Red Eye couldn’t get out of the car by himself. I grabbed his hands and pulled him into a sitting position in the back seat. From there he levered himself up to his feet with the armrest. I walked him to the front door like a football player with a torn-up knee. Each step brought more belches. I was hoping the inevitable wiener projectiles wouldn’t fly from his mouth until we got to a bathroom inside.
The two men in the car observed our movements with great interest but they didn’t get out. Likely there were considering a range of criminal activities that could have precipitated Red Eye’s incapacity. Excessive hot dog consumption wouldn’t have made their list.
I put Red Eye to bed, leaving a five-gallon plastic bucket at his bedside to accommodate any reversal. The trophy from the Greeley sat on the nightstand where he could look at it as he lay on his side. The topknot was a hot dog inside an undersized bun.
“I’m going to get my name engraved on the Golden Dog this time,” Red Eye said. “I should do the other trophy too though I’m not sure where it is.”
He moaned as he tried to adjust his position to get a better view of his prize.
I delivered a glass of Pepto Bismol.
“Don’t think that will help,” he said. “I’m beyond medicine. I just need a gigantic puke and a good sleep.”
With that he held his head out over the edge of the bed, pulled the bucket into place and stuck two fingers down his throat.
The vomit came in waves. I stood back, trying to avoid the splash and stink. Out came gallons of greenish hot dog waste, a few pieces of skin floated in the pool inside the bucket. I should have put some newspapers or a towel down to protect the carpet.
“That’s the best puke I ever had,” he said when he was finished, “better than sex.”
I needed to apply my matchmaking skills to Red Eye when he recovered. I hadn’t been as good a friend as I thought. How could puking be better than butterin’ the muffin? Red Eye was no Tom Cruise but somewhere there was the perfect match for everyone if you just looked hard enough.
He picked up the lid of the bucket and sealed the top, making sure all of the edges were pressed down tight. It didn’t do much to stem the stench. At least I’d kept distance enough to stay dry.
“Sorry, bro,” he said. “I’ll dump it out in a minute. Just need to let my stomach settle.” I couldn’t argue with his offer. I wasn’t going to touch that bucket.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” I said. “You might get dehydrated.”
“Gatorade would be better,” he said, “helps with the electrolytes.”
“Sorry, don’t have any.”
“Then give me a glass of water with a teaspoon of sugar and a quarter teaspoon of salt.”
“Is that recipe from the Greeley’s cookbook?”
“My personal trainer recommended that,” he said. “You don’t have a personal trainer.”
“Nowadays every champion has a personal trainer.”
“Yeah, right.”
I went to the kitchen to prepare his concoction. I was wondering what scent of freshener would clear the air. Hawaiian Hurricane might be a contender or the old standby, Fresh Lemon. I could hear Red Eye in the bedroom still laughing at his joke about the personal trainer. I hoped it wouldn’t lead to another set of convulsions. With the lid on that bucket, a second round could bring disaster to my carpet.
As I stirred in the salt and sugar, the doorbell rang. I didn’t have a hard time guessing who it was.
Carter’s pal the Weasel was holding a thumb inside his belt and pushing his sunglasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. His very tall partner wore a suit and was high on something. Crank would have been my guess. His hair was kind of frizzed up and stuck in place with grease—a guy in his late forties chasing the fountain of youth. He’d taken a wrong turn. His wingtips needed a shine, the morning shave was pretty spotty. But I forgot all that once I looked at his mouth. Harelip. Thirty years ago he’d been wearing number 74 in that picture of Jeffcoat’s high school football team. The dots were connecting.
The harelip reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Though he was running interference I suspected the same old quarterback was calling the plays.
“I’m parole agent Washkowski, looking for my client, Mr. Theodore Cornell. I believe you know him as Red Eye.” Washkowski had that nasal sound to his voice. In another situation I would have sympathized. That talking through the nose was one part of the harelip experience I’d avoided.
“If you have a message for him,” I said, “I’ll deliver it. He’s slightly under the weather at the moment.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to see him in person,” Washkowski said, moving forward. “Step aside.” I closed the door a little to block his way.
“You got a warrant?” I asked.
“Don’t need one. This is a parole search. According to our records this is Mr. Cornell’s place of residence. He and his residence are subject to search any time of the day or night.”
