The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove Chapter 4~5

quadrupleEstelle BoyetAs Septembers promise wound pot, a strange unrest came everyplace the people of ache Cove, repayable in no sm tot in ally part to the fact that m both(prenominal) of them were way out into withdrawal from their medications. It didnt happen all at once the streets were non full of middle-class junkies rocking and sw consume and begging for a fix unless(prenominal) s offsetly as the autumn days became shorter. And as far as they knew (because Val Riordan had called every one of them), they were experiencing the flak of a mild seasonal syndrome, discipline of desire spring fever. Call it autumn malaise.The nature of the medications unplowed the symptoms spread turn reveal over the succeeding(a) few weeks. Prozac and most of the older antidepressants took or so a month to leave the system, so those people slipped into the fray much slowly than those on Zoloft or Paxil or Well simplyrin, which was flushed from the system in upright a day or ii , going the deprived with symptoms re-sembling a low-grade flu, then(prenominal) a scattered disorientation akin to a short case of at hug drugtion deficit disorder, and, in some, a rebound of depression that dropped on them handle a smoky curtain.One of the premier to feel the effects was Estelle Boyet, a topical anesthetic artist, successful and semifamous for her seascapes and idealized paintings of Pine Cove shoot down life. Her prescription had run out a day before Dr. Val had replaced the supply with sugar pills, so she was already in the midst of withdrawal when she took the first dose of the placebo.Estelle was sixty, a stout, vital wo homosexual who wore bright colored caftans and let her long gray hair fly about her shoulders as she travel by dint of life with an energy and determination that inspired envy from women half her age. For thirty years she had been a instructor in the decaying and increas-ingly unsafe Los Angeles Unified School District, teaching ei ghth graders the difference between acrylics and oils, a cleanse and a pallet knife, Dali and Degas, and using her job and her marriage as a justification for never producing any art herself.She had married right out of art schooldays Joe Boyet, a promising young businessman, the completely man she had ever loved and only the third she had ever slept with. When Joe had died eight years ago, she had nearly wooly- thoughted her mind. She tried to throw herself into her teaching, hoping that by inspiring the children she might find some reason to go on herself. In the face of the escalating violence in her school, she resigned herself to wearing a bullet-proof vest down the stairs her artist smocks and scour brought in some paintball guns to try to gain the pupils interest, but the latter only backfired into several incidents of drive-by abstract expressionism, and concisely she received oddment threats for not allowing students to fashion crack pipes in ceramics class. Her stu dents children living in a hyperadult conception where play-ground disputes were settled with 9 mms eventually drove her out of teaching. Estelle lost her last reason to go on. The school psychologist re-ferred her to a psychiatrist, who put her on antidepressants and recommen-ded immediate retirement and relocation.Estelle locomote to Pine Cove, where she began to paint and where she fell under the wing of Dr. Valerie Riordan. No wonder then that Estelles painting had keep backn a dark turn over the last few weeks. She painted the ocean. Every day. Waves and spray, rocks and serpentine strands of kelp on the beach, otters and seals and pelicans and gulls. Her canvases sold in the local gal-leries as speedy as she could paint them. But lately the inner light at the heart of her waves, titanium white and aquamarine, had taken on a dark shadow. Every beach scene spoke of desolation and dead fish. She dreamed of le-viathan shadows stalking her under the waves and she woke shive ring and afraid. It was throwting to a greater extent difficult to function her paints and easel to the shore each day. The open ocean and the blank canvas were just too fright-ening.Joe is gone, she thought. I have a bun in the oven no c atomic bout 18er and no friends and I produce nothing but kitschy seascapes as flat and soulless as a velvet Elvis. Im afraid of everything.Val Riordan had called her, insisting that she total to a group therapy session for widows, but Estelle had give tongue to no. Instead, one evening, after finishing a tormented painting of a beached dolphin, she go away her brushes to flavor with acrylic and headed downtown anywhere where she didnt have to look at this shit shed been calling