The Gorge

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Whitlock is pretty much a pussy. What kind of name is “Bowie,” anyway? Reminds me of that faggoty British rock star.

Vincent Farrengalli shook his flask. Maybe an inch of Tullemore Irish Whiskey left. Good fuel to warm somebody up on a chilly September night. Especially since the hot chick, Dove, had shot down his advances. Well, let her stew. She was probably in her tent right now, fingering herself off while thinking of him. She probably just didn’t want to make the others jealous. She seemed like the type who’d be considerate and upfront, all that type of shit.

Or a dyke. Probably a damn rug-muncher.

He and the cyclist, C.A. McKay, were the last two survivors. The rest of them had turned in. Farrengalli was a little sleepy himself, but no way was he going to let some California golden boy outlast him. Besides, he wanted to finish the Tullemore.

“So, what do you think of the dish?” Farrengalli said.

“Dish?”

Farrengalli tilted his head toward Dove Krueger’s tent, which was off by itself as if wilderness protocol required gender segregation. “What was up with those shorts? Legs like that, she had to know she was working the crowd. The tops of her socks rolled down. Cute.”

“I’d say she was going for comfort,” McKay said. He rummaged in his fanny pack, and Farrengalli thought the guy was going to break out a joint, some of that Mexicali red bud that had you singing Eagles and Tom Petty ballads until dawn. Instead, the cyclist drew out a harmonica.

“What’s your trip?” Farrengalli took another dose of whiskey. Alcohol never failed to get better the deeper it sank into his belly.

“I’m not on a trip,” McKay said.

“Sure you are. Don’t tell me you came on this treasure hunt because you needed the money. You got more sponsor stickers on your ass than a NASCAR driver.”

“This is a different game for me.” McKay put the harmonica to his pursed lips, licked the length of the instrument, and gave an experimental blow. A low note wended through the night, full of vibrato and a suggestive sensuality.

“Well, I got to be honest with you,” Farrengalli said, though he had absolutely no intention of doing so. “I’m here for the gear.”

McKay tilted the harmonica so that the silver casing reflected the firelight against the nearby treetops. “The gear?”

“Yeah, the free stuff. Sleeping bags, boots, tent. I figure they’ll give us a year’s supply of N-R-Gee Bars and propane as a consolation prize. And don’t forget a subscription to Back2Nature Magazine.”

McKay glanced at his watch, and Farrengalli could picture the fag pumping away on his stationary bike, measuring his pulse, counting the revolutions per minute, analyzing his calories, and generally doing all the sissy workout stuff that cyclists did. They all seemed to enjoy raising their snug rears up just a little too much when they went into a hard stretch. They loved their chamois inserts, their lubricants, their stiff leather seats. A bunch of fucking fags.

“There’s no such thing as a free ride,” the cyclist said.

“Tell me. What did they pay you for this gig? I got to confess, they didn’t exactly go deep inside their jackets for me, if you know what I mean.”

“My agent handled the negotiations, and my accountant dealt with the contracts. I think I signed something a few months ago. Who has time for that kind of thing?”

“Agent, huh? Where do you get one of those?”

California Boy grinned, and Farrengalli didn’t like those even, sparkling teeth. They were the kind of teeth that, back in the Bronx, he would want to put a fist “I thought you were on television already,” McKay said. “I saw one of the network commercials.”

“Yeah, they put me on TV. Wasn’t so bad. Catered meals from McDonald’s during the breaks.”

“McDonald’s, huh?” McKay put the harmonica to his lips again, this time teasing out a couple of high notes.

Farrengalli licked at the rim of the flask, numbing his tongue with the dregs. “Three meals a day. Same as a prisoner.”

McKay leaned toward the dying campfire and blew into the harmonica. He played an up-and-down scale that had a country-bluegrass flavor, the volume baffled so as not to wake the campers. The melody was familiar, but one you had to hear a couple of times to place.

Farrengalli lowered the flask and blinked, wood smoke in his eyes. “Hey, I know that song.”

McKay waited through the four beats of silence and repeated the riff.

Farrengalli snapped his fingers and joined in on the last few notes in an off-key bass. “Wha-wha-wha. Like in the movie.”

Deliverance. The Burt Reynolds movie where the guys on the canoe trip get stalked by hillbillies. And Ned Beatty takes it up the rear while squealing like a pig. No wonder Biker Boy liked the song so much. And, Farrengalli had to admit, it was kind of clever, since McKay was on a white-water trip, too.

You got a purty mouth, Farrengalli wanted to say. But your teeth are too sharp.

McKay did his own call-and-answer on the harmonica, while Farrengalli stomped his foot against a log. The harmonica now pierced the night, and Farrengalli looked into the surrounding woods, wondering what might be out there watching them. Even a hillbilly wouldn’t be stupid enough to hang out in the middle of nowhere without a good reason. There were easier places to hunt and fish, and the pickings were slim if all you wanted was some corn-hole action. One thing for sure, McKay wouldn’t be any competition for Dove Krueger’s sweet spot, though the woman had probably gone ga-ga over those blue eyes. Girls always fell for the fags, for all the good it did them.

McKay was in the middle of the tune, the point where a bluegrass band would be rollicking along on banjo, guitar, and stand-up bass, when Bowie stuck his head out of his tent. “Hey!”

McKay stopped playing, and the sudden stillness was a stark contrast, with only the steady rumble of the falls to break the silence.

“I don’t care if you guys want to stay up all night, but let the rest of us sleep,’ Bowie said. “Somebody’s got to be worth a damn tomorrow, or we won’t make the first head wall.”

“Okay, Chief,” McKay said. “Whatever you say.”

Farrengalli didn’t even look at the guide, keeping his face to the fire. After Bowie ducked back inside, McKay returned the harmonica to his fanny pack.

“What do you make of him?” Farrengalli asked.

“He acts like he knows what he’s doing.”

“Comes off like a hard ass to me. The kind of pushy that hides being afraid.”

“He has a good reputation, and he used to run this river when he was younger.”

“That’s what I’m saying. He’s not so young anymore. He’s got at least eight and maybe ten years on the rest of us.”

McKay shrugged, a swishy, effeminate gesture that didn’t fit his muscular shoulders. “Experience takes time. At least one of us knows what he’s doing.”

“Sure, but I’m going to keep on eye on him. I don’t trust him. I got the feeling he’ll fold when the pressure’s on.”

“Maybe there won’t be any pressure.”

Farrengalli tapped a drumroll on his flask. “Oh, there’s going to be pressure, all right. From inside and outside.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry about it, Golden Boy. Just watch your own neck, that’s what I’m saying. When it comes down to it, we’re all on our own.”

McKay stood and kicked a smoldering log into the deep red embers. “Yeah, whatever. This isn’t a reality show, man. This is reality. See you in the morning.”

Farrengalli shook the empty flask as McKay left the fire, wishing there was enough whiskey to slosh around. A final swallow would have set his head right. He’d wondered if the fag would hit on him. His kind sometimes did, and Farrengalli never got upset about it. It was kind of flattering, in a way. Why wouldn’t they dig the same thing the chicks did?

No big deal. The important thing was that Vincent Stefano Farrengalli had outlasted McKay and the others. He would perform better than them, and on less sleep. He would finish first no matter what. He stared into the deep red eye of the fire for a few minutes before turning in himself.