Christopher Moore: The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

“Very conscientious of you.”

“No, I’m just lazy,” Theo said. “And tired. In the last three weeks I’ve been called to five domestic disputes, ten fights, two people who barricaded themselves in the bathroom and threatened suicide, a guy who was going house to house knocking the heads off garden gnomes with a sledgehammer, and a woman who tried to take her husband’s eye out with a spoon.”

“Oh my. Sounds like one day in the life of an L.A. cop.”

“This isn’t L.A.,” Theo said. “I don’t mean to complain, but I’m not really prepared for a crime wave.”

“And there’s nowhere left to run,” Estelle said.

“Pardon?”

“People come here to run away from conflict, don’t you think? Come to a small town to get out of the violence and the competition in the city. If you can’t handle it here, there’s nowhere else to go. You might as well give up.”

“Well, that’s a little cynical. I thought artists were supposed to be idealists.”

“Scratch a cynic and you’ll find a disappointed romantic,” Estelle said.

“That’s you?” Theo asked. “A disappointed romantic?”

“The only man I ever loved died.”

“I’m sorry,” Theo said.

“Me too.” She drained her cup of wine.

“Easy on that, Estelle. It doesn’t help.”

“I’m not a drinker. I just had to get out of the house.”

There was some shouting over by the pool table. “My presence is required,” Theo said. “Excuse me.” He made his way through the crowd to where two men were squaring off to fight.

Estelle signaled Mavis for a refill and turned to watch Theo try to make peace. Catfish Jefferson sang a sad song about a mean old woman doing him wrong. That’s me, Estelle thought. A mean old worthless woman.

Self-medication was working by midnight. Most of the customers at the Slug had given in and started clapping and wailing along with Catfish’s Blues. Quite a few had given up and gone home. By closing time, there were only five people left in the Slug and Mavis was cackling over a drawer full of money. Catfish Jefferson put down his National steel guitar and picked up the two-gallon pickle jar that held his tips. Dollar bills spilled over the top, change skated in the bottom, and here and there in the middle fives and tens struggled for air. There was even a twenty down there, and Catfish dug in after it like a kid going for a Cracker Jack prize. He carried the jar to the bar and plopped down next to Estelle, who was gloriously, eloquently crocked.

“Hey, baby,” Catfish said. “You like the Blues?”

Estelle searched the air for the source of the question, as if it might have come from a moth spiraling around one of the lights behind the bar. Her gaze finally settled on the Bluesman and she said, “You’re very good. I was going to leave, but I liked the music.”

“Well, you done stayed now,” Catfish said. “Look at this.” He shook the money jar. “I got me upward o‘ two hundred dollar here, and that mean old woman owe me least that much too. What you say we take a pint and my guitar and go down to the beach, have us a party?”

“I’d better get home,” Estelle said. “I have to paint in the morning.”

“You a painter? I never knowed me a painter. What you say we go down to the beach and watch us a sunrise?”

“Wrong coast,” Estelle said. “The sun comes up over the mountains.”

Catfish laughed. “See, you done saved me a heap of waiting already. Let’s you and me go down to the beach.”

“No, I can’t.”

“It ‘cause I’m Black, ain’t it?”

“No.”

“‘Cause I’m old, right?”

“No.”

“‘Cause I’m bald. You don’t like old bald men, right?”

“No!” Estelle said.

“‘Cause I’m a musician. You heard we irresponsible?”

“No.”

“‘Cause I’m hung like a bull, right?”

“No!” Estelle said.

Catfish laughed again. “Well, you wouldn’t mind spreadin that one around town just the same, would you?”

“How would I know how you’re hung?”

“Well,” Catfish said, pausing and grinning, “you could go to the beach with me.”

“You are a nasty and persistent old man, aren’t you, Mr. Jefferson?” Estelle asked.

Catfish bowed his shining head, “I truly am, miss. I truly am nasty and persistent. And I am too old to be trouble. I admits it.” He held out a long, thin hand. “Let’s have us a party on the beach.”

Estelle felt like she’d just been bamboozled by the devil. Something smooth and vibrant under that gritty old down-home shuck. Was this the dark shadow her paintings kept finding in the surf?

She took his hand. “Let’s go to the beach.”

“Ha!” Catfish said.

Mavis pulled a Louisville Slugger from behind the bar and held it out to Estelle. “Here, you wanna borrow this?”

They found a niche in the rocks that sheltered them from the wind. Catfish dumped sand from his wing tips and shook his socks out before laying them out to dry.

“That was a sneaky old wave.”

“I told you to take off your shoes,” Estelle said. She was more amused than she felt she had a right to be. A few sips from Catfish’s pint had kept the cheap white wine from going sour in her stomach. She was warm, despite the chill wind. Catfish, on the other hand, looked miserable.

“Never did like the ocean much,” Catfish said. “Too many sneaky things down there. Give a man the creeps, that’s what it does.”

“If you don’t like the ocean, then why did you ask me to come to the beach?”

“The tall man said you like to paint pictures of the beach.”

“Lately, the ocean’s been giving me a bit of the creeps too. My paintings have gone dark.”

Catfish wiped sand from between his toes with a long finger. “You think you can paint the Blues?”

“You ever seen Van Gogh?”

Catfish looked out to sea. A three-quarter moon was pooling like mercury out there. “Van Gogh…Van Gogh…fiddle player outta St. Louis?”

“That’s him,” Estelle said.

Catfish snatched the pint out of her hand and grinned. “Girl, you drink a man’s liquor and lie to him too. I know who Vincent Van Gogh is.”

Estelle couldn’t remember the last time she’d been called a girl, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t liked hearing it as much as she did now. She said, “Who’s lying now? Girl?”

“You know, under that big sweater and them overalls, they might be a girl. Then again, I could be wrong.”

“You’ll never know.”

“I won’t? Now that is some sad stuff there.” He picked up his guitar, which had been leaning on a rock, and began playing softly, using the surf as a backbeat. He sang about wet shoes, running low on liquor, and a wind that chilled right to the bone. Estelle closed her eyes and swayed to the music. She realized that this was the first time she’d felt good in weeks.

He stopped abruptly. “I’ll be damned. Look at that.”

Estelle opened her eyes and looked toward the waterline where Catfish was pointing. Some fish had run up on the beach and were flopping around in the sand.

“You ever see anything like that?”

Estelle shook her head. More fish were coming out of the surf. Beyond the breakers, the water was boiling with fish jumping and thrashing. A wave rose up as if being pushed from underneath. “There’s something moving out there.”

Catfish picked up his shoes. “We gots to go.”

Estelle didn’t even think of protesting. “Yes. Now.”

She thought about the huge shadows that kept appearing under the waves in her paintings. She grabbed Catfish’s shoes, jumped off the rock, and started down the beach to the stairs that led up to a bluff where Catfish’s station wagon waited. “Come on.”