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

flash his cabin as I come down my drive.” Russ killed the headlights.
    “Russ…”
    “Bob, I know every inch of this drive.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Little Bob had gone to his parking lights.
    “You’re goin’ a little fast there, partner,” Big Bob warned.
    Russ tugged the wheel left, neatly turning the International down the shadowy slope of his driveway.
    Impact. Quaking metal racked the front of the truck; a crack split across the windshield. Standing on the brake, Russ locked the wheels and the International skewed, grinding to a stop on the side of the drive. The Bronco’s orange parking lights swerved around them to the left.
    Steam jetted from the truck’s groaning radiator.
    Russ was still gripping the wheel, and Bob had his outstretched hands on the dashboard.
    Tinkling shards of glass falling from a headlamp flooded the sudden silence.
    Russ and Bob looked at each other.
    “I’d say ya hit somethin’,” Bob said.
    Russ could see his International’s hood was creased dead center, like cake icing smooshed by an ogre’s finger.
    In front of them, Little Bob put the Bronco in drive, pulled on the headlights, and began a three-point turn in front of Russ’s trailer.
    “It was a deer, I think. We ran it over.” Russ reached for the door handle, but hesitated. “I felt it go down.”
    “A bear, ya think?” Big Bob grabbed his door handle, paused, then wrenched it open. “Messed up your radiator, that’s for sure.”
    Russ emerged slowly, just as the Bronco’s headlights came to bear on him and the obscuring cloud of Prestone fog that geysered from his grille. Plumes swirled over the truck.
    Little Bob climbed out of the Bronco and joined Big Bob and Russ. The three stood staring at the wisps and tumbles of steam that rolled through the headlights’ glare.
    Big Bob held a shading hand to his brow and scanned the ground around Russ’s truck. “I don’t see nothin’.”
    Russ didn’t see anything either. But he was too scared to say anything.
    Little Bob put his camcorder on the ground, got on all fours, and looked under the truck.
    “Oh boy, oh boy…”
    Russ and Big Bob got on all fours. The view under the truck was obscured by steam. At first. Then the clouds parted. They could see arms. And a red and white striped shirt.
    “Holy bejesus, Russ!” Big Bob smacked himself in the head.
    “Man, oh man!” Little Bob put a hand over his eyes.
    Russ suddenly found himself in a pastry shop, sticking his finger into slices of strawberry pie while the girl at the register—Penelope?—was distracted by a pink parrot, squawking “Light me, Louie!”
    Russ’s fainting spell lasted a minute or so. Long enough for help to arrive. Someone was pinching his nose. Pastries, parrots, and Penelope vaporized, and his neighbor Sid, wearing a red satin bathrobe, was leaning over him.
    “Congratulations, Smonig.” Sid grinned. “You, my friend, are a murderer.”

“My way is the only way, believe me, Smonig. I know how to get away with murder.” Sid put a mug of instant coffee in front of Russ, who hadn’t made a peep since leaving the confectionary and entering Sid’s cabin.
    But Sid had been doing plenty of peeping, enough for both of them, and for the Bobs too. Sid wasn’t sure he was getting through to Russ, so he set it out for him again.
    “You got a blood alcohol level that’d get you busted for sure. Nothin’ you can do about that for maybe six hours. By that time, if you call the cops then, delayed like, they’ll figure something don’t smell good. And when they find out you was in a bar all night, forget about it. And who was this schmoe anyways? Do you know him? Well, as it so happens, I do know him. He’s a no-good louse—a crook and a rapist.”
    “Hey!” Big Bob snapped from a daze and struggled out of the musty plaid couch. “Russ, ya know who Sid is? He’s Sid Bifulco!”
    Russ just stared at the tabletop. Sid sucked his teeth and folded his arms.
    “Sure,