Free Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet by Adam Howe Page B

than the skunk ape.
    She gave a knowing smile. “He didn’t last long,” she admitted. “But before they canned him, Lester would keep me company while I worked.”
    I’ll bet he did, I thought; he probably regretted not having his video camera handy to film Eliza hard at work.
    “Lester said I had talent and I should set my sights higher.”
    “And that’d be dancing at The Henhouse?”
    Eliza nodded happily. “Lester lined up the interview with Walt, and the rest is history … Now here I am on the verge of making my mark in a real honest to goodness dirty movie. And who knows where that’ll lead?”
    I thought I had an idea.
    “I know you and Walt don’t approve, Mr. Levine—but sometimes I gotta pinch myself just to be sure I ain’t dreaming. Cuz from where I’m from …” A flicker of darkness clouded her pretty face: “Believe me, I’ve already overachieved.”
    If jacking off mongoloids was a step up in the world, I shuddered to think about her family history. On a brighter note, if it turned out Eliza really was Walt’s lovechild, she was giving me plenty of ammunition to bust his chops.
    “Well,” I said, not knowing what else to say, “I hope it all works out for you.”
    She dazzled me with a smile. “Oh, it will, Mr. Levine. You just wait n’ see.”
    Salisbury thumped the butt of his gun on the roof of the camper, startling us.
    “That’s enough jawing!” he roared.
    Eliza rolled her eyes at me.
    “Missy,” Salisbury said. “Give that bullhorn another blast!”
    She muttered Aye-aye, sir and activated the loudspeaker.
    “Levine!”
    No longer ‘Mr. Levine,’ I noted.
    “Keep running that bait line!”
    I didn’t know which was worse, the stench of the bait, or the skunk ape’s mating call. Then I prised the lid from another bucket and decided it was definitely the bait.
11.
    We camped for the night in a rough dirt clearing, choked with brush and corralled by looming pines that creaked arthritically in the breeze.
    There wasn’t room in the camper for us all to bed inside; given the stench of the bait buckets, nor would we have wanted to. I managed to convince Salisbury to leave the Minnie Winnie outside the clearing and upwind of our camp.
    After slopping out bait all day, I looked and reeked like I’d gone skinny-dipping in a cesspool. Ducking behind the camper for privacy, I hooked a hose to the water tank, stripped down to my undershorts and hosed myself down. Why I felt the need to protect Eliza’s modesty, I do not know. Given everything she’d told me, the sight of me in my drawers was unlikely to trouble her, though maybe I was flattering myself.
    As clean as I was ever going to get, I fetched a change of clothes from my bag and rejoined the others. Lester had gathered some wood, built a campfire, and commandeered the coziest spot in front of it. Eliza was cooking a pot of beans over the flames. “Where’s Salisbury?” I asked them.
    “Went off to lay down some traps,” Eliza said.
    I considered seeing if Salisbury needed help—thought, Fuck it —plopped myself in front of the fire with a tired groan, and watched Eliza as she stirred the beans. The stench of the bait was still fresh in my mind, not to mention my nose, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever eat again, but one whiff of the beans and I was surprised to hear my stomach growl. While I waited, I picked a twig off the ground and used it to scrape away the bait caked beneath my fingernails, and then incinerated the twig in the fire.
    Having laid his traps around camp, Salisbury returned from the woods in time for supper. He seated himself Indian-style in front of the fire. Eliza doled out the beans and we ate in silence, watching the flames of the campfire dance. We did our Blazing Saddles impressions, and then Lester shared out cans from his crate of Keystone. Only Salisbury refused one, with a fussy shake of his hand. I recalled what he’d said to Walt about not drinking alcohol. Imbibing, as he’d called