art. She ended up at the Head of the bullet Saloon the first bar shed set foot in since college.The Slug was full of Blues and smoke and people chasing shots and running from sadness. If theyd been dogs, they would have all been in the yard eating grass and tryin g to yak up whatever was making them feel so lousy. Not a bone gnawed, not a ball chased all tails went unwagged. Oh, life is a fast cat, a short leash, a flea in that place where you just cant scratch. It was dog sad in thither, and spoonbill catfish Jefferson was the designated howler. The moon was in his middle and he was singing up the sum of human suffering in A-minor, while he worked that bottleneck slide on the content guitar until it sounded interchangeable a slow twine through heartstrings. He was grinning.Of the hundred or so people in the Slug, half were experiencing some sort of withdrawal from their medications. in that location was a self-pity contingent at the bar, staring into their drinks and rocking back and forth to the Delta rhythms. At the tables, the more social of the de-pressed were whining and slurring their problems into each others ears and occasionally trading hugs or curses. Over by the pool table stood the provoke and the aggressive, the people looking for someone to blame. These were mostly men, and Theophilus Crowe was keeping an eye on them from his spot at the bar.Since the death of Bess Leander, there had been a fight in the Slug almost every night. In addition, there were more pukers, more screamers, more criers, and more un indispensablenessed advances stifled with slaps. Theo had been very busy. So had Mavis Sand. Mavis was elated about it.Estelle came through the doors in her paint-spattered overalls and Shetland sweater, her hair pulled back in a long gray braid. simply inside, she paused as the music and the smoke washed over her. Some Mexican laborers were standing there in a group, drinking Budweisers, and one of them whistled at her.Im an old lady, Estelle said. Shame on you. She pushed her substance through the crusade to the bar and ordered a white wine. Mavis served it in a plastic beer cup. (She was serving everything in plastic lately. Evidently, the Blues made people want to break glass on each oth er.) brisk? Estelle said, although she had nothing to comp be it to.The Blues sure packs em in, Mavis said.I dont much care for the Blues, said Estelle. I enjoy Classical music.Three bucks, said Mavis. She took Estelles money and moved to the other end of the bar.Estelle felt as if shed been slapped in the face.Dont mind Mavis, a mans voice said. Shes always cranky.Estelle looked up, caught a shirt button, then looked up far to find Theos smile. She had never met the constable, but she knew who he was.I dont even k straightaway wherefore I came in here. Im not a drinker.Something going virtually, Theo said. I think maybe were going to have a fierce winter or something. People are coming out of the woodwork.They exchanged introductions and Theo complimented Estelle on her paintings, which hed seen in the local galleries. Estelle dismissed the compliment.This seems like a strange place to find the constable, Estelle said.Theo showed her the cell phone on his belt. paper of operat ions, he said. Most of the trouble has been starting in here anyway. If Im here already, I can stay it before it escalates.Very conscientious of you.No, Im just lazy, Theo said. And tired. In the last three weeks Ive been called to fivesome domestic disputes, ten fights, twain people who barricaded themselves in the bathroom and threatened suicide, a guy who was going phratry to house knocking the heads off garden gnomes with a sledgehammer, and a woman who tried to take her husbands eye out with a spoon.Oh my. Sounds like one day in the life of an L.A. cop.This isnt L.A., Theo said. I dont spurious to complain, but Im not really prepared for a crime wave.And theres nowhere left to run, Estelle said.Pardon?People come here to run away from conflict, dont you think? Come to a small town to get out of the violence and the competition in the city. If you cant handle it here, theres nowhere else to go. You might as well give up.Well, thats a little cynical. I thought artists were s upposed to be idealists.Scratch a cynic and youll find a disappointed romantic, Estelle said.Thats you? Theo asked. A disappointed romantic?The only man I ever loved died.Im sorry, Theo said.Me too. She flow her cup of wine.Easy on that, Estelle. It doesnt help.Im not a drinker. I just had to get out of the house.There was some shouting over by the pool table. My presence is required, Theo said. Excuse me. He made his way through the crowd to where two men were squaring off to fight.Estelle