pulled the truck over to the side of the road. He drained his coffee, squashing the empty cup in his hand and whipping it onto the floor, which was covered with similar trash.
“Hubcap’s house,” said Costa.
“Pull up a little further,” Marshall said, still staring out the windshield. “That is the most fucking bizarre thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“No shit. That’s why I had to show you. And we are close enough, my friend.”
“Wait,” said Marshall, sitting back on the seat and regarding Costa. “You had to show me this, why exactly?”
“You want to end up like that? Bat shit crazy living in a house covered in hubcaps?”
Marshall laughed, but it didn’t sound very convincing. “You’re fucked up, man.”
“No, my friend, you’re fucked up.”
Marshall stared out the window. He thought about the little six-by-six cave he’d created for himself at home, the drinking, the fact that he hadn’t shown up at his own office for nearly two weeks.
“What’d you come in my restaurant for? Huh?” Costa had turned in his seat and was looking intently at Marshall.
“I don’t know . . . I . . .” He looked away. He fidgeted with his hands in his lap. Then he growled, “What do people usually come into a restaurant for?”
“You came in there looking for me. Wanted to see what kind of a fuckup I was, so you could figure out what kind of fuckup you are.” Marshall was silent. Costa pointed a finger at him. “Lemme ask you this—how many days you call in sick to work this week?”
“Fuck you.”
Costa put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I almost lost everything after Violet,” he said. “It tore me up to lose her.” He sat back and laughed. “I know she’s a crazy broad. But you know what? Sometimes I still miss things about her.” Costa’s eyes got a faraway look. He smiled a little, but it was a sad smile. “Yeah, Angelina would fucking kill me if she knew that.” Costa reached in his pocket and pulled out a coin, rubbing at it thoughtfully with his thumb. “Know what I missed most?”
“What?” Marshall sat staring out the window at the chrome-covered house of Brian Jankowicz.
“The way she smelled in the morning. Not a perfume. I can’t explain it. It was—”
“Her smell,” Marshall finished. He swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” said Costa. “And the way her hair was this big net of black fuzz and her eyes were almost Chinese-looking.” Costa sighed. “She looked like a little cat to me then. Sweet, you know?”
Marshall nodded. The men sat looking at the winking, metal-covered house. “So, what happened to him?” Marshall said.
“I don’t know for sure,” Costa said. “He went crazy, I guess.” He pulled a pack of gum absently out of his shirt pocket, glommed two sticks, and handed one to Marshall. The truck filled with the sweet minty scent.
Marshall chewed, lost in thought. Without taking his eyes from Jankowicz’s property, he said to Costa, “Let’s go ask him.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Let’s go talk to him,” said Marshall, a bit more insistent. Costa was waving his hands at Marshall, shaking his head.
“No way. What would we say? We were here spying on your crazy ass and we just thought we’d drop in and say hi?”
“We’ll tell him we’re starting a support group,” said Marshall. “Just like those crazy fucking groups Violet was always going to.”
“Jesus, you got that right. Cost me a bundle. I don’t do no crazy support group shit. Let’s go.” He put his hand on the ignition.
“Oh, really?” Marshall said. “Why was it again you came to pick me up today?”
Costa sighed and dropped his hand back in his lap. “Oh, come on. I saw how you were Friday night. You didn’t mean to bust up my place. You’re just messed up right now.”
“Right,” said Marshall. “You wanted to . . . help me get through it.”
“Okay,” said Costa, throwing his hands up into the air. “Whatever.”
“And think about it, Costa! How many of us are there?”
“Us?”
“Ex-husbands. Of Violet’s.”
“Hmmm.” Costa rubbed his wide forehead. “Well, me, you, Hubcap,” he said, counting on this fingers.
“Dead Winston,” they said at the same time.
“Then between Hubcap and you . . . I can’t remember,” said Costa.
“There was that guy from Indiana. Tim something,” Marshall said.
“Oh yeah. And who was that other guy? The veterinarian?”
“Oh, shit, yeah! Owen. How come you know about all these guys? They were after you and Violet. You keep track?”
Costa’s face turned red and he looked out his window at nothing in particular. “Maybe,” he said.
“Why?”
“Who knows . . . Maybe I am one of those whadayacallits . . . masochists. Anyhow, I heard that this Brian guy went off the deep end and covered the house in hubcaps. Had to see it for myself, so one Sunday I take a ride out here. And what the fuck? It’s true. So, now you see it for yourself. Crazy. You wanna end up like that?”
“Let’s go talk to him,” Marshall said again. Costa sat, silent. “Hey, it’s your fault. You brought me out here.”
“I don’t wanna talk to no nut.” Costa fidgeted with his keys.
“But you want to spy on a nut? Nice.”
After another moment of silence, Costa looked over at Marshall. “Not very polite to show up empty-handed,” he said.
“True enough,” said Marshall. “Let’s go back into Omer and pick up some beers.”
Owen Blanton was the most affluent veterinarian in his town. His practice was housed in a sprawling brick hacienda on a wooded acre of Mackinaw Road. It was Sunday, but he was sitting in his office, finishing notes on the emergency surgery he’d had to perform that morning on the Johnstone’s Siamese. He was looking out the window at the dry brown leaves that remained on the trees at the edge of the lot when Violet called to say she wanted to get together. “I’ve left Marshall,” she said. Of all the ex-husbands, Owen was the only one who’d stayed in touch with her. They’d worked out a “friendly divorce.” More accurately, Owen hid his true
