Free Trailer Park Noir by Ray Garton Page B

wearing only his undershorts. The television was on. Cartoons. Rocky and Bullwinkle. He smacked his lips, but he tasted no liquor. Instead, he tasted bitter morning breath and the harsh remnant of NyQuil.
    He’d made it through the night without having a drink, without driving down to Handi-Spot and buying a bottle. It had not been easy.
    At first, he’d fallen asleep only to find himself in a dream of Victoria – a vivid dream from which he’d awakened suddenly with a ragged gasp, still smelling her perfume, his heart drumming against his ribs. He’d been in bed then. He’d tried to go back to sleep two more times, maybe three or four, but the same thing had happened again and again.
    Around four in the morning, he’d come out to the living room and stretched out on the couch. He’d turned on the TV, tuned it to the Cartoon Network. Something that would shut his mind down and not require any thought. Pretty soon the cartoons had blurred, the colors had bled together, and he’d finally drifted off into a deep sleep.
    He swung around and sat up on the edge of the couch, put his elbows on his knees, and scrubbed his face with both hands. He looked down and saw Conan curled up on the floor beside the couch. The dog lifted his head and looked at him, then stood and stretched. Reznick sat up straight and looked at the clock on the wall, focused. It was eight thirty-three. He could easily go back to sleep, but it was time to get up.
    “Hey, buddy,” Reznick said, and Conan hopped up onto the couch beside him. He petted the dog, roughed him up a little. “Need to go outside, I bet.” Reznick stood and went to the door, opened it, opened the screen, and said, “Go ahead, boy.”
    Conan dashed outside.
    Reznick went to the kitchen and got the coffee maker started. By the time he was done with that, Conan was back inside. Reznick closed the screen door and locked it, then turned on the swamp cooler. He fed Conan, went into the bathroom and took a shower, and by the time he got out, the coffee was ready. He put on a pair of jeans, poured a cup of coffee, then took it outside, shirtless and barefoot. Conan followed him. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, and the thermometer on the wall beside his door read a hundred and four. There was no breeze – the morning was still. Country music played loudly from one of the trailers.
    Reznick opened his mouth for a long, luxurious yawn, then turned to go back inside, but stopped. He heard a rhythmic slapping sound. He turned around and faced the road, turned toward Anna Dunfy’s trailer.
    A multi-colored ball bounced on the pavement from the front of the Dunfy trailer. A moment later, Kendra appeared.
    “Hello,” Reznick said.
    Startled, she missed the ball and gasped, turning to him. The ball bounced away from her and she chased after it, snatched it from the air, then turned to him again.
    “Huh-hello, Mr. Reznick,” she said. She looked at him with her mouth open.
    “You can call me Marc,” he said.
    “Mommy likes me to call grownups by Mr. and Mrs.”
    “I see. Well, I’m more comfortable with Marc.”
    “Okay.”
    Conan hurried over to Kendra and pawed at her bare shins. She hunkered down, put the ball on the ground, and petted him with both hands, saying, “Oh, you’re just such a sweet little doggy, you know that, Conan? You’re a sweet little doggy.”
    While she played with and talked to Conan, Reznick took her in.
    She wore a short sleeve red plaid shirt open over a bikini bra, and a pair of black shorts, flip-flops on her feet. Her legs were long, her sizeable breasts round and firm. Her long, honey-colored hair fell down on both sides of her face as she bent and played with the dog.
    Reznick realized his breathing had increased in speed. His heart was beating faster. His palms were sweaty, and it had nothing to do with the heat. He could not remember the last time he’d wanted a woman so badly, so deeply, the last time he’d felt a physical hunger for