signaled Mavis for a refill and turned to observatory Theo try to make peace. flathead catfish Jefferson sang a sad song about a mean old woman doing him wrong. Thats me, Estelle thought. A mean old worthless woman.Self-medication was working by midnight. Most of the customers at the Slug had effrontery in and started clapping and wailing along with spoonbill catfishs Blues. Quite a few had granted up and gone home. By closing sequence, there were only five people left in the Slug and Mavis was cackling over a drawer full of money. lancetfish Jefferson put down his National steel guitar and picked up the two-gallon pickle stir that held his tips. Dollar bills spilled over the top, change skated in the bottom, and here and there in the middle fives and tens struggled for air. There was even a twenty down there, and mudcat dug in after it like a kid going for a Cracker Jack prize. He carried the jar to the bar and plopped down next to Estelle, who was gloriously, eloquently crocked.Hey, baby, Catfish said. You like the Blues?Estelle searched the air for the source of the question, as if it might have come from a moth spiraling around one of the lights back the bar. Her gaze eventually settled on the Bluesman and she said, Youre very good. I was going to leave, but I liked the music.Well, you make stayed now, Catfish said. Look at this. He shook the money jar. I got me upward o two hundred long horse here, and that mean old woman owe me least that much too. What y ou say we take a dry pint and my guitar and go down to the beach, have us a party?Id get out get home, Estelle said. I have to paint in the morning.You a painter? I never knowed me a painter. What you say we go down to the beach and watch us a sunrise?Wrong coast, Estelle said. The sun comes up over the take inains.Catfish laughed. See, you done saved me a heap of waiting already. Lets you and me go down to the beach.No, I cant.It cause Im Black, aint it?No. eccentric Im old, right?No.Cause Im bald. You dont like old bald men, right?No Estelle said.Cause Im a musician. You heard we irresponsible?No.Cause Im hung like a bull, right?No Estelle said.Catfish laughed again. Well, you wouldnt mind spreadin that one around town just the same, would you?How would I know how youre hung?Well, Catfish said, pausing and grinning, you could go to the beach with me.You are a nasty and persistent old man, arent you, Mr. Jefferson? Estelle asked.Catfish bowed his shining head, I truly am, miss. I truly am nasty and persistent. And I am too old to be trouble. I admits it. He held out a long, thin hand. Lets have us a party on the beach.Estelle felt like shed just been bamboozled by the devil. Something smooth and vibrant under that gritty old down-home shuck. Was this the dark shadow her paintings unbroken finding in the surfboard?She took his hand. Lets go to the beach.Ha Catfish said.Mavis pulled a Louisville Slugger from behind the bar and held it out to Estelle. Here, you wanna borrow this?They found a niche in the rocks that sheltered them from the wind. Catfish dumped gumption from his wing tips and shook his socks out before laying them out to dry.That was a sneaky old wave.I told you to take off your shoes, Estelle said. She was more amused than she felt she had a right to be. A few sips from Catfishs pint had kept the cheap white wine from going sour in her stomach. She was warm, despite the chill wind. Catfish, on the other hand, looked miserable.Never did lik e the ocean much, Catfish said. Too many sneaky things down there. switch a man the creeps, thats what it does.If you dont like the ocean, then why did you ask me to come to the beach?The stately man said you like to paint pictures of the beach.Lately, the oceans been giving me a bit of the creeps too. My paintings have gone dark. Catfish wiped sand from between his toes with a long finger. You think you can paint the Blues?You ever seen wagon train van Gogh?Catfish looked out to sea. A three-quarter moon was pooling like mercury out there. Van GoghVan Goghfiddle player outta St. Louis?Thats him, Estelle said.Catfish snatched the pint out of her hand and grinned. Girl, you drink a mans liquor and lie to him too. I know who Vincent Van Gogh is.Estelle couldnt remember the last time shed been called a girl, but she was pretty sure she hadnt liked hearing it as much as she did now. She said, Whos lying now? Girl?You know, under that big sweater and them overalls, they might be a gir l. Then again, I could be wrong.Youll never know.I wont? Now that is some sad stuff there. He picked up his guitar, which had been leaning on a rock, and began playing softly, using the surf as a backbeat. He sang about awry(p) shoes, running low on liquor, and a wind