The Black Train Part 35

Collier knew something was wrong; Prentor only called him "Justy" when he wanted something. "I'm finis.h.i.+ng a book-you know, for my other career, which I need desperately now since you're dumping my show. Why are you calling? You need me to clean out my desk, like, right now?"

"Oh, Justy, Justy, you're a regular bebopper with that wit. I just wanted to tell you the bad news-"

"What could be worse news than *you're fired'? You laid that line on me a week ago."

"No, no, the bad news is Savannah Sammy's Sa.s.sy Smokehouse just dropped from number three to number four."

Collier frowned. "Shay. How is that bad news for me?"

"Not for you, for him! That c.o.c.ky cracker!" Prentor unreeled fuzzy laughter. "The good news for you is that we just tabbed the ratings for your last six shows, and you're now number three."

Collier almost dropped the phone in the coffeepot. "I thought I was eleven-"

"Not now, my friend. Your show has officially caught on. I'm not jiving you, Justy. You're actually only a few points off of number two. Emeril ain't happy, I can tell you that."

Collier couldn't think straight. "So I'm getting renewed?"

"How's this for an answer, Justy? f.u.c.k yes. Three-hundred-thousand-dollar re-sign bonus and an extra half point in your kick, and that's from the VP. I'm looking at the piece of paper that guarantees it. It's this thing called a contract, which we really need you to sign right now. So when am I going to have your smiling face on the other side of my desk, and a pen in your hand? Fly back now. What, you have to be in Tennessee to write a book about beer? My daddy always told me there wasn't anything in Tennessee but steers and-"

Collier stood in shock, the phone printing against his ear. "I'll be back tomorrow, Shay. But...what about the guy you hired to replace me, the San Francisco Seafood Psycho? I heard you signed him up for twenty-six episodes right off the bat."

Prentor gusted another laugh. "We canceled the a.s.shole's contract on character breech. You get the twenty-six episodes."

"Character breech?"

"It's hilarious, man! Turns out the guy really is a psycho. Last week some critic from Gourmet came to his restaurant and complained about the crab Wellington, said the crabmeat was that fake surimi stuff. So the Psycho's so offended he comes after the guy with a meat cleaver! No lie, Justy! It was in the paper! Almost got him, too. Took three cops to haul the Psycho out of there and book him for a.s.sault with intent..." Prentor kept bubbling laughter. "Forget about that loser, Justy. You're the big news at the network now."

Collier's hands were shaking as it finally sunk in: I'm getting renewed! I've still got a show!

"And, Justy, are you ready for some really good news?"

"I can't imagine anything better than what you just told me-"

"According to our latest viewer survey, the reason your ratings just tripled is because housewives are starting to watch the show with their husbands-"

Collier frowned. "Shay, housewives walk out of the room when my show comes on. They couldn't care less about craft beer."

Wheezing laughter chopped up Prentor's next line: "They're watching your show because they think you're s.e.xy! Emeril ain't happy, let me tell you. And we know it's on the mark 'cos last week we did a Web site poll for s.e.xiest man on the network? You won-"

Collier dropped his phone into the coffeepot.

s.h.i.+t!

The clerk's back was turned. Collier dumped the pot in the sink, and tried to pat the phone dry with paper towels. This is the best day of my LIFE! Excitement drove his heart rate so high, he knew he'd have to calm down-he could scarcely think. He rushed his coffee to the counter, fumbled for money...

A glance out the window showed him the homeless mother sitting at the parking lot's edge with her kid. They were sucking the ketchup and relish out of the packets. Jesus...At once he thought of Dominique spending half the day running food to the homeless, and the sermon by the minister who looked like the Skipper.

Collier grabbed several bottled sodas, then told the turbaned clerk, "Give me ten hot dogs and ten of those cheese roll things."

The clerk shook his head, ringing it up. "Sir, sir, these dirty people, they are all addicted to the drugs and on welfare. It is not good to give them things. They must earn them like us."

Collier hated conversations, but he knew the difference. "Buddy, that woman out there's no drug addict. Not every homeless person is a drug addict." Being from L.A., Collier knew the difference. The panhandlers wore $200 sneakers. Homeless addicts didn't drift to remote areas like this.

