Vernon God Little

'Oh please,' says Lally. He squeezes his balls but forgets to let go.

I glance over the bar. The ladies are way perked up. Land of Daytime Milk and Honey for them. I pose dramatically, hog-anger makes me do it. 'You think I lie? I guarantee his mother's gonna call here just now, hunting his ass. I guarantee it. Just ask her the story.' A smile comes to my face, know why? Because Lally's turning white. Everybody stares at him as he leans into the corner, wiping his face with his hand.

'Tch, that's preposterous. The evil lies coming from this child's mouth.' He takes a heavy breath, then turns and spreads his arms to the ladies. 'Hands up who ever heard of a features reporter moonlighting as a repairman?' Everybody shakes their heads. 'And why might that be?'

'Well, because – there's more money in reporting?' sniffs Mom. 'He wouldn't need to repair TVs, with all that extra money?

'I rest my case.'

'Wait up,' I say, 'I didn't say he moonlighted as anything – he's just a repairman with a whole pile of trouble left back in Nacogdoches. Look at his card, go on.'

'Ladies,' says Lally, 'this is ridiculous. Do you know how many Ledesma Gutierrezes there are in this country? And have you ever seen me repair a TV?'

'No,' they say.

'Have you ever seen me on TV, presenting a feature report?'

'Well sure,' they say, motioning the pastor to join in. 'We were in it with you!'

'Thank you,' says Lally. He turns to stare at me. 'And now, in light of everything we've just heard, and, frankly, for our own protection – I'm calling the police.'

'Oh no, Lally, please,' says Mom.

'Sorry, Vanessa – I'm afraid it's my duty. The boy needs urgent help.'

Then, just as my world starts to slip through my fingers, Fate plays a humdinger. The phone rings. Mom gasps to a halt, mid-fucken-sob. Everybody freezes.

'I'll get that,' says Lally.

'I don't think so,' I say, diving for the phone. 'Mom, come take this call.'

My ole lady hunches off the sofa, all shiny around the nose and eyes, and does her finest victimmy shuffle to the phone table. She looks around at everybody, especially Lally, before picking up the phone. A pleading kind of look she gives Lally, real Kicked Dog. Then her voice smoothens like cream. 'Hello? Mr Ledesma, well sure – may I say who's calling?' She hands the phone to Lally. 'It's CNN.'

I grab it back. 'Mrs Ledesma?'

' Vernon!' snaps Mom.

'Remember me? From Martirio…?'

'Who is this?' asks the young New Yorker on the phone. Lally snatches the receiver and turns to the wall.

'Renee? Sorry about that – things are a little crazy down here. I got the series? fan-tastic!' He raises a thumb to the ladies. 'Conditional on what? Not a challenge, we still have the firearm piece, the suspect, and the townsfolk coming to terms with their grief. It can spin-off in a thousand directions.'

'Well you know,' whispers Mom to the ladies, 'I couldn't decide between Vanessa and

Rebecca...'

'I was coping with Doris,' grunts George.

Lally finishes the call. He dangles the receiver over the cradle, taking a moment to gaze at everybody. The ladies stare into his eyes, Pastor Gibbons toys in his pocket. Then Lally drops the handset, 'Crack', cups his balls through his robe, and strolls to the middle of the room. 'Before we open the champagne, I guess we have a rather more – human challenge to share.' His eyes snap to me. 'Pretty outlandish behavior we saw there, Vernon. Damn scary, actually, in light of everything.'

'Fuck you to hell,' I say.

'Vernon Gregory!' snaps Mom.

Lally pushes a little spit around his mouth. 'Simple compassion dictates that it's time to turn this boy over to someone who can help. If we cling when he needs professional care, we may only damage his chances of recovery.'

'You're the one who needs care,' I say. 'Lalo.'

'You are

under a psychiatric order, after all.' He pauses to chuckle, to reminisce. 'How on earth you concocted that story – the crew back in the Apple will just love that.' He checks his watch. 'Come to think of it, they're probably down at Bunty's right now.'

Mom hisses a footnote to the ladies. 'They have this bar called Bunty's, you probably heard of it – Bunty's?'

'Or at the Velvet Mode, for melon slammers,' says Lally. 'I might have to give them a call. Right after I contact the sheriff.'

'Well Lally, please,' says Mom. 'Can't we just wait till morning, I mean, he had a stomach ache – he does have this, er – condition…'

The phone rings. Everybody's face lights up, as if more big deals will trickle down the line. But Lally tightens. This is where the horse would stop doing math on stage. I reach for the handset. He beats me to it.

'Le Bourget residence?' He tries to flash a good ole boy's grin to the ladies, but a quiver beats him to it. 'I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number.' His breathing quickens.

I dive around his legs and hit the speaker button. Mrs Ledesma's voice wails out.