. You can have your gun back, you’re cleared. Oh, and he liked my column this morning. I could have made you an Internet hero if you’d let me use your name.”
“No thanks. You still drunk?”
“Good. Let’s go get my gun and ask some questions.” Owen grabbed his sequined ten-gallon hat, snapped it onto his head, his dreads hanging to his shoulders. Judge stared him down. “You need to lose that. You look like a walking condom.”
“Heard it before.” He dented the top of the hat. This only solidified the penis image. “The hat’s subliminal. Impresses the women. Shut up and drive.”