"You are silly man to give anything to such sc.u.m-"

"Just ring me up." Collier held his tongue.

The clerk shoved the bag at him. "That's why this country is so f.u.c.ked up, you give to dirty people who don't want to work hard like I have to. In my country, we make the useless work and sterilize them so they cannot bring more babies for more welfare!"

More stereotypes flared, but Collier just grabbed the bag and headed for the door.

"You don't come back to my store!" the clerk added. "You are a silly, ignorant man!"

Collier turned. "Listen, d.i.c.kbrain. I'm not silly and I'm not ignorant. I'm Justin Collier, Prince of Beer, and I have the number-three show on the Food Network, and you can pack that in your hookah and smoke it all the way back to whatever freedom-squas.h.i.+ng, terrorist-harboring, dictatorial s.h.i.+THOLE you come from," he said, then walked out.

"f.u.c.k you! I say to you-f.u.c.k you!"

Collier was hardly bothered at all by the unpleasant confrontation. All that mattered to him right now was Prentor's phone call. I've got my show back! his thoughts kept trumpeting. But his cell phone was still hot. As he strode across the lot, he tried to shake the coffee out of it. Got to call him back right now...

The homeless woman and child were still sitting on the curb sucking ketchup. "Excuse me, miss," Collier said and set down the bag, "but I heard what that guy in there said to you. I got you some hot dogs and stuff."

The smudge-faced woman looked in the bag, then burst into tears. "Oh my G.o.d, thank you, thank you! We haven't eaten in a day! Finally someone nice comes along! G.o.d bless you!"

They began tearing into the food.

"Do you need a ride to a shelter or something?" Collier offered.

"Oh, no, thank you," she sobbed, cheeks stuffed. "They won't let us into the shelter so we live at the underpa.s.s right down the road. Usually the Salvation Army truck comes by and gives out sandwiches but they didn't come last night. But thank you so much for this food!"

Collier felt overwhelmed. d.a.m.n. What should I do? He took a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet. "Here, why don't you take this?" he said and gave it to her.

The woman almost sidled over in her tears of joy. "Thank you! Thank you so much-" She leaped up and hugged Collier.

The toddler looked cross-eyed stuffing another hot dog into his mouth.

"G.o.d bless you, sir! G.o.d bless you!"

Eventually Collier had to urge her back. "You're quite welcome, but I have to go now. 'Bye..."

"Thank you, thank you!"

Collier walked off. Was this the type of charity the minister had called for? Or did I just do it to feel good? he wondered.

It didn't matter.

The exuberance of his show's renewal slammed back. Yes-sir-ee! The s.e.xiest man on the Food Network! He opened and closed the cell phone several times but the screen never turned on. I gotta get back to the inn, call Shay and tell him not to date the contract until after my divorce...

Collier was five yards away from the homeless woman when he heard her voice behind him: "Pokey? This is Dizzy-yeah, yeah, yeah, and don't you hang up this time, you s.h.i.+t!"

Collier turned and was astonished to see the woman talking on a cell phone that looked even more expensive than his.

"I know, I know, you told me a million times, no more rock on credit. You just meet me at the underpa.s.s and bring five rocks. That's right, five!"

What the h.e.l.l...

"I'm not s.h.i.+tting you-yes, I've got it! Some guy just gave me a c-note so you MEET ME in twenty minutes and bring five rocks! Holy s.h.i.+T, am I gonna crack it up tonight!" Collier felt excreted on by crows. A hot dog flew out of the kid's hand when the woman yanked him by the arm and strode off, the bag of food forgotten.

Collier stumbled back to the car.

"You see! You see!" railed the clerk out front. "Ignorant, silly man won't listen! You-how you say? Kiss my a.s.s!"

Collier wanted to run back to the car.

"Yes! Yes-oh, look, now silly, ignorant camel's a.s.s of a man is getting into car painted woman's color!" He cracked out accented laughter. "And I see your show on your stupid American television and is-how you say? Piece of s.h.i.+T!"

Collier didn't say a word. He simply got into the Day-Glo green vehicle and drove away.

He didn't go to the airport. It seemed overreactive to just bug off. He'd stay one more night, check out properly, and say good-bye to Dominique.

Which only left his fears...

