It's tough loving an alcoholic nymphomaniac.

Or, hell, maybe it isn't fair to say nymphomaniac—maybe that's like when you call a woman a slut but if a guy did the same thing you'd say he was a stud or something.

A groupie, anyway, since what always got her going was guitars. Guitars, guitar players, guitar solos, hell, probably guys who fix guitars. Roadies. Guys who work in pawnshops that have guitars hanging in the window.

Once, I walked in on her sitting at my computer, drinking whiskey (straight from the bottle; you'll say always a bad sign, I'll say that's the way she always drinks). She was watching videos of the world air guitar championships.

Hey, what could I do?

I started taking guitar lessons. It kept her interested, sure, and I paid extra for the teacher to come to our place every week, so she could hear me playing—plink, plinkety-plink, plink plink—yes that does mean I wasn't very good. There's a reason I decided to play the drums, y'know. She didn't care that I wasn't any good, though, it turned her on and everything was great. Then one day I find her in the bathroom with my guitar teacher.

She apologized, every time, swore up and down it would never happen again. It almost would've been better if she'd just said, y'know, baby, I can't stay true, I'm not a one-man woman, you can always have me but you'll always have to share me. But no, always with the "I'm sorry" and the "never again." And sometimes I'd believe her. For her birthday I decided to buy her some guitar lessons—I thought, maybe that's it, she's having sex with what she actually just wants to be, like she doesn't think she can be that herself, so she has to fuck it.

Different teacher, same bathroom.

In retrospect I guess that was a silly idea, I mean, a naked woman turns me on but it doesn't mean I'm subconsciously trying to be a naked woman by having sex with her.

And I could never talk about any of this with my friends. Joe, his wife had herpes when they met, he talked it up and down the bar: She's beautiful, she's perfect, should I stay, should I go, blah blah blah. But can you imagine telling a bunch of guys about this? The jokes?

And most of my friends are in bands, and she's probably already slept with them.

Ah, hell, I should be fair though, if she had been honest or whatever, told me she'd always be this way, I probably still woulda left. I miss her, sure—and I miss all the amazing sex—but really. It gets to a point that you can't do anything else but pack your bags and move on your way. And I did.

So, no, no thank you. I do not feel like playing Guitar Hero.­­

In the annals of the confidence game, as it has been played and perfected throughout North America and Europe these past hundred years, no name is so illustrious as that of Falcone — and I am he. For decade after decade through my brilliant career, I conned like no other. I scored like no other. I elevated the grift to new and dizzying heights. I blazed through 529 marks like a thunderbolt—yet the 530th left me beaten in shame. If I could, I would forget the name Santa Cruz, California. I cannot. I must go back to Santa Cruz; it is the only place to start. My destiny impels me. I am Falcone.

I, my lovely wife Betty, and our compatriot Vincent played the badger game up and down the West Coast. To play the badger the first thing you need is a pretty girl on the inside. Betty had that covered, her breasts like Australian blue wrens piping forth with song, her legs like waterfalls carved in alabaster. The next thing you need is a mark, and the Coast was lousy with lop-eared messenger boys on bicycles and bank managers as innocent as Sunday school pregraduates. The next thing you need is a front man. Vin had more front than Jane Mansfield. Finally, you need the muscle and calculated mayhem of the faux-cuckold, which I, Falcone, provided more lavishly than any man born. It wasn't hard to do. Act jealous of Betty — violently, ferociously, murderously jealous? Wasn't hard at all.

We had just knocked over a bond house in Menlo Park with great success, and landed in Room 118 of the Santa Cruz Plaza one fine Thursday in no particular hurry. But Betty found our boy right away. She was roping, as she always did upon our arrival in a new town. At a beads-and-lava-lamp dive off the Boardwalk he practically fell into her lap. The first young Romeo to buy her a drink, a tall dark bohemian named Edward, turned out to be a creative director for SC Tech. He was in charge of a new day-trading program commissioned by Wells Fargo. Betty got this out of him in no time, then, assuming the role of a computer programmer herself, began batting her eyes and putting her hand on his knee and so forth, and got the rest out of him before they parted. It seemed the higher-ups at Wells Fargo were tired of losing out to the New York banks on the Exchange every day; they knew the best programmers were here on the Coast; they had decided to make a real effort to utilize their talents; they were willing to lay down real money. They got their money's worth, according to Edward.

The program Edward described would net millions every day for his client. It used an ingenious sequence of fractal logarithms that would certainly be illegal if known to the SEC. Its speed and acuity left Morgan's and even Goldman's programs in the dust. It was a goldmine. A goldmine in a little padded, zippered CD case. ("I can flip it no problem," said Vin, "the boys back East will bid their gold teeth for this.")

Betty got away from Edward but left him with the impression she was "too crazy about him to rush things," or some such nonsense. When Betty goes to work on a fellow, it isn't long before he'll swallow this and whatever else she tells him. The task of spending an evening with a mark and giving him the impression that she wants nothing more than to lick his balls till Tuesday, while actually doing nothing at all, is a delicate job, one we in the grift refer to as "working the midnight shift." Betty got home pretty late, but she was eager to fill us in. She said the guy craved the badger. She was confident she could tell him the tale in a day or two.

How the badger works is like this: Your pretty girl ropes a mark who has occupational access to a valuable commodity. She gets him so wound up that he agrees to steal said commodity and run away with her. They name the day; he pulls the heist; the two meet up at a hotel or some other agreed-upon place en route to the airport or train station or what have you, booty in tow. The girl makes sure to secure the booty at this time (unbeknownst to the mark), hiding it somewhere in the room or on her person. Then — fireworks. Enter the enraged husband. Violent, ferocious, murderous, his existence hitherto unsuspected by Romeo, he barges into the room eliciting cries of "Oh no!" and "It's not what it looks like!" and "Please don't hurt him!" from the girl. If the husband is baleful enough, of stalwart enough mien and imposing enough bearing and wild enough eye — and Falcone is all these things — the mark soils himself in terror and runs for his life. (If the girl has done her job well, the mark does not go to the authorities. If all has been managed properly, and they catch him, he doesn't squawk. He probably doesn't even suspect he's been had.) Afterward, the booty, which has of course remained in the (real) couple's possession, is flipped or fenced or turned into cash in any number of ways by the front man. The take is traditionally divided in thirds.


The weekend was upon us, and all Betty had to do was play him for a few days. She made him wait until Saturday to see her. He wanted to take her to a Mexican bar he liked — "a real Mariachi bar," Betty said — and she determined to lay into the tequila and fake a drunk, hang all over him, and, if she thought she had him well in hand, introduce the heist idea to him. She would then feign sickness, to avoid gratifying those impulses she'd spent the evening rousing to fever pitch. Finally she would take a cab home and tell us how things stood.


Accordingly, Betty returned to us late Saturday night reeking of tequila and Coco Chanel. Her report was most encouraging. Edward had fallen right in with the idea of stealing the program — had, in fact, been formulating a way to do it all along! He never thought he would actually put his plan into action, but now his entire world had changed, an angel had appeared on his horizon, &c. The team from Wells Fargo would be arriving on Monday afternoon for a preliminary presentation; Edward planned to slip away with the goods first, during lunch hour. He would meet Betty at the Best Western on Ocean Street at 12:00 sharp.

"There's one hitch," said Betty. "One potential hitch, anyway. He's Catholic."

"So what?" said Vin. "So was Bomba."

"So was I," said Betty, "and I know that church. I know how deep it gets its hooks into people. Edward's going to mass in the morning, and I don't want to risk a change of heart. All we need is him blabbing in some confession booth!"

"What do you propose to do?" I queried.

Betty smiled. "I'm going to church tomorrow."

Betty's notion was she had to appear to Edward next morning as something more appealing than eternal salvation.


Thus she emerged on Sunday morning from an hours-long sequestration in Room 118's latrine, in full cosmetics, heels, stockings, and a certain gabardine dress she'd picked up in Rhiems the previous summer. In response to Vin and my gapes, she said: "I want to give him an eyeful."

"You'll give him a pants-full in that getup!" mused Vin.

It worked. Betty returned from mass triumphant. The stage was set.

Monday morning, at 11:00, Betty took a bus to the Best Western, and an hour later Vin drove me there in our white Lincoln. He dropped me off and parked a block away. Vin later swore, invariably, until the last breath I allowed him, that he knew nothing.

