Ryan Lockwood - Below

A man across the room began shouting at Sturman. “Hey! Hey, shithead! Yeah, I’m talking to you. Fuckin’ cowboy in here again?”

The men looked to the back of the bar at a group playing pool. The tallest of them, a shaggy-haired older man in a muscle shirt, was leaning on his pool cue and staring at Sturman.

“You hear me, shithead? I’ll bet you my left nut I can take you in the next game.” The shouting man grinned, revealing yellowed teeth and a golden-capped canine.

Joe shook his head. “You still hanging out with that lowlife?”

Sturman couldn’t hold it against his friend for not liking Steve Black. He fell into a mother’s category of people you should stay away from. “Steve’s a dirty old man, but he’s been a pretty good friend.”

“He’s a fucking racist, Sturman.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Sturman turned and shouted back at Black. “I’ll take your bet, you dumbshit. But you still owe me from the last time I mopped up this place with your ass.”

Black smiled at Sturman, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Jill jumped in. “Watch your language in here, assholes.” The room erupted in laughter.

Sturman slid off his stool and made his way toward the pool tables, with Joe reluctantly in tow. He had always thought Steve looked just like an old pirate, minus an eye patch and a parrot. Black was another local divemaster, and had been friends with Sturman for almost eight years. He was a tall, wiry man, with unkempt gray hair and wrinkles creasing a sun-bronzed face. His stained Carlos ’n Charlie’s tank top left his deeply tanned, tattooed arms fully visible, as well as a few prominent scars. He wore three gold chains around his neck and had on worn leather sandals and cargo shorts.

Steve raised an arm to block a mock punch from Sturman, then shook his hand.

“Hola, amigos. Sturman, I didn’t know you were still hanging out with Mexi-melters.”

“Anytime, old man.” Joe looked calm enough as he delivered the invitation, but Sturman saw that his fists were clenched.

“I’m not fuckin’ with the police. I’m not stupid.”

“That’s enough. Keep it nice.” Sturman shot them both a hard look. “You wanna play, Montoya?”

“No. I gotta get going. Girls are home tonight. Sturman, I already fed Bud dinner for you. See you soon.”

After Joe walked away, Steve shook his head. “Why you hang out with that cop?”

“He’s better looking than you.”

“Seriously, son. Last thing we need is Mexican cops here in California.”

“Drop the racist shit, Steve. You got a smoke, you bum?”

Sturman’s body had taken a lot of abuse already today, and he was trying not to smoke as much, but after a few beers a cigarette sounded pretty good.

Sturman realized he must have smoked at least five or six cigarettes as he lit a final one and stumbled out of the bar after midnight. He’d played a lot of cutthroat with Steve and his biker friends, who were talking more game than they brought. Their usual night at the bar, with Sturman playing well until the liquor convinced him to focus on other things.

After drinking too much beer to win any more games of pool and almost giving in to Jill’s attempts to take advantage of him, Sturman called it a night when he felt the darkness creeping into his head. He left and headed down the dark, empty street to the harbor. As he staggered along the floating dock toward his boat, he could hear Bud barking inside the cabin. His mutt always knew when his master was approaching by the sound of his footsteps, be they sober and measured or drunken and lurching.

Sturman fumbled to get the key in the lock and then let Bud explode out of the cabin. He smiled as the muscular dog, a tan Lab-pit-whatever mix, ran in impossibly small circles on the slippery floor of the boat, slamming into Sturman and sliding into the sides of the boat.

“Hey, buddy. You’ve probably gotta piss worse than I do.” Sturman took the dog for a short walk up the docks, to the grassy area on shore. Then they returned to the boat and he fed Bud and cooked two packs of ramen noodles in the tiny kitchen. Living on a thirty-six-foot dive boat with a full-grown dog was tight, but when the economy had taken a nosedive, Sturman had left his apartment to keep his business and boat. He would never sell the boat.

When his belly was full and he could no longer keep his eyes open, Sturman lay down on his bed in the forward cabin, still fully clothed. Before he passed out, lying alone in the dark, he thought of her. Somehow, he always thought of her.

If he drank enough beer he found that he could sometimes get past it. Tonight the booze did its job, and with Bud curled up next to him, Sturman fell asleep to the gentle rocking of the boat. The last thing he heard as he drifted off was the soft ringing of metal rigging as it clanged against the aluminum masts of sailboats in the harbor.

Joe Montoya awoke feeling exhausted. He’d slept badly again—the nightmares of a police officer with a lot of years on the job. He rolled over, away from the light coming through the bedroom window. He kept his eyes shut as he listened to his wife moving around the room, getting ready for work. He could hear his teenage daughters arguing downstairs.

After a few minutes, he began to think about the day ahead. He knew he needed to get out of bed. He sat up with a moan and swung his legs over the side of the king bed.

“Nice of you to join us this morning, sleepyhead,” his wife said. “You still smell like a bar.” He knew she was just testing him—he’d only had a couple of beers. She was always worrying about his health.

Elena was dressed professionally in a beige silk blouse and gray skirt. She was a legal assistant at a local law office, and kept more regular hours than her husband. As a sergeant for the county sheriff, Joe often worked late and weekend hours. He wondered for a moment why she always looked her best when headed to work, instead of when spending time with him.

“I’m fine, baby. Will needed someone to talk to last night, that’s all.”

“Already in a bar after his accident yesterday? Is he all right?”

“Yeah, he’s okay. He’s really sore though.”

“Was he upset about Maria again? You can’t keep staying out late drinking with that man because he’s still upset about his ex-wife. He drinks too much, and you drink too much when you’re with him. Did you smoke last night?”

“Maria was never his ex-wife. She was his wife . And he’s my friend.”

“So you did smoke?”

“I didn’t stay out late, I didn’t drink too much, and I didn’t smoke. You done interrogating me?”

Joe shook his head and looked away from his wife. Elena walked over to her husband, pulled his head against her breasts, and hugged him. “I’m sorry. I know, baby. You’re a good friend to him. Just try not to get caught up in his lifestyle, okay?”

Joe became focused on the feel of his wife’s firm, slender waist under his hands and the smell of perfume in her long hair. He felt a tingling in his groin. At thirty-eight, she still turned heads, with her high cheekbones, smooth skin and dark, liquid eyes. Joe ran his hand through her silky black hair.

“How much time do you have before work, mama?”

“No, baby. Not today. I have an important meeting and I can’t be late. Besides, the girls are still here.”

Joe sighed. He knew better than to waste his time once his wife had made up her mind. As stubborn as her mother.

He dressed and went down to the kitchen. He said good morning to his girls and poured himself a mug of black coffee, then joined his daughters at the oak breakfast table.

“What are you two arguing about now?” he asked.