Free Drummer Boy: A Supernatural Thriller by Scott Nicholson Page B

mingled with the popcorn-and-pungent-pork stench from the concession stand. “That’s about the best blow job you’ll ever get, Captain,” Mac said.
    “Serious,” Elmer said. “Let’s make it double or nothing. If I get the split, you owe me four tickets.”
    “And if you miss?” Jeff said, his squirrel-gray eyes toting up the odds in his favor.
    “You get game and I throw in a freebie at Dolly’s Dollhouse.” The dollhouse was a private club featuring what the tourist trade referred to as “exotic dancers,” but Elmer and his friends called “titty wigglers.” Because of the anti-porn sentiment of the Baptist South, the girls had to wear thongs, but anybody with half an imagination (and Elmer often used his imagination both during the visit and later on in bed, squeaking one off while Vernell snored and drooled beside him) could see enough to get his money’s worth. Though Elmer’s oral hygiene was limited to Slim Jims and toothpicks, he’d seen thicker dental floss than the moist fabrics that ran between the dancers’ ass cheeks and up their clean-shaven diddies.
    “Freebie, shit,” Jeff said. “Looking’s free but touching ain’t.”
    “I’ll get you one in the back room.” Rumor had it a C-note would buy you a hand job in one of the private rooms that rented by the minute. Elmer never had enough bills to test the theory that a full menu was available from Chucky, the former Hell’s Angel who served as bouncer, harem king, and part-owner of the gentlemen’s club. Elmer wasn’t getting much action from his wife, but he figured he was paying out more for it than if he’d stayed single and bought his companionship straight up.
    Vernell kept bitching and whining about the two yard apes that always had strep throat or needed new shoes or some shit. Worst part was only one of the brats was for-sure his. The youngest, Bobby, a tow-headed, sleepy-eyed kid who looked like he’d been squirted from a Scandinavian, was no way in the world pumping Eldreth blood.
    Could be worse, though. Poor Jeff’s kid was a blooming faggot, sizing himself up for pantaloons and mascara before he was barely old enough to beat off. And Elmer tried not to bring it up, but sometimes when a good pal had an oozing scab, you couldn’t resist scratching it a little.
    Jeff held his arm straight, thumb up, sighting down the lane like an engineer building a bridge. “Considering your odds are maybe the same as a Democrat taking the courthouse, you’re on,” Jeff said, then hollered at Mac, “Hey, what’s the mathematical probability of sparing out a six-ten?”
    Mac slapped a pair of red-and-green clown shoes against the counter top. “Mathematical probability, my ass. If you roll perfect, odds is one in one. Roll bad and you got no odds.”
    Elmer hefted his ball, a royal blue 16-pounder with sparkles in its smooth finish. He gave one biceps curl, flexing his wrist. The backspin would be a bitch. Elmer had no intention of ever making good on the bet if he lost, but he needed to take at least one pin out or Jeff would rib him for the next three weeks. Bitch of it was, you could settle for the one but that would pretty much knock out all chance of getting the spare. This was one of those all-or-nothing rolls.
    Plus he needed that extra roll or Jeff took the game and the tickets anyway.
    In the next lane, a fat man whose gray jacket failed to bag the vanilla pudding of his gut sat like the Buddha of Bowling, a cigarillo in his slack mouth. Mac had not yet given in to the anti-smoking sissies, and though Elmer didn’t smoke himself, he loved the poke in the eye to all those fucking liberals who dared tell a man how to run his business. Elmer had an insane urge to rub the Buddha Dude’s belly for luck, but the guy might sit on him and roll him out like the Pillsbury Doughboy in a laundry press.
    “I’ve made a couple six-tens before,” Elmer said. The lie tasted like the chalk on his fingers.
    “This ain’t before,