Currency of Souls Read Free

Cadaver will lessen his distaste at the idea of spending the night with the man. His chest is a mass of silvery curls, thickest along his sternum where it leads down over a swollen belly to a frenzied explosion of pubic hair, from which a small stubby penis pokes out. We've been seeing Cobb and his tackle for three years now. We should be used to it, and I guess for the most part we are, but every time his dick eyeballs me, I want to ask him if chestnut leaves are considered clothing by whatever governing body inflicted his nakedness on us in the first place. But I keep my mouth shut and avert my eyes, to the kid, who's doing a good job of looking like he may rupture something at any minute, and finally focus on my drink.
    There's a thumbprint on the shot glass too large to be mine.
    "That's mighty decent of you," Cobb says eventually.
    "Don't mention it."
    Over Cadaver's pennies, I can almost hear the hamster wheel spinning in the nudist's head. Then he says, "But you know what...? I'll just call my wife. She won't mind comin' to get me. Not at this hour. Not at night." He claps his hands as if he's just stumbled upon the cure for world hunger. "Hell, she'll have heard there's goin' to be a storm, so she'll have to come get me, right? No woman would make her man walk in this kinda weather." He's looking for support now, and not for the first time I envy Wintry's muteness, because everyone here knows that getting Mrs. Cobb to come get her husband isn't going to be as easy as he seems to think. The day he abandoned clothes was the last time anyone saw Eleanor Cobb in town. Naturally, we worried, but a few weeks after her husband's 'unveiling' I checked on her. She's fine, just laid up with a terminal case of mortification that I don't see ending until Cobb starts wearing shorts, or that chestnut leaf. Why she stays with him at all is another one of those mysteries.
    "You could always start walkin' now before the worst of it hits," Flo chimes in. Her voice is husky, