Ugly Things #2
a pulp-noir serial
Michael’s story began with Ugly Things #1: God Doesn’t Attend the Auction →
Antennas and Crab Legs
“I remember antennas,” Henry said while chewing.
He always found the most mundane subjects to discuss over dinner.
“Remember?” he asked as he tore into another crab leg. He managed to push the meat past his mudflap mustache. Melted butter cascaded down all three of his chins to the plastic bib that was barely holding onto his neck. I thought about taking that little mallet from his plate and smashing his sweaty brow, but I didn’t have enough room to do it from my side of the booth. Henry had pushed the table to accommodate his gut, so the edge of it touched the buttons on my shirt. The sound those circular bits of horn made as they tickled the varnished cherry slab annoyed the fuck out of me. I tried to remain as still and straight-backed as possible.
“Remember that shit, Michael? Antennas?” Henry continued, “Fucking horrible. No? The picture was never quite right. The old movies, they made it seem like an antenna actually got you a clear picture on the box. More fucking Hollywood lies. I used to get really upset with all the wavy lines and fuzziness and the terrible sound. Fucking static. Why’s it called static, anyway? It moves pretty good to me. I just wanted to watch Inspector Gadget after school. Instead, I got smacked in the back of the head by my mother for complaining about needing a new set of rabbit ears. That cunt was a hypocrite, though. She’d complain just as loud when she wanted to watch Dallas on Friday nights. She’d stop whining once she had enough wine in her, but still. Yeah, I remember antennas.”
It was late. Zippy’s — that shoebox of a bistro — was empty except for me and Henry and the bartender… the bartender who happened to be the owner and who happened to have been named Zippy at birth for some reason. Yes, his legal first name was Zippy.
Fuck Zippy, I thought. Fuck his patience. Fuck him for not kicking us out more than an hour after he closed. Fuck him for sitting at his bar and scrolling through his phone and not insisting we leave so he can go home to his cat or his turtle or his whore that he keeps on retainer. Fuck Zippy and his indifference and his inability to pull a proper pint and his cheap whiskey that he pours into top shelf bottles. And fuck Henry and his smacking lips and his lowbrow criminal enterprises. Fuck crabs, too. Why do they take so long to eat? Get them in fucking cakes for once.
“Come on,” Henry insisted, “you’re old enough to remember antennas. Did you have those rabbit ears? No way your father had enough money to put an aerial on the roof!”
“We had cable,” I sighed.
“Really? Your whole childhood?”
“From the time I can remember, yes.”
“Hey, Zippy!” Henry shouted. “Can you believe Michael Francis here grew up with cable TV? Privileged son of a bitch.”
Zippy grunted.
“Ha!” Henry continued. “I never knew a mutt like you could’ve grown up so rich. What the hell did your old man do anyway? Didn’t he shovel shit in England? That’s what I thought, that he was descended from a long line of shit shovelers.”
“What does it matter?”
“I’m just saying,” Henry chuckled.
“Are you going to tell me about this job?”
“Meh,” Henry shrugged, “I was going to, but word on the street is that ever since Jimmy Red died, you’ve gone kind of… you know? Come on. Don’t glare. Word on the street is that you know a lot about Jimmy’s gallery burning down right before that auction. I don’t know if I want to contract out to someone who may be lacking impulse control, you know? It’s a little funny, though… strange… as in surprising… that it turns out Jimmy Red kept you under control? No one ever knew you were this much of an animal. You must get that from your I-talian mother. I suppose your dad never hit you growing up, him being a proper Englishman and all, and it shows. What do they say over in Britain? You’ve lost the plot?”
I groaned and slid out of the booth, “So, the last two hours, you just felt like wasting my time.”
“Hey,” Henry put his hands up in the air, “I didn’t invite you here. You came in and sat down. I didn’t want to be rude. You got a sandwich out of it. Quit bitching.”
I was standing now and starting to feel that lack of impulse control crawl up my back.
Henry turned his attention back to his crab and said, “Take a trip. Go visit Stonehenge or something. Where was your mom from? Rome? Go see the Colosseum. Get your head on right. When I find out you’re feeling better, then maybe I can use you for some things.”
I took a few steps toward the door. I had intended to leave, not draw my Model 39 and shoot Henry between the eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Michael!” Zippy growled from the bar. “What the fuck, man?”
“Sorry about the mess,” I apologized and holstered my pistol.
“I’m not worried about that,” Zippy moaned. “This isn’t the first time there’s been brains all over a booth, but… I mean, come on, the guy’s like 400 pounds. How the fuck am I going to get him out of here myself?”
“Let me make a call,” I said. As I scrolled through my contacts, I remarked to Zippy, “Maybe Henry was right. Maybe I do need to take a trip.”