I burst through the main door and made a scene at the front desk: demanding to know where Betty was, raving about there being hell to pay. It's always a good idea to make a scene. It leaves all the pieces in place. The flustered manager gave me their room number without much coercion. "Checked in an hour ago … not a peep since …"

I stormed down chintzy hallways until I found their room. Paused, though of the sun in Fiji this time of year, and of Betty's hair in the sun … But it was not playtime yet. It was showtime.

I shouted my line — "God damn it, I know you're in there!" — and set my mighty shoulder to the door. I smashed my way in.

I stood facing a pair of beige curtains billowing on the far side of an empty room.

Got your attention? Ok, I hate bowling. I lied. But it's not as bad as the lies most people tell here, right? It's not like I said that I make cancer curing robotic owls and then sell them and donate the proceeds to charity, right? (but hey, that's a pretty good idea. Some days, I impress even myself).



Hey hey. If I'm going to do this, might as well do it. Everyone buckled in? Ok then. Hold on!



Like every other bottomfeeder here, I'm a transplant, and like at least half of them I'm in a band (no, you haven't heard of us). I dig reading (the real stuff, and 'cause I want to, not the Oprah stuff 'cause NPR said), like writing, trying to do more of it (witness: this), nothing's wrong with a few beers now and then (Church on the Hill: beer and bowling, right? J), into singing, songwriting, good guitaring, bad television, vinyl LPs, NFL posters, watching football on TV = exercise. Lowriders, hells yeah! Back home I'd place for a total wanker, but out here I'm a badass with sideburns. I sleep in a drum room that doubles as a garage. Meet me and you will totally see how I make that WORK.



Now's where I'm supposed to get serious, so here goes. I'm a passionate, funny guy that can get enthusiastic about anything. I'm attracted to women that are smart, honest, passionate about any anything, even if I don't have a clue. Learning is sexy, so I'm ready for you to teach me. Sense of humor also sexy. So are trampolines. Really small dogs are not. If you have a really small dog, this probably wasn't meant to be. It isn't you. It's me. Ok. It's you.



First date: Drinks at Church, watch bowling but do not bowl, make out?



plantman

last active: within 2 days



Age: 25

Location: In my head

Current Status: single

Man seeking

· Woman for hijinks

Body type: Body by PBR

Height: I tower above my fellow men. If they are 6'0” or shorter.

Hair type: Enviably Impressive



Education: Off my back, mom.

Ethnicity: Half Celt, Half Spinoza

Religion: Neitzsche

Politics: Not Ready to Give up.



Smoking: Competitively

Drinking: Socially

Drugs: Have Their Uses



Have Children: No

Want Children: Hold on, babe. All I said was “you like trampolines?”



Fill It



I consider myself an open-minded person, but my deal breakers are republicans and liars.



Something I learned from the last person I dated is Mandy is a real bitch.



Something I said I'd never do but did anyway was post an ad here, duh



My idea of a great date is no handjobs... ever. Ok, if you insist. (kidding! Unless you insist…)



My guiltiest pleasure is Dick's burgers. Mmmm!



My ideal woman has the body of Lt. Uhura and the brain of Richard Feynman.











From:

bowlinggrrl@gmail.com

Subject:

I hate bowling too! (LoveLab)

Date:

February 11, 2008 11:53 PM PST

To:

plantman@hotmail.com







Dear… plantman…(sounds weird!)



Great profile! Had me totally laughing, sooo… thought I'd write.



Sort of nervous… never done this before, friends say I'm crazy, but here goes. You don't look like a psychokiller, right?! So, about me… I'm a total geek. Love reading (I'm at the U, studying performance dance and French lit. Don't laugh!), love music, go see live shows when I can (I work full time, so sometimes that's hard), actually like watching football on TV (an only on TV!), hate Republicans, love Dick's, and don't have a really small dog, LOL. Church is actually one of my favorite bars, close to where I live / work on the Hill.



Umm… I don't know about all of your first date plans ;), but drinks sound like a good start. I think I might have Wednesday off this week, might have to meet friends later … let me know…



—bowlinggrrl



(Allison. Glad my name isn't Mandy! J)









From:

bowlinggrrl@gmail.com

Subject:

I hate bowling too! (LoveLab)

Date:

February 12, 2008 12:03 AM PST

To:

plantman@hotmail.com







Hi again plantman,



Just thought i should say… i'm not a psychokiller either! I've attached two pics from about a month ago, out with some friends.