that chilled right to the bone. Estelle closed her eyes and swayed to the music. She realized that this was the first time shed felt good in weeks.He stopped abruptly. Ill be damned. Look at that.Estelle candid her eyes and looked toward the waterline where Catfish was pointing. Some fish had run up on the beach and were flopping around in the sand.You ever see anything like that?Estelle shook her head. More fish were coming out of the surf. beyond the breakers, the water was boiling with fish jumping and thrashing. A wave rose up as if world pushed from underneath. Theres something base out there.Catfish picked up his shoes. We gots to go.Estelle didnt even think of protesting. Yes. Now.She thought about the huge shadows that kept appearing under the waves in her paintings. She grabbed Catfishs shoes, jumped off the rock, and started down the beach to the stairs that led up to a bluff where Catfishs station wagon waited. Come on.Im comin. Catfish spidered down the rock and stepped after her.At the car, both(prenominal) of them winded and leaning on the fenders, Catfish was digging in his pocket for the keys when they heard the roar. The roar of a thousand phlegmy lions equal amounts of wetness, fury, and volume. Estelle felt her ribs vibrate with the noise.Jesus What was that?Get in the car, girl.Estelle climbed into the station wagon. Catfish was already fumbling the key into the ignition. The car fired up and he threw it into drive, kicking up fret as he pulled away.Wait, your shoes are on the roof.He can have them, Catfish said. They better than the ones he ate last time.He? What the hell was that? You know what that was?Ill tell you soon as Im done havin this heart attack.FiveThe ocea n BeastThe great ocean Beast paused in his pursuit of the yummy radioactive aroma and sent a subsonic message out to a gray heavyweight passing several miles ahead of him. Roughly translated, it said, Hey, baby, hows about you and I eat a few plankton and do the wild thing.The gray whale continued her relentless swim south and replied with a subsonic outsmart that translated, I know who you are. Stay away from me.The Sea Beast swam on. During his journey he had eaten a basking shark, a few dolphins, and several hundred tuna. His focus had changed from sustenance to sex. As he approached the California coast, the radioactive twine began to diminish to almost nothing. The leak at the power plant had been discovered and fixed. He found himself less than a mile offshore with a belly full of shark and no memory of why hed left his volcanic nest. But there was a buzz reaching his predators senses from shore, the listless re-solve of course that has given up depression. Warm-blooded food, dolphins, and whales sent off the same signal sometimes. A large school of food was just asking to be eaten, right near the edge of the sea. He stopped out one-time(prenominal) the surf line and came to the surface in the middle of a kelp bed, his massive head breaking though strands of kelp like a zombie pickup truck breaking sod as it rises from the grave.Then he heard it. A hated sound. The sound of an enemy. It had been half a century since the Sea Beast had left the water, and land was not his natural domain, but his instinct to attack overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation. He threw back his head, shake the great purple gills that stood out on his neck like trees, and blew the water from his vestigial lungs. Breath fire down his cavernous throat for the first time in fifty years and came out in a horrendous roar of pain and anger. Three of the protective ocular membranes slid back from his eyes like electric car windows. allow-ing him to see in the bitter air. He thrashed his tail, pumped his great webbed feet, and torpedoed toward the shore.GabeIt had been almost ten years since Gabe Fenton had dissected a dog, but now, at three oclock in the morning, he was cerebration seriously about taking a scalpel to muleteer, his three-year-old Labrador retriever, who was deep in the throes of a psychotic barking fit. Skinner had been banished to the porch that afternoon, after he had taken a roll in a dead seagull and refused to go into the surf or get near the hose to be washed off. To Skinner, dead bird was the smell of romance.Gabe crawled out of bed and padded to the door in his boxers, scooping up a hiking boot along the way. He was a biologist, held a Ph.D. in animal behavior from Stanford, so it was with great academic credibility that he assailable the door and winged the boot at his dog, following it with the behavior-reinforcing command of Skinner, shut the fuck upSkinner paused in his barking fit long enough to duck under the flyingL . L. Bean, then, true