Free Sleep with the Fishes by Brian M. Wiprud Page A

vantage.
    “Bob, must you?” Val tugged at Little Bob’s shirtsleeve.
    “Don’t call me Doc!” Lloyd moaned.
    “I guess I’ll have to get my own spritzer,” Val chirped, drifting over to the bar.
    “Light me, Louie!” Russ commanded through clenched teeth.
    “Yes, Mr. Sid! Right away, Mr. Sid!” Lloyd chirped.
    Russ blew out a cloud of smoke, reached back, and grabbed Lloyd by the beard. He gave it a waggle.
    “Louie, you’re a peach!”
    They disintegrated in laughter, which drew Kris and Penelope over to the table, whereupon the scene was replayed. Lively discussion accompanied ever more beer on their pal Sid’s ten. Before too long, Kris and Penelope played out their version of the scene, then Big and Little Bob were goaded into a stilted production that brought the house down. Every five minutes someone would inevitably blurt: “Light me, Louie!” and grab Lloyd by the beard. Big Bob got a share of the kidding over his contention that Sid was someone he’d seen before, a famous person.
    Somewhere along the line Val traded Little Bob a dirty look for the car keys and snuck out. She was never much for barroom antics, especially what with the next day being Church Day.
    The party marched on for a few hours, and Russ’s hoarse giggles were worn to tatters by the time the gang stumbled from the Duck Pond at last call. However, his taste for speculation on Sid was not exhausted. As they split for their respective pickup trucks and SUVs, the battle cry went up: “Light me, Louie! You’re a peach!” Rambunctious plumes of cold fog billowed from the revelers’ lips into the harsh beams of the parking lot flood lamps. The spring night had taken on a chill, and the moon had not yet risen.
    Russ chuckled gently and fumbled with his keys in the shadow of his truck.
    A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
    “Russ, ya O.K. to drive? Ya know, statistics show that most accidents at night are alcohol-related.”
    “Look, Bob, are you any soberer than me?” Russ eyed his giant friend.
    “I think so. I didn’t have any of that Canadian. Too many free radicals in blended whiskys,” Bob warned.
    “Uh-huh. Well, if you drive me, how are you gonna drive your Bronco?” Russ held up a key and opened the driver’s door.
    “Little Bob—he never drinks anything much—he an’ me is together since Val took his sedan.” Bob held the car door open without effort as Russ climbed in and tried to pull the door closed.
    “O.K., look, I appreciate the concern.” Russ tugged at the door and almost pulled himself from the truck to the parking lot. Bob still held it open. “O.K., look, I’ll drive, O.K., an’ you ride with me an’ make sure I drive O.K. all the way home. See, this truck, well, y’know it’s got kinda funny steering and stuff.”
    Little Bob pulled up in Big Bob’s Bronco, camcorder on the seat beside him.
    Big Bob nodded. “O.K., Russ. But ya so much as swerve and we stop. I ain’t lettin’ ya kill me.”
    On the way down 241, Russ kept a steady hand, and Big Bob only felt obliged to comment on maintaining the speed limit.
    “Y’know, Russ, in almost eighty percent of all accidents after dark, excessive speed is listed as a secondary cause of accident.”
    Russ nodded in the milky glow of the dashboard. “I did not know that, Bob. Say, Bob, who do you think this guy Bifulco is? A TV personality? What?” A glance in the rearview confirmed Little Bob was right behind.
    “Dunno, but I don’t never forget faces. I coulda used a good look at him. The ducks don’t put out much light. It’s not exactly well lit at the bar.”
    “Do you think if you got a better look it might come back to you?”
    “Might. Might.”
    “Well, let’s say we go take a look.”
    “Tonight?”

    As the International veered up Ballard Road from 241, Russ gave the tan BMW parked on the shoulder only passing notice.
    “Shhh. We’re gonna sneak up on Ol’ Sid, see if you recognize him. Don’t want the headlights to