“He’s very sick,” I said without moving. I opened my phone and hunted for Tsiropoulos’s number. I kept getting messages instead of the address book. Cell phones are confusing when the pressure’s on.
“I’m calling my lawyer.” I said.
Just as I got Tsiropoulos’s number on the screen, those two alien bodies barged through the door. The Weasel pulled out his billy club and waved it at his side. It was one of the new kind, with a little cable dangling at the end to whip you with. I could feel the blood dripping from a slash in my cheek and he hadn’t even hit me yet.
“I suggest you take a seat,” he said, “and put the phone away.”
“Red Eye,” I hollered, “some asshole PO named Washkowski is here to see you. He’s on his way in.”
I heard Red Eye’s feet hit the floor as the Weasel slammed me to the carpet with surprising power. As I tried to block the stench of the Weasel’s excessive use of Right Guard, I heard Red Eye struggling with the lid of the bucket. I could understand why a PO showing up was enough to make Red Eye puke. I wished there was something I could do but with a knee in my back I wasn’t going to be much good. I could see Red Eye through the open bedroom door, struggling to stand up.
“What’s that smell?” Washkowski asked.
“It’s this bucket,” said Red Eye. “Let me move it out of the way.” As Washkowski yelled at Red Eye to get down, my partner in crime reached for the bucket. In one surprisingly swift motion, he picked it up and hurled the contents at Washkowski. Little bits of hot dog stuck to the parole agent’s hair while others dotted his not-so-new suit. I didn’t want to think about my carpet. That show was worth the cost of three good steam cleanings.
The Weasel jumped off of me, pulled out a can of pepper spray and charged Red Eye. Washkowski was gagging. I hoped he wouldn’t vomit. Red Eye tried to pull his T-shirt over his face to block the orange spray. It didn’t work. I heard him coughing. Then my eyes started burning and I couldn’t breathe. I tried holding my breath but it didn’t help.
“My eyes, my eyes,” Washkowski screeched, “that fuckin’ shit is in my eyes.”
I didn’t know whether he was talking about the vomit or the pepper spray. Hopefully both. He streaked for the front door, leaving a trail of vomity footprints along the way. The Weasel had enough presence of mind to get the cuffs on the choking Red Eye and call him a few choice names.
“I’ll phone Tsiropoulos,” I promised Red Eye as the cop escorted him out of the house.
“What are you taking me in for?” Red Eye asked.
“You have the right to remain silent,” said the Weasel, “you have the right to an attorney. And I have the right to kick your fuckin’ ass.”
“What’s the charge?” asked Red Eye.
“Shut the fuck up,” was the Weasel’s only reply.
Washkowski had found my garden hose and was washing himself down on the front lawn. Red Eye and the cop marched past him. Then Washkowski threw down the hose and trudged a pukey path back to the patrol car. I heard him mumble something about letting that “fuckin’ asshole clean up his own messes.”
I closed the door behind me, got my car keys, and headed for the local U-Haul rental center to get a carpet shampooer. It would take a couple of hours to process Red Eye at the station, maybe longer. Time enough to get out the worst of the stains. That carpet would never be the same. I should have stuck to hardwood floors.
I phoned Tsiropoulos on my way to U-Haul and summarized the day’s events. I don’t think I made that much sense but at least he got the important thing straight: he had to get down to the police ASAP to check on Red Eye.
“He’s a candidate for a serious beating,” I said.
“I wouldn’t want to say he made a bad decision,” said Tsiropoulos.
“You had to have been there,” I said. “Red Eye didn’t have a choice.”
It took me three hours of vacuuming, shampooing, and scrubbing to remove most of the stains. I figured it would get rid of any evidence that might incriminate Red Eye plus the Right Guard stench from the Weasel. I expected more cops to come and search the place but they never arrived.
I doused every room with Hawaiian Hurricane and Pine-Sol and left three fans blowing, This house of mine had to be cursed. Karma was coming to get me I guess. I strove for suburban tranquility and order. Yet there was always some unwanted invasion from somewhere. Maybe I wasn’t meant to live this kind of life. I’d have to give it some thought. In the meantime, I hoped they hadn’t beaten Red Eye to death.