Ok! Well…. J'espère que j'ai de vos nouvelles… (hope I hear from you LOL)



—allison













From:

plantman@hotmail.com

Subject:

RE: I hate bowling too! (LoveLab)

Date:

February 12, 2008 1: 18 AM PST

To:

bowlinggrrl@gmail.com







Hey hey my Alison…



Wow, hey, cool. Great to hear from you… and for the pics, thanks. Good to know you're not a cyclops or anything. French, huh? that's totally greek to me (hah!), but sounds cool,... ive been working through some Neitszche and other stuff on my own when I'm not out looking for hijinks.



Your smile's awesome.



So Wednesday would be great for me… Would be cool to hang, watch bowling



—Robby



oh, you can call or text me at 206 529-XXXX









From:

alliecat@gmail.com

Subject:

RE: re: I hate bowling too! (LoveLab)

Date:

February 12, 2008 9:34 AM PST

To:

plantman@hotmail.com







Hi Robby… it's nice to meet you! J



Umm… ok. I switched to my regular email, in case you want... will text later, after class (ugh!)









From:

plantman@hotmail.com

Subject:

RE: I hate bowling too! (LoveLab)

Date:

February 12, 2008 11:00 AM PST

To:

alliecat@gmail.com







Good mornin' my Allison… let me know 'bout Wednesday…



—Robby





Tues, Feb 12, 2008

12:37 Alllison Evans

hi robby…out of class. switched shifts at work, could do wed…?



13:03 Robby Plant

cool! where do u work?



13:25 Allison Evans

the comet, lol! pays les comptes, as they say…



13:45 Robby Plant

cool spot. stop w/ the french, or i'll start… talking guitars or something. cute, though.



14:12 Robby Plant

u there?



14:18 Robby Plant

???



14:32 Allison Evans

lol. srry…was in class again. out now.



14:37 Robby Plant

so… wensday?



14:38 Robby Plant

wednesday?



15:03 Allison Evans

yes! no small dogs or bowling, right (trampolines, maybe)… J



17:08 Robby Plant

totally! time?



18:43 Allison Evans

you name it… want to see sideburbs.



18:45 Allison Evans

sideburns… lol!



18:52 Robby Plant

knew what u meant. can't blame u. they're pretty awesome.



18:59 Robby Plant

8?



19:22 Allison Evans

sounds gpd. meet there?



19:34 Robby Plant

8 is gr8t, man. off to practice… music never sleeps



19:38 Allison Evans

roflmao… yeah, me too. off to work…. tmrrw! go play, sideburnsman!



19:40 Robby Plant

ur pretty cute, u know that?



23:28 Robby Plant

done! pbr time. what up w/ u, frenchie?



23:46 Allison Evans

huh?



23: 47 Robby Plant

never mind. what's up?



23:50 Allison Evans

out w friens…



23:51 Robby Plant

where?.... join?



23:59 Allison Evans

can't. see u tmrrw, tho!



24:16 Robby Plant

w girl frnd?







Wed Feb 13 2008

16:26 Allison Evans

ummmm hey Robby….we still on???



17:36 Robby Plant

sure



17:41 Allison Evans

um, robby, all cool?



17:48 Robby Plant

off the balcony, babe. all cool. eating late lunch. were on. 8. see u.



17:52 Allison Evans

ok, yay. i'm a little nervous. excited, tho.



17:54 Robby Plant

i would be too! j/k. see u there.



17:55 Allison Evans

J see u 2… how will i find u?



17:56 Robby Plant

J badass w sideburns checking out the bowling



17:57 Allison Evans

can't wait. i could blow all day!!



17:57 Allison Evans

bowl… lol



18:01 Robby Plant

either way, sounds great. j/k.



18:10 Allison Evans

stop it! see u soon… carntion in lapel?



18:22 Robby Plant

pbr in hand.



20:11 Robby Plant

hey that u….?



20:11 Allison Evans

come find out…







From:

plantman@hotmail.com

Subject:

Cool.

