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smoke, and eye-watering chlorine. The single toilet stall had no door, which was probably good. I tore
my pants open like Superman late for a bank robbery, turned, and dropped.
Just in time.
When the latest throe had passed, I took the giant bottle of Kaopectate out of the paper bag and
chugged three long swallows. My stomach heaved. I fought it back into place. When I was sure the
first dose was going to stay down, I slugged another one, belched, and slowly screwed the cap back
into place. On the wall to my left, someone had drawn a penis and testicles. The testicles were split
open, and blood was gushing from them. Below this charming image, the artist had written: HENRY
CASTONGUAY NEXT TIME YOU FUCK MY WIFE THIS IS WHAT YOU GET.
I closed my eyes, and when I did, I saw the startled patron who had watched my charge to the
bathroom. But was he a patron? There had been nothing on his table; he had just been sitting there.
With my eyes closed, I could see that face clearly. It was one I knew.
When I went back into the bar, Ferlin Husky had replaced Conway Twitty, and No Suspenders was
gone. I went to the bartender and said, “There was a guy sitting over there when I came in. Who was
it?”
He looked up from his puzzle. “I didn’t see no one.”
I took out my wallet, removed a five, and put it on the bar beside a Narragansett coaster. “The
name.”
He held a brief silent dialogue with himself, glanced at the tip jar beside the one holding pickled
eggs, saw nothing inside but one lonely dime, and made the five disappear. “That was Bill Turcotte.”
The name meant nothing to me. The empty table might mean nothing, either, but on the other
hand . . .
I put Honest Abe’s twin brother on the bar. “Did he come in here to watch me?” If the answer to
that was yes, it meant he had been following me. Maybe not just today, either. But why?
The bartender pushed the five back. “All I know is what he usually comes in for is beer and a lot of
it.”
“Then why did he leave without having one?”
“Maybe he looked in his wallet and didn’t see nothing but his liberry card. Do I look like fuckin
Bridey Murphy? Now that you’ve stunk up my bathroom, why don’t you either order something or
leave?”
“It was stinking just fine before I got there, my friend.”
Not much of an exit line, but the best I could do under the circumstances. I went out and stood on
the sidewalk, looking for Turcotte. There was no sign of him, but Norbert Keene was standing in the
window of his drugstore, hands clasped behind his back, watching me. His smile was gone.
8
At five-twenty that afternoon, I parked my Sunliner in the lot adjacent to the Witcham Street Baptist
Church. It had plenty of company; according to the signboard, there was a 5:00 P.M. AA meeting at
this particular church. In the Ford’s trunk were all the possessions I’d collected during my seven weeks
as a resident of what I had come to think of as the Peculiar Little City. The only indispensable items
were in the Lord Buxton briefcase Al had given me: his notes, my notes, and the remaining cash.
Thank God I’d kept most of it in portable form.
Beside me on the seat was a paper bag containing my bottle of Kaopectate—now three-quarters
empty—and the continence pants. Thankfully, I didn’t think I was going to need those. My stomach
and bowels seemed to have settled, and the shakes had left my hands. There were half a dozen Payday