Page 4 of The Bad Weather Friend

“Son, I’m not a whale.”

“But you’re a great white.”

“A great white that doesn’t want to be reduced to a minnow.” He sounded very sad. And afraid. “I wish you well. But that’s all I can do. Wish you well. Clear out your office, turn in your key, and have a good life.”

Handy had always looked younger than he was. Now he appeared older. He didn’t seem to be as tall, either. Shrunken in more ways than his height.

Benny said, “Whatever this is, I’m sorry.”

Focused on the Speedtail, Handy Duroc said, “It’s nothing you’ve done.”

Benny said, “I mean, this isn’t you, and I’m sorry that for whatever reason you’ve been forced to be something you’re not. That’s a terrible thing.”

When Handy did not respond, Benny left the office. He cleared out his desk. He turned in his key.

(What has happened thus far to Benny is unfair and sad. We’ve all endured too much unfairness and sadness in our lives; exposing ourselves to more of the same in stories like this could be healing, but it might also risk opening new psychological wounds. Therefore, be assured that while more unfairness will ensue, Benny is too nice and sweet-tempered to be undone by it. The sadness will diminish as the chapters unfold, though some events will require a handkerchief. Also be prepared for shocking developments that overturn everything you thought you knew about the nature of the world as well as for a few moments of almost unendurable terror.)

So Benny Catspaw left Handy Duroc’s office, cleared out his desk, turned in his key, and thought,Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed.Nevertheless, he was glad he’d risen and showered and shaved as if he had a job to go to, because now he could join Fat Bob at Papa Bear’s and have a to-die-for breakfast.

FAT BOB

Robert Jericho, fifty-nine years old, took no offense at being called fat; he insisted on it. His business card read ROBERT“FATBOB” JERICHO. His six-foot-two frame carried three hundred ten pounds, but he wasn’t sloppy. His flesh was curiously solid. He likened it to the density of ham, which he said was appropriate, considering how much he enjoyed being the center of attention. Every three years, he underwent a CT scan of his arteries to see whether he should start going to church, but in spite of eating everything that his doctor told him not to eat, he never had any plaque. His resting heart rate was sixty, his blood pressure 120/70. His dad, Fat Jim Jericho, had weighed in excess of three hundred pounds all his adult life and lived to be ninety-seven, when he was shot to death by a jealous husband. Fat Bob was of the opinion that he had inherited good genes and that he would outlive his father if he led a more discreet love life.

When Benny Catspaw got to Papa Bear’s at 8:48, Fat Bob was ensconced in his favorite booth, at a window table that overlooked Newport Harbor, enjoying a pot of coffee and a double order of cinnamon toast while he perused the menu and decided what to have for breakfast. Bob was a handsome man with thick hair the gray of early Glock plastic and eyes the deep-copper color of certain brands of full-metal-jacket ammunition. He had one tattoo, on the pads of the index finger of his right hand—the wordBANG—to emphasize his meaning when, with that finger and adjacent thumb, he made a gun and pointed it at someone. He’d only shot six people with a real gun and only killed two, in every case justifiably; however, with finger and thumb, he’d often expressed his preference for mortal intervention when he had todeal with those to whom he referred as the “squirming vermin of society.”

As Benny slid into the booth, across the table from his friend, Fat Bob said, “I know a guy who can do something with your hair.”

“It’s a thatch,” Benny said.

“Only because you don’t know how to deal with it.”

“I don’t want to look slick.”

“No danger of that.”

“I think the hair, it makes me look like a regular guy, like I’m not on the make. Clients trust me more because of the hair.”

“If that’s a delusion you need,” said Fat Bob, “kiss it on the lips and be happy.”

“The way I look worked with you, I think. You bought the first house I showed you and didn’t want to haggle with the sellers.”

“The price was fair. I didn’t buy the place because I trusted your hair.”

The ponytailed waitress arrived to take their order, and Fat Bob, being a daily patron, introduced her as Harper. She wore pink sneakers, a lemon-yellow skirt, and a sky-blue blouse. The tiny pink pigs in her necklace were on their hind feet as if dancing across her throat. Her eyes were a reasonable shade of blue, rather than the electric blue of color-enhancing contacts, and she wore no makeup. Efficient, perhaps a little shy, but with a perky quality, Harper seemed to be the kind of girl with whom Benny might have a chance, assuming she had any interest in men.

At the moment, of course, he was in a relationship with Jill Swift, and they really seemed to be going somewhere great together. Therefore, he didn’t struggle to say anything charming to Harper, but merely ordered a cheese omelet, bacon, andhome fries. And a beer, his first ever with breakfast. He didn’t like mimosas, and wine this early in the day seemed to guarantee acid reflux. In his current mood, if he plunged into something as strong as vodka, he would soon be deep in three martinis and need to be Ubered home. Consequently, he said, “Corona. A bottle of Corona, please.”

After Fat Bob ordered chicken and waffles to be followed by a stack of blueberry pancakes with a side order of strawberries and cream, he said to Benny, “So did Jill throw you over for a Russian oligarch with a billion dollars and one eyebrow?”

Benny flinched. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“The beer. And there’s a new wave of Russian money washing through local real estate. Besides, I never have understood the two of you. She’s a steak knife, and you’re a dessertspoon.”

“I’ve never been compared to flatware before. And you’re being unfair to Jill.”

“So if Jill hasn’t forked you, what’s wrong?”

Harper brought the Corona with a frosted glass. When she departed, Benny said, “I’m ... taking leave.”

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