Blood leaked between his fingers.
The drunk was an enormous hairy man dressed in a bagged-seat sandy bathing suit
and nothing else except shower clogs. His wife, a dwarfed blond with a forehead
like a cretin, stood just behind him eating a candy apple. She was wearing a
black one-piece with the straps unfastened and hanging down the front of her
breastless body. Nothing but hope apparently held the suit up. She raised her
face from the apple. She had red candy on her upper lip and over her chin. She
was drunk too.
“Lady,” said Lazarus. He put his
face down next to hers. “Did I pinch your ass?”
She sighed and it looked as if
she wanted to cry. “Nobody’s pinched my ass. I’ve told him. Nobody’s pinched my
ass. He knows it. But he keeps hoping and hitting people.” The back door of the
Volkswagen camper suddenly opened and the tall beautiful boy with the long hair
and dead eyes got out and stretched, flinging his arms wide and arching his
body and giving a satisfied groan. He was naked. The drunk pushed past Lazarus
and hit the boy and knocked him entirely back into the camper. Then with his
hands balled on his wide heavy hips he said: “That’s for squeezing my wife’s
ass.”
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