Date:

February 14, 2008 03:34 AM PST

To:

alliecat@gmail.com







So hey. your cool. that was fuckin' great! better than a trapmoline!







Thu Feb 14 2008

12:41 Robby Plant

happy v-day alliebally <3 <3 !!



14:30 Robby Plant

hey u there…?



17:43 Allison Evans

oh hey. off to work. super busy…



17:50 Robby Plant

hey!! c u l8ter?



18:12 Allison Evans

no…cant, sorry. work till lateish



18: 14 Robby Plant

after?



18:33 Allison Evans

sorry, busy



18:48 Robby Plant

not a date, lol?



19:17 Allison Evans

working now cant txt. sorry. later.



21:12 Robby Plant

where r u?



22:34 Robby Plant

drinkin w friends… u?



22:50 Allison Evans

me 2



23:13 Robby Plant

who w?



23:28 Allison Evans

…friend



23:32 Robby Plant

yeah right babe.



23:37 Allison Evans

?



23:38 Robby Plant

watever lol.



23:41 Allison Evans

yeah lol.



23: 43 Allison Evans

not ur business, btw, but its jp. think u know him. lol.



23:51 Robby Plant

ur out w fucking jp? chirst.



23:58 Allison Evans

lol. so? duh





Fri Feb 15 2008



00:04 Robby Plant

hes my fuckin basist bitch. u said u didt know my band.



00:06 Allison Evans

no. *you* said i didn't know ur band.



00:06 Robby Plant

so u fucking him babe?



00:07 Allison Evans

shit, Robby. back off drunky mcdrunkerson. know who he is stupid. i know ur band. i just don't care.



00:10 Robby Plant

not durnk. giving u shit. u fuckng him?



00:13 Allison Evans

hey, back off.



00:13 Robby Plant

i take that as a yes.



00:15 Allison Evans

ok. u got me. after drinks, handjob! sheesh.

00:17 Robby Plant

fuckin knew it. hes a fuckin slut too, so good 4 u. fuckin hell!



00:20 Allison Evans

oh jesus. joking. and shut up about jp. he's a good lay!



00:21 Robby Plant

i cant fuckin believe this. sersly? hes a fuckin whore,



00:24 Allison Evans

not seriously. that's what joking means.



00:26 Robby Plant

likes his ruhipnol. hope u like it in the ass!



00:28 Allison Evans

jesus. classy. and u know what? shut up about jp. were having drinks. right now, want his company not urs.



00:27 Robby Plant

enjoy ur herpes! drink up, babe.



00:32 Allison Evans

good god. seriously. not the time. just back the fuck off. will explain later. maybe.



00:33 Robby Plant

u dont know jp man. all im saying.



00:35 Robby Plant

wre u drunk like last night? when u kissed me? gonna kiss him 2?



00:38 Allison Evans

i'm not drunk. wasn't drunk last night. and i know jp enough to know hes not an ass like u.



00:42 Robby Plant

u kissed him, didnt u? that it? u gonna fukc him 2?!



00:46 Allison Evans

what do u mean 2? we didn't fuck, in case u didn't notice. kiss was not all that.



00:48 Robby Plant

hah! chill out babe.



00:51 Robby Plant

didn't complain last night babe!!!



00:54 Robby Plant

just fuckn w u, allie. just hijink.s man!!



01:02 Allison Evans

not in the mood now robby. not what u think i'm bsy now.



01:08 Robby Plant

u were in the mood last night.



01:08

busy what? oral? his mom told me how he likes it…



01:11 Allison Evans

ok that's it. fuck off. not funny.



01:12 Robby Plant

kiddin! have another pbr and chill the fjuck out! didnt know u were so fuckn uptite. i dont care babe. have fun, tell jp his sister ws good last night.



01:20 Robby Plant

whoa babe. u get around, dontcha.



01:23 Allison Evans

wtf?



01:23 Robby Plant

jimmy too, man? awsome dudes right here. ladies n gentleman we got a band whore!



01:28 Allison Evans

band whore? yeah, robby. that's me. i wnt out w jimmy. 2 yrs ago. for a month. nice hair. say hi for me. and fuck you.



01:30 Robby Plant

no, fuck U. hah!



