Free Sideways by Rex Pickett Page B

said, his face hardening.
    “What’s her problem?”
    “She thinks I’m up to no good.”
    An abrupt laugh shot from my mouth. “Well, at least we know you’re marrying a smart, intuitive girl.”
    He looked at me mirthlessly. “It’s not funny.” He drained his drink, hefted himself off his stool, and said, “I’ve got to call her back and work this out.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I hung up on her,” he admitted.
    “Hey, I have a radical idea.”
    “What?” he said, frozen midstride.
    “Why don’t you say something sweet to her so she can sleep peacefully tonight?”
    Jack glared at me, then took off and threaded back through the jeering crowd as the Fleetwood Mac song broke off. The girl in the Pea Soup Andersen’s uniform
    “Do you believe that?” I heard a voice saying. I turned to find a young man with short, straw-colored hair crowning a doughy face stippled with bright red pimples. He was clad in the uniform of the place: white T-shirt, faded Levi’s jacket, and matching jeans. On the bar in front of him rested a half-empty pitcher of beer that he guarded jealously, his face hanging expressionlessly over it.
    “Pretty frightening,” I agreed.
    He nursed his beer slowly but continually, his arm moving back and forth from his mouth to the bar with the mechanical monotony of an oil derrick. “What do you do?” he asked, shifting his eyes toward me without moving his head.
    “Me?” I said. “I’m a writer.”
    “No shit?” he asked, perking up.
    “It’s no big deal. I’m not famous or anything.” Not that he would know.
    “What do you write?”
    “Books. Movies. Whatever pays the rent.”
    “Oh, yeah? Any I might have seen?”
    “I once wrote a book that was made into a movie, but the book was never published, and then when the movie came out they hired some hack to do a novelization of it. Do you fucking believe that?”
    My words had outraced his beer-fogged brain and he turned to me slowly as if allowing himself time to catch
    I cleared my throat, not sure if he gleaned the full import of one of my past professional demoralizations.
    “What was it called?” he asked.
    “
Circling the Drain
.”
    “Was it about plumbers?”
    I laughed out loud and shook my head no.
    “Then I probably didn’t see it.” He crossed his right arm over his left and extended his hand, palm downward, for a shake. “Name’s Brad.”
    I took his hand and shook it. It was sticky from beer and bar pretzels and God knows what else.
    “Miles,” I said.
    “What’s your full name? In case you write another book.”
    “Miles Raymond. It’s a nom de guerre,” I quipped.
    He did a double take, then threw me a look to let me know he knew I was fucking with him. “Funny,” he said. He released my hand and took another guzzle of beer, sudsed it in his mouth and said, “How’d you like to go wild boar hunting with me?”
    I straightened, caught off guard by the proposition. “What?”
    “Wild boar hunting.” He lowered his beer mug and forearmed foam off his upper lip.
    “You’re joking.”
    “Nope.”
    “You’re a boar hunter?”
    “In season,” he replied.
    “Hunt ’em at night?” I asked, puzzled but intrigued.
    “Yep. That’s when they like to come out. They sleep during the day.”
    “Why would you think I would want to go wild boar hunting?”
    “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You’re a writer. Might be an idea for your next book. I’d read it.”
    “That’s encouraging. Where do you hunt ’em?” I asked, pretending to be interested.
    “On the cliffs over at Jalama Beach.”
    “And you’d like me to accompany you?”
    “I don’t like hunting alone,” he confided.
    “I don’t know, Brad. Tonight’s not good. I’m with a friend here …”
    “Have him come,” he cut in.
    “I’ll take a rain check. But thanks for asking.”
    “That’s cool,” he said, disappointed. “Some other time, dude.” He emptied the pitcher into his mug and drained it in one