Small Town Monsters. Craig Nybo

on itself. “Is there something you need, daddy?”

      Marty looked her up and down, causing her to lean away from him. “Nothing in particular,” he said. “I just thought I would come in here and, you know, tell you that I love you.”

      Marty put a hand on Lucy’s thigh.

      She scooted away from him on her bottom until her back hit the headboard.

      “What do you think you are doing?” He asked, moving along the mattress towards her.

      Lucy pushed up from the bed. Her sneakers thumped on the ground, one at a time. She moved to the wall. “You’re drunk,” she said.

      Marty’s face crunched into anger. The i-line between his brows creased deeply. Lucy hated that i-line; she feared what always happened after that i-line appeared.

      “You get over here, and sit on this bed, now, girl,” Marty shouted so loud that the frame holding her mother’s picture rattled on Lucy’s bookshelf.

      Lucy swallowed hard and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “You’re not doing this anymore, daddy. You’re not going to hurt me anymore.”

      Marty stood up. The scent of rotten alcohol in his belly wafted from him. Lucy cringed. “You can’t tell me what I will and won’t do under my own roof. Now you get over here or I’m going to make you sting.”

      Lucy’s eyes sprang with tears as she shook her head, still holding herself tightly.

      Marty let out an odd gurgle and moved across the room, his hands balled up into fists. He hit Lucy so hard that her head snapped back into the wall, nearly causing her to go black. Her knees lost their strength and she collapsed to the floor. She had to keep her wits about her or things would go bad.

      Marty pointed down at her with a spurning finger. “You’ll obey, Lucy. I’ll teach you to obey.” Marty began to unbutton

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      his flannel shirt.

      As he loosened his collar, revealing a patch of the salt and pepper hair on his chest, a form of hypersensitivity flooded into her. This wasn’t going to happen, not any more.

      Lucy drew her right leg back, cocking it and taking aim. With every micro-fiber of her strength, she kicked, planting the heel of her sneaker between Artie’s legs. She kicked him so hard that his feet came off the floor. He floated that way in the air for a moment, buoyed up by Lucy’s foot, his mouth crunched into a pained O. He crashed down, hitting the floor hard next to Lucy, both hands between his legs. He lay there, moaning out a tapestry of threats and profanity. But he couldn’t move.

      Lucy pushed herself up to her feet and looked down at him. She took in everything, his pathetic, red face, his stench of alcohol and body odor, his complete lack of compassion. “This is never going to happen again, daddy. I hate you.”

      Lucy kicked Artie two more times, once in the ribs and once in the side of the face. She grabbed her homework from her bed and left the house, she hoped for the last time.

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      Chapter 9

      Max mopped the floor of Abigail’s Diner, mechanically sloshing water and disinfectant over the blonde tile. The muscles in his full sleeve tattooed arms undulated as he worked. He wanted a cigarette, but he never smoked inside the diner. He’d learned, as the owner of Abigail’s, that two things made or broke the success of any restaurant: 1) the food had to be killer; 2) the place had to be spic and span. Max was a stickler on both counts. He slaved over the grill from open to close, ensuring that every order met his customers’ expectations. He hired the best help. He insisted on an almost obsessive compulsive level of cleanliness.

      Someone knocked on the diner’s front door.

      Max swore to himself under his breath. “We’re closed,” he said, not looking up from his mopping.

      The knocking came louder, more urgent.

      Max swore to himself again and checked his watch as he moved across the dining floor to the entrance. Whoever it was bothering him at 11:30 in the PM had better have a good reason or Max and his late visitor would exchange words. Good service was his waitress’ department, not his.

      Max’s anger slipped away as he recognized Lucy Cadano standing out in the cool, crying. A mighty shiner had bloomed

      Concerning:

      Lucy Cadano

      Max Kinootzn

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      on her right eye and Max thought he knew just who had given it to her. He twisted the lock and pushed the door open.

      “Hey, Max, I’m sorry to bother you so late but—“

      Max looked her up and down. She seemed so small standing out in front of the diner, an armful of schoolbooks at her side. “Come on in,” he said, stepping back to give Lucy plenty of room.

      He walked across the dining hall, not looking back at her. She followed him, wiping the moisture from her cheeks and clearing her throat. “Could have used you today for the dinner rush. Things was hopping and all I had was Audrie.”

      “Audrie can handle it,” Lucy said.

      Max led her through the back door of the dining hall into his office, a utilitarian room, done up in wood paneling. A simple desk Max had made himself held an old computer and printer. Several stacks of papers, bills from vendors, tax forms, inventories, and profit/loss information, sat on the desk, all organized into like stacks. A small whiteboard hung over his desk, marked up with a few ad hoc notes and messages in Max’s ultraclean penmanship. Across from the desk, a cot turtle-crouched against the wall, topped with a narrow futon mattress.

      “I know I’ve taken to staying here most of the time. Truth is, ain’t nothing much for me to go home to these days since Gunner died.”

      “You should get another dog,” Lucy said.

      Max opened a small closet and removed a fresh sheet, blanket, and pillow. “Yea, that’s what everyone tells me. But, you know how it is, sometimes, you just gotta let things go.” He spread the sheet over the futon mattress and tucked it in.

      Lucy began to cry.

      “Who knows, someday I might get another dog. I’m thinking something smaller, maybe a cocker spaniel or a shih tzu or something. Gunner used to shit like a man and I never much cared for it.” He spread the blanket over the fresh sheet and placed the pillow at the head of the cot.

      He turned to Lucy and ignored the tears on her cheeks.

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      “Anyways, I was just thinking a real bed might be the right thing for me tonight. So I think I’m going to pop back on over to my place to sleep. Hell, I could use a shower and a shave by the same account.”

      Max moved over to the white board, picked up an eraser, and cleared a space on the writing surface. “I think I might just as well stay there at the house for a while, at least a week, maybe longer. Truth is, I’m starting to feel like a loser sleeping here at the diner all the time.”

      Lucy sat down on the futon mattress. It felt welcoming, soft, ready to hold her in its embrace.

      “If you need anything, I’m going to write a number right here on the white board you can call.” Max raised a red dry-erase marker and wrote the numbers “9-1-1.”

      Lucy swallowed hard and looked away from the number.

      “You can stay here as long as you like and I ain’t gonna charge you nothing,” Max said.

      Lucy stood up from the cot and moved across the room to Max. She reached up to embrace him, but Max stepped back. She got the hint and