01:31 Allison Evans

No. FUCK U. jp's my cousin, asshole. his mom died a yr ago today, which u would fucking know cause hes ur fuckin bandmate and u would if u weren't such a self absorned shithesd who cant see beyond his guitar snd sideburns and fuckin hijjinx. so yeah i got drunk, cause i needed it, and i kissed u, cause maybe i needed that. so jp and me, we're getting drunk right now cause we need it and its not about u. so fuck u and back off. frm jp too. asshole.



01:35 Robby Plant

wtf? was just jokin around. didnt know.



01:36 Allison Evans

u don't know a lot. like jp's fucking mandy. hah, sucker. and like i don't ever want to hear from you again. u don't know shit cause u dont care aboutshit. so fuck off. plantman.



01:38 Robby Plant

hey hey allison. babe. calm down. cmon. waht can i do?



01:48 Allison Evans

go write a song about it asshole.

"SERIOUSLY, I met all those guys in 1968. ‘Cept for Plant. I was hangin' out at the session where Donovan was cuttin' Hurdy Gurdy Man. Page, Bonham, JPJ, they were all there. Zep took a lot from DONOVAN. He put those guys together for the session and what do they do? They GO OUT AND find the closest thing to a guy who sings like him that they can. like when plant sAYs tomorrow in What is and what should NEVER be, he says it the same way that donovan says window in season of the witch. It's all right there. THINK ABOUT IT. AND then THEY took the riff to Stairway to Heaven from Randy California.



"Like I said, I was with this chick, who was the one Who dragged me to the session, MONIQUE. SHE WAS FROM FRANCE. She came over on the boat or whatever it was. The hovercraft. I met her in London, where I was supposed to be on vacation. I was like, really into the BeEtles and shit, so I thought, I'll go to London and check it out. And me and Monique basically, y'know, we met in a bar and wound up gettin' it on in the bathroom and the next thing you know we're talking about getting married. she really Turned my head around. Long black hair, bangs. hell of a nice set of eyes on her too.



"I'll tell you one thing, SHE know how to suck cock. She'd be concentratin' on the tip and then lift up her tits and rub the side of the shaft with them. You get this tingling thing going Like when you floor it over a bump with the car. Except now YOU'RE getting' READY TO pop. Straighten you RIGHT out. Problem was, She had a drinkin' problem. She would like, start drinkin' wine at lunchtime. Bars and Guitars, That was her. But she wasn't a hooker. that was just something they added to the song. And the part about going to church, Neither of us went to any church. But we were, y'know, talkin' about gettin' married.



"Anyway, we had been fightin'. Like I said, she was a drinker. And I'm – well, I'm basically the kind of guy who stretches his BEERs out, y'know, cause I don't like being drunk but I like hangin' out. You know what I mean? I'm disciplined. I only been drunk four times in my whole life. So we'd been fightin' about going up to the Donovan session, which was in this fucking castle in fucking Scotland. She had met Donovan somewhere. When he was in France. I fucking knew it was a bad idea.



"TEll you the truth, I was starTing to feel like if I wanted to hang around with a bunch of hippies, I could just as well of stayed in Ypsi. She was talkin' about moving back here with me but she needed to TAKE CARE OF some Business first. I don't know what kind of business she was takin' care of. She didn't have a dime to her Fuckin' name. We were stayinG in this campground right next to the matchbox car factory. The whole place was full of fucking hippies. I had to pay for everything, you know, food, alcohol, the fee for the campsite. I had also bought a tent. now I was gonna have to pay for bus tickets.



"So anyway, we got up to the castle and it was a real scene. Let me tell you, there was some nice lookin' tail there. BUT monique was the prettiest one. SO she starts takin' her clothes off like the rest of them, and I start givin' her some shit about it and she gets all pissed off and tells me I'm always such a square. And then she starts freezin' me out. This Swiss guy, I forget his name, Kraus or something, had brought some really nasty hash over from Switzerland. Total asshole. They were all assholes. Donovan was the only one who was cool. You got a cigarette?"

The latest, heaviest sounds from England arrived to Seattle Center Arena yesterday, opening for The Vanilla Fudge.

