The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living by Martin Clark

Author:Martin Clark [Clark, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Humour, Thriller, Legal, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9780307565990
Google: G6d8T9-VTIUC
Amazon: B002NXORC4
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2009-09-03T23:00:00+00:00

After the bloodletting, Evers and Pascal drove to a McDonald’s to eat. Pascal drank some hard liquor on the way and smoked part of a joint. “How could that policeman be so fucking stupid, Evers? How? Your lawyer practically told him what to say.” They were sitting in the parking lot in Evers’ car.

“He tried, Pascal. He’s just a dolt, that’s all.”

“Whatever.”

“What a pleasant day, huh? I lose my case, end up paying my wife two thousand dollars a month to fuck a man in the house that I paid for, and I’ll lose my pissant, tedious job as soon as the drug screen comes back. Hot damn, Pascal, my life is fuckin’ great.”

“You’ll get things straightened out, Evers. This was just a temporary deal, right? A hearing?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be better prepared next time. Certainly we can prove the stuff at the motel. People had to see them together there—and after that, too. Or make Falstaf testify or something. And I didn’t sleep with your wife by the way. I just said it to help you.”

“You didn’t? Really? Don’t spend the thirty pieces of silver all at one time. I almost forgot to add that brotherly variable to the my-life-is-great formula.” Evers finished the sentence with a disgusted grunt.

“I wish you would quit pounding on me—I’m about all you’ve got right now.”

Evers sighed and turned away from his brother, peered out into the parking lot. Two children carrying backpacks and squirt guns were headed into the restaurant, running and hopping ahead of their parents, shooting each other in the face with jets of water.

“I fucking hated how smug and satisfied Jo Miller was. What a bitch.” Evers shook his head, kept watching the kids. “You’re right—she’s the problem, not you.” He looked back at Pascal. “How about your phone records, the call you made to her?”

“Not a problem. I called from Rudy’s.” Pascal’s eyes were already turning glazed and heavy. “At least the policeman got part of the story right. God was he stupid.” He laughed.

The brothers went inside, and Evers began looking around as soon as he stepped through the door, did a complete clockwise turn in the Mickey D’s. Everything was yellow and bright, surreal. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see Salvador Dalí walk in and paint a pterodactyl or two. Evers’ face was scorched, burning, his head imploding; he was talking nonsense to himself again, running through blender settings. “Blend, chop, mix, whip, liquefy, dice, grate, puree. Great,” he said. Pascal ignored him, but the old people and adolescents and midget-league baseball team, all of them were gawking at him or—even worse—not looking, eating in myopia, their gazes fixed, like men at urinals, no right, no left, just straight ahead. He walked through a sticky Coke spill and went to the counter. He left tracks on the floor.

“Cheeseburgers.”

“Sir?”

“Cheeseburgers,” Evers repeated. “I want a hundred cheeseburgers.”

“One hundred?”

“Correct.” Evers put his hands on the counter.

“Now?”

“Right.”

“Really?” The boy waiting on Evers looked uncertain.

“Yes. No shit. Now. Really. Is that a problem for you?”

“To go or to eat here?”

“To go.

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