Free Skinflick by Joseph Hansen Page B

tore open the refrigerator door. Bottles of Dos Equis glittered on one of the wire shelves. He reached. “Beer. Yeah.”
    “Beer. No.” Dave shut the door. He kicked the stool against the door and pushed Delgado down on it. The man gave off a stink of neglect. Dave had never seen him in any shirt but the white, short-sleeved kind with a tie. The tie had vanished and the shirt collar was greasy. “You eat now. Here’s water if you have to wash it down.” He dumped out the last of his martini, rinsed the glass, filled it, pushed it at Delgado, who was staring at the bottles of bourbon, scotch, and gin on the counter. Dave passed the glass in front of Delgado’s eyes. “Drink.”
    Delgado waved a hand. He ducked his head over the plate and began shoveling down the chili. “Take it the fuck away. I hate the goddamn stuff. I’ll eat. How do I get into situations like this?”
    “Running around trying to find people to blame for the shambles you’re in,” Dave said. “Nobody else wants the blame any more than you do.”
    “Marie,” Delgado said, with his mouth full. “She gets the blame.” He laughed harshly, spraying chili, onions, cheese. “Why not? She got everything else—house, car, bank account. Let her have the blame.” He pawed at the food stains on his shirt, his trousers. “Christ, I look like a goddamn wino.” He got off the stool and set the plate on the counter. Shakily, so that it rattled. It was still half full. He looked into Dave’s eyes. “Don’t shove food down me, okay? Just leave me the hell alone?”
    “I didn’t come to your house.” The water in the pan bubbled. Dave poured it steaming into the waiting pot. “You came to my house, remember? Sit down. No, you don’t have to eat any more. You can drink, now. Coffee. A whole lot of strong, black coffee.”
    Delgado started out the door. Dave dropped the empty pan clattering into the sink, took two long steps, and caught his arm. Delgado tried to jerk away. There was petulance in the gesture but not much strength. Under the soiled suitcoat, his arm felt wasted, an old man’s, and he wasn’t even forty. Dave turned him around and set him on the stool again. Delgado glared at him.
    “And then what?” he said. “You push me into the shower, right? And I’m still not sober enough to drive? So you put me to bed to sleep it off? Am I on track? Sure, I am. And sometime in the night, you’re in the bed with me. Yeah, oh, yeah.” He nodded, mouth twisted in a sneer. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. A scrap of beef came away in his fingers, he flicked it off. “You know what you are and so do I, and that’s tonight’s scenario, isn’t it?”
    “You wrote it,” Dave said. “You tell me.” The Mozart turned itself off. The only sound was the drip of water through the coffee grounds and the whirr of crickets out in the sweaty canyon darkness. “You need a shower. You need clean clothes. I can lend you a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. You are too drunk to drive. That doesn’t matter. I can drive you home. Where are you living?”
    “Crappy motel in Santa Monica,” Delgado mumbled. “If they haven’t locked me out.”
    Dave studied him. “You want to stay here, don’t you? That’s why you came. Not to chew me out for taking your job. To have a place to stay.” He unwrapped a supermarket coffee mug, rinsed it under the tap, filled it with coffee. “You are broke. You’re lonely.” He held the mug out to Delgado, who was watching him with nothing in his bloodshot eyes. “You’re also horny. And you’re offering yourself in payment for anything I can do for you, only what mainly interests you is getting your rocks off.”
    Delgado made a sound and knocked the cup across the room. Coffee splashed the cabinets and ran down. The cup was tough. It didn’t break. Delgado lurched off the stool and stumbled out the door. On hands and knees, he vomited. The sounds he made were loud and miserable. Dave stood in the doorway