With the swagger of Iron Butterfly's Jerry "The Bear" Penrod and the biker pool hall bravado of Steppenwolf, Robert "Bob" Plant is his own unique package of leather and lace Right On-ness. On stage, he's one part bad-ass, two parts Mississippi Delta, and one million parts luminous, hard rockin' radiation!

This dude is a terrific blue-eyed merchant of Soul. One moment, Bob bellows to his old lady that he's leaving her. That is, right after the next fuck! The next, he is remembering to not forget the laughter, something he digs doing. I talked to Bob in a small and mostly empty, white room after the band's scorching red hot set.

"How can you consider open swashbuckler shirts outdated?," he laughed, as he ran a hand across a dusty, black curtain.

I said: "I don't think I can, Bob."

Standing, he slowly raised one foot onto the back of a chair, stenciled with the phrase "Not to be taken away."

"The essence of my shirts is the desire to be the latest pirate for peace and harmony, if you will."

I lit a Viceroy and placed my right elbow into my left hand, which was stretched across my chest. With my head turned slightly upward, I exhaled toward the hanging bare light bulb and softly said "Fuckinay."

"Yeah. Fuckinay," answered Bob. "Cheers."
And with this, he walked on down the hall.

The last time Father Robert went looking for Rachel, he found her passed out and mostly naked at Fifth and Olive. He kicked her awake. Rachel grimaced and sat up on both elbows, squinting through an imagined haze.

"Hey daddy Bob. You horned up again already?" She reached for the cardigan she had lifted from the donation bin at St. Anthony. Two half-empty pints of Seagrams clinked over the curb. She wrapped her discolored frame with the garment, grabbed the fuller of the two half-empties and staggered upright like a newborn giraffe.

"You stink and you're filthy," Father Robert said. "A beautiful young woman like you...." He was looking at the ground. "Come to church with me. And don't call me ‘daddy Bob.'"
The soup line at St. Anthony had already formed along Hilliard Ave. Some of the younger homeless men whistled at Rachel as she and Father Robert slipped through the south transept entrance.

They fucked quickly in the sacristy. Father Robert pressed a small plastic bag into Rachel's palm.

"Midnight shift again at the Orange Room," Rachel said. "This'll get me through just fine. Thanks daddy Bob."

"Don't." Father Robert said, making a serious face. "Especially not here."
"You don't think God already knows?" Rachel asked to taunt him. "He knows; he just don't give a fuck."

Father Robert was still working some buttons. "God loves you," he said absently.
"Everyone does, daddy Bob, everyone does."
"I said stop it."

Rachel affected a petulant frown as she pulled Father Robert's hips into her own. She pushed her breasts against him and moved her lips close to his ear.

"Maybe I'll just call you ‘daddy,'" she whispered. "Maybe I'll come to mass and call you ‘daddy' so everyone can hear me."
Father Robert cupped her shoulders and pushed her back. Rachel expected to see a flash of anger, but instead Father Robert tightened his lips into a kind of smile. "What do you expect me to say, baby? What do you expect me to do?"

"That's what mama was gonna do, wasn't it?" Rachel continued. "She was gonna tell. What did you pay her to get her to shut up and leave town? I want the same. I wanna get the fuck out of here."

Father Robert was quiet for a moment. Then he embraced his daughter and ran his fingernails up her back. She winced and drew quick, shallow breaths.

"Yes," he said after a time. "I will give you what I gave your mother." He kissed Rachel's neck and she began to cry. Then he kissed her mouth. His strong hands traveled the length of her arms. He grabbed her wrists and in one quick motion, rotated her arms back and up, dislocating both her shoulders, then wrapped his hands around her throat.

"Rachel," he said coldly, "I want to tell you something about your mother." Rachel's face began to turn the color of the bruises on her torso. She kicked at her father, which only transferred the weight of her body into his hands. "Your mother is in a landfill," he said.

He stuffed Rachel's body into a vestment bag. That night, he deposited the bag in the dumpster by the back stage door at the Orange Club. The club rumbled with a muffled and vaguely musical sound. Father Robert thought maybe a security guard would come outside for a smoke and catch him in the act, but nothing happened.
Later, in his bedroom, Father Robert prayed he would be arrested. He prayed for a punishment more dreadful than his haunted dreams. He prayed for some penitent emotion, some small sign that God had not entirely abandoned him.

-David Summerlin