Back in town, he checked every other hotel and bed-and-breakfast: no vacancies. He didn't even hesitate to admit it now: I'd really prefer NOT to spend another night in that haunted-to-the-max mansion. He supposed he could sleep in the car. Or...

Maybe Dominique would let me spend my last night at her place...

A much more promising idea, but would she go for it? Did she trust him to respect her celibacy?

Collier didn't dwell on it, or anything else. Sute's final revelations about what had happened in room three back in 1862 packed too much of a wallop. Maybe Mrs. Butler could give him another room for his final night. The memory of Sute's daguerreotype only added weight to his decision not to return to the room...

Do I really believe in ghosts? he asked himself.

It was going on five o'clock now. Dominique'll be on duty soon. When he next checked his phone, the lights came on, but the screen read NO SIGNAL. I could go back to the inn, call Shay from there, he knew, but when he pulled into the parking lot, the house seemed to grimace back at him.

d.a.m.n.

Did he hear a dog barking when he got out of the Bug? His gut clenched.

It seemed to come from down the hill, where the creek coursed through the woods.

Collier walked in the opposite direction, into town...When he pa.s.sed the bank, he saw Jiff standing in line, evidently to deposit another check. Collier could guess whom the check was from, and for what.

Collier walked quickly, so not to be seen. He followed Penelope Street to the main drag and pushed into the sudden coolness of Cusher's. He took a stool at the half-filled bar.

"Hi, Mr. Collier!" the St. Pauli Girl barmaid greeted. "How's your stay so far?"

"Fine, but it looks like I'll be going home tomorrow."

"Oh, that's too bad." She put a pint of lager before him. "That's on the house. And congratulations!"

"Congratulations for what?"

"Come on, don't be so modest." She winked, then hustled to some other customers.

What the h.e.l.l is going on now? Within seconds three housewife tourists appeared and apologetically pleaded for autographs. One put a hand on his thigh and whispered, "You really ARE the s.e.xiest man on the Food Network..." and another whispered, "If my husband wasn't here, I'd wear you out."

Then Collier got it. Shay wasn't jiving me. Obviously the news was out about the viewer survey. His eyes followed the housewives-all attractive and well built-but turned away when he saw several husbands scowling back.

Collier didn't care. He had to decide what he was going to do.

"Is Dominique in yet?" he asked the barmaid.

"She's running late, said she had a problem at her condo."

A problem at Dominique's condo?

He sipped his beer and tried to relax. How late is she going to be? When he looked up at the television in the corner, he saw Savannah Sammy basting a brisket. How's it feel to be number four, you two-faced Jersey slickster?

Collier's belly growled for food but every time he thought of asking for a menu, his mind recalled the nightmare: his bedroom door kicked in, the dog running out, and...the stench. He was glad the dream hadn't shown him the details Sute had only verbalized. He tried to divert himself; without thinking he'd taken the old railroad checks out of his pocket and began looking at them. Some guy named Fecory filled these out almost 150 years ago. The paper felt so fine, so thin.

Sute thinks these things are contracts with the devil...

He got a chill and put them away. He didn't notice that the check on the bottom had been signed by Fecory but otherwise remained blank.

Am I going to sit here all day? Whenever he looked to the TV, he winced. When the barmaid walked by, he flagged her. "Miss? You said Dominique had a problem at her condo? What's the problem?"

She leaned forward on her elbows, highlighting the bosom. "Contractors or something. She forgot about them when she took the food to the shelter in Chattanooga."

"Did she say when she's coming in?"

"Soon, she said, didn't give a time."

"Oh." He sighed. "With my luck it won't be for hours." As soon as he'd said it, he was spun around and kissed on the lips.

"Hi, sorry I'm late," Dominique told him. "I didn't have your cell number so I couldn't call you."

"I heard something happened at your condo."

"The a.s.sociation tents the building every couple years-fumigators-and I forgot they were doing it today. So I had to rush back, seal all my cabinets, and get out. Can't go back for twenty-four hours."

Collier realized only then that he was clinging to her, arms around her waist.

"I really like it when you hug me," she giggled, "but if you don't let go, I can't do my work."

"Oh, right-"

"And congratulations: s.e.xiest man on television."

"Just on the Food Network."