Christopher Moore - The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

“I feel the spirit moving in me, Katie,” Marge said.

Molly gave them another push. “Right, that’s a good thing. Off you go.” And she was supposed to be the crazy one.

“Go, go, go,” Molly said. “I have to get Stevie’s dinner ready.”

“We’re sorry we missed meeting your little boy,” Katie said. “Where is he?”

“Homework. See ya. Bye.”

Molly watched the women walk out of the park and climb into a new Chrysler minivan, then she turned back to the dragon trailer. For some reason, she was no longer afraid.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you, Stevie?”

The dragon trailer shifted shape, angles melting to curves, windows going back to eyes, but the glow wasn’t as intense as it had been in the early dawn. Molly saw the burned gill trees, the soot and blistered flesh between the scales. Soft blue lines of color flashed across the dragon’s flanks and faded. Molly felt her heart sink in sympathy. This thing, whatever it was, was hurting.

Molly took a few steps closer. “I have a feeling you’re too old to be a Stevie. And the original Stevie might be offended. How about Steve? You look like a Steve.” Molly liked the name Steve. Her agent at CAA had been named Steve. Steve was a good name for a reptile. (As opposed to Stevie, which was more of a frozen goldfish name.)

She felt a wave of warmth run through her amid the sadness. The monster liked his name.

“You shouldn’t have eaten that kid.”

Steve said nothing. Molly took another step forward, still on guard. “You have to go away. I can’t help you. I’m crazy, you know? I have the papers from the state to prove it.“

The Sea Beast rolled over on his back like a submissive puppy and gave Molly a pathetically helpless look, no easy task for an animal capable of swallowing a Volkswagen.

“No,” Molly said.

The Sea Beast whimpered, no louder than a newborn kitten.

“Oh, this is just swell,” Molly said. “Imagine the meds Dr. Val is going to put me on when I tell her about this. The vegetable and the lizard, that’s what they’ll call us. I hope you’re happy.”

Somehow, through the night, the residents of Pine Cove, especially those who had been withdrawing from antidepressants, found a satisfied calm had fallen over them. It wasn’t that their anxiety was gone, but rather that it ran off their backs like warm rain off a naked toddler who has just discovered the splash and magic of mud. There was joy and sex and danger in the air—and a euphoric need to share.

Morning found many of them herding at the local restaurants for breakfast. Gathering together like wildebeests in the presence of a pride of lions, knowing instinctively that only one of them is going to fall to the fang: the one that is caught alone.

Jenny Masterson had been waiting tables at H.P.‘s Cafe for twelve years, and she couldn’t remember a day out of the tourist season when it had been so busy. She moved between her tables like a dancer, pouring coffee and decaf, taking orders and delivering food, catching the odd request for more butter or salsa, and snatching up a dirty plate or glass on her way back to the window. No movement wasted, no customer ignored. She was good—really good—and sometimes that bugged the hell out of her.

Jenny was just forty, slender and fair-skinned with killer legs and long auburn hair that she wore pinned up when she worked. With her husband Robert, she owned Brine’s Bait, Tackle, and Fine Wines, but after three months of trying to work with the man she loved and after the birth of her daughter Amanda, who was five, she returned to waitressing to save her marriage and her sanity. Somewhere between college and today, she had become a bull moose waitress, and she never ceased to wonder how in the hell that had happened. How had she become the repository for local information bordering on gossip, and how had she become so damn good at picking up her customers’ conversations, and following them as she moved around the restaurant?

Today the restaurant was full of talk about Mikey Plotznik, who had disappeared along his paper route the day before. There was talk of the search and speculation on the kid’s fate. At a few of her two-tops were seated couples who seemed intent on reliving their sexual adventures from the night before and—if the pawing and fawning were any indication—were going to resume again after breakfast. Jenny tried to tune them out. There was a table of her old-guy coffee drinkers, who were trading misinformation on politics and lawn care; at the counter a couple of construction workers intent on putting in a rare Saturday’s work read the paper over bacon and eggs; and over in the corner, Val Riordan, the local shrink, was scribbling notes on a legal pad at a table all by herself. That was unusual. Dr. Val didn’t normally make appearances in Pine Cove during the day. Stranger than that, Estelle Boyet, the seascape painter, was having her tea with a Black gentleman who looked as if he would jump out of his skin at the slightest touch.

Jenny heard some commotion coming from the register and turned to see her busgirl arguing with Molly Michon, the Crazy Lady. Jenny made a beeline for the counter.

“Molly, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Jenny said calmly but firmly. Molly had been eighty-sixed for life after she had attacked H.P.‘s espresso machine.

“I just need to cash this check. I need to get some money to buy medicine for a sick friend.”

The busgirl, a freshman at Pine Cove High, bolted into the kitchen, tossing “I told her” over her shoulder as she went.

Jenny looked at the check. It was from the Social Security Administration and it was above the amount she was allowed to accept. “I’m sorry, Molly, I can’t do it.”

“I have photo ID.” Molly pulled a videotape out of her enormous handbag and plopped it on the counter. There was a picture of a half-naked woman tied between two stakes on the cover. The titles were in Italian.

“That’s not it, Molly. I’m not allowed to cash a check for that much. Look, I don’t want any trouble, but if Howard sees you in here, he’ll call the police.”

“The police are here,” came a man’s voice.

Jenny looked up to see Theophilus Crowe towering behind Molly. “Hi, Theo.” Jenny liked Theo. He reminded her of Robert before he had quit drinking—semitragic but good-natured.

“Can I help here?”

“I really need to get some money,” Molly said. “For medicine.”

Jenny shot a look to the corner, where Val Riordan looked up from her notes with an expression of dread on her face. The psychiatrist obviously didn’t want to be brought into this.

Theo took the check gently from Molly and looked at it, then said to Jenny, “It’s a government check, Jenny. I’m sure it’s good. Just this once? Medicine.” He winked at Jenny from behind Molly’s back.

“Howard will kill me when he sees it. Every time he looks at the espresso machine, he mutters something about spawn of evil.”

“I’ll back you up. Tell him it was in the interest of public safety.”

“Oh, okay. You’re lucky we’re busy today and I have the cash to spare.” Jenny handed Molly a pen. “Just endorse it.”

Molly signed the check with a flourish and handed it over. Jenny counted out the bills on the counter. “Thanks,” Molly said. Then to Theo, “Thanks. Hey, you want a collector’s edition of Warrior Babes?” She held the videotape out to him.