to his breeding, retrieved it from the washbasin that he used as a water dish and brought it back to the doorway where Gabe stood. Skinner set the sloppy boot at the biologists feet. Gabe closed the door in Skinners face.Jealous, Skinner thought. No wonder he cant get any females, smelling like fabric softener and soap. The Food Guy wouldnt be so cranky if hed get out and sniff some butts. (Skinner always thought of Gabe as the Food Guy.) Then, after a quickly sniff to confirm that he was, indeed, the Don Juan of all dogs, Skinner resumed his barking fit. Doesnt he get it, Skinner thought, theres something dangerous coming. Danger, Food Guy, dangerInside, Gabe Fenton glanced at the computer screen in his living room as he returned to bed. A thousand tiny honey oil dots were working their way, en masse, crossways the map of the Pine Cove area. He stopped and rubbed his eyes. It wasnt possible.Gabe went to the computer and typed in a command. The map of the a rea reappeared in wider scale. Still, the dots were all moving in a line. He zoomed the map to only a few square miles, the dots were still on the move. from each one green dot on the map represented a rat that Gabe had live-trapped, injected with a microchip, and released into the wild. Their location was introduce and plotted by satellite. Every rat in a ten-square-mile area was moving east, away from the coast. Rats did not behave that way.Gabe ran the data backward, looking at the rodents movements over the last few hours. The exodus had started abruptly, only two hours ago, and already most of the rats had moved over a mile inland. They were running full-tilt and going far beyond their ordinary range. Rats are sprinters, not long-distance runners. Something was up.Gabe hit a key and a tiny green number appeared next to each of the dots. Each chip was unique, and each rat could be identified like airplanes on the screen of an air traffic controller. Rat 363 hadnt moved outsid e of a two-meter range for five days. Gabe had assumed that she had either given birth or was ill. Now 363 was half a mile from her normal territory.Anomalies are both the bane and bread of researchers. Gabe was excited by the data, but at the same time it made him anxious. An anomaly like this could lead to a discovery, or make him look like a total fool. He cross-checked the data three different ways, then tapped into the weather station on the roof. nought was happening in the way of weather, all changes in barometric pressure, humidity, wind, and temperature were well within normal ranges. He looked out the window a low becloud was settling on the shore, totally normal. He could just make out the lighthouse a hundred yards away. It had been shut down for twenty years, used only as a weather station and as a base for biological research.He grabbed a blanket off of his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders against the chill, then returned to his desk. The green dots were still moving. He dialed the number for JPL in Pasadena. Skinner was still barking outside.Skinner, shut the fuck up Gabe shouted just as the automated answering service put him through to the seismology lab. A woman answered. She sounded young, probably an intern. Excuse me? she said.Sorry, I was utter at my dog. Yes, hello, this is Dr. Gabe Fenton at the research station in Pine Cove, just wondering if you have any seismic activity in my area.Pine Cove? Can I get a longitude and latitude?Gabe gave it to her. I think Im looking for something offshore.Nothing. Minor tremor centered at Parkfield yesterday at 9 A.M. drive zero-five-three. You wouldnt even be able to feel it. Have you picked something up on your instruments?I dont have seismographic instruments. Thats why I called you. This is a biological research and weather station.Im sorry, Doctor, I didnt know. Im new here. Did you feel something?No. My rats are moving. As soon as he said it, he wished he hadnt.Pardon me?Never mind, I was just checking. Im having some anomalous behavior in some specimens. If you pick up anything in the next few days, could you call me? He gave her his number.You think your rats are predicting an earthquake, Doctor?I didnt say that.You should know that theres no concrete data on animals predicting seismic activity.I know that, but Im trying to eliminate all the possibilities.Did it occur to you that your dog might be scaring them?Ill factor that in, Gabe said. Thank you for your time. He hung up, feeling stupid.Nothing seismic or meteorological, and a call to the highway patrol confirmed that there were no chemical spills or fires. He had to confirm the data. Perhaps something was wrong with the satellite signal. The only way to find out was to take out his portable antenna and track the rats in the field. He dressed quickly and headed out to his truck.Skinner, you want to go for a ride?Skinner wagged his tail and made a beeline for the truck. About time, he thought. You learn to get away from the shore, Food Guy, right now.Inside the house, ten green dots were moving away from the others toward the shore.The Sea BeastThe Sea Beast crawled up the beach, roaring as his legs took the full weight of his body and the sea puss sucked at his haunches. The disposency of killing his enemy had diminished now and hunger was upon him in re-sponse to the effort of moving out of the ocean. An organ at the base of his brain that had disappeared from other species when mans only living an-cestors were tree shrews produced an electric signal to call food. There were many prey here, that same organ sensed.The Sea Beast came to the fifty-foot cliff that bordered the beach, reared back on his tail, and pulled himself up with his forelegs. He was a hundred feet long, nose to tail, and stood twenty-five feet tall with his broad neck extended to its full height. His rear feet were wide and webbed, his front talonlike, with a thumb that unlike three curved claws for grasping and killing prey.On the dry grass above the beach, some of the prey he had called already waited. Raccoons, ground squirrels, a few skunks, a fox, and two cats ca-vorted on the grass some copulated, others dug at fleas with blissful abandon, others just rolled on their backs as if overcome by a fit of joy. The Sea Beast swept them into his great maw with a flick of his tongue, crunching a few bones on the way down, but swallowing most whole. He belched and savored the skunky bouquet, his jaws smacking together like two wet mattresses, and a flash of neon color ran across his flanks with the pleasure.He moved over the bluff, across the Coast Highway, and into the sleeping town. The streets were deserted, lights off in all the businesses on Cypress Street. A low fog dot against the pseudo-Tudor half-timbered buildings and formed green coronas around the streetlights. Above it all, the red Texaco sign shone like a beacon.The Sea Beast changed the color of his skin to the same smoky gray as the fog and moved down the center of the street looking like a serpentine cloud. He followed a low rumbling sound coming from under the red beacon, broke out of the fog, and there he motto her.She purred, taunting and teasing him from the front of the deserted Texaco station. That come-hither rumble. That low, sexy growl. Those silver flanks reflecting fog and the red Texaco sign called to him, begged him to mount her. The Sea Beast flashed a rainbow of color down his sides to display his magnificent maleness. He fanned the gill trees on his neck, sending bands of color and light into their branches.The Sea Beast sent her a signal, which roughly translated into Hey, baby, havent seen you around before. She sat there, purring, playing coy, but he knew she wanted him. She had short black legs, a stumpy tail, and smelled as if she may have recently eaten a trawler, but those magnificent silver flanks were too much to resist.The Sea Beast turned himself silver as well, to make her feel a little more comfortable, then reared up on his hind legs and displayed his aroused member. No response, just that shy purring. He took it as an invitation and moved across the parking lot to mount the fuel truck.EstelleEstelle placed a mug of tea in front of Catfish, then sat down across the table from him with her own. Catfish sipped the tea and grimaced, then pulled the pint from his back pocket and unscrewed the cap. Estelle caught his hand before he could pour.You have some explaining to do first, Mr. Bluesman. Estelle was more than a little rattled. When they were only half a mile away from the beach, she had been overtaken by a sudden urge to return and had fought Catfish for control of the car. It was crazy behavior. It frightened her as much as the thing at the beach had, and when they got to her house she immediately took a Zoloft, even though shed already had her dose for the day.Leave me be, woman. I said Id tell you. I needs me some nerve medicine.Estelle rele ased his hand. What was that at the beach?Catfish splashed some whiskey into Estelles tea first, then into his own. He grinned, You see my name wasnt always Catfish. I was born(p) with the name of Meriwether Jefferson. Catfish come on me sometime later.Christ, Catfish, Im sixty years old. Am I going to live long enough to hear the end of this story? What in the hell was out in the water tonight? She was definitely not herself, swearing like this.You wanna know or not?Estelle sipped her tea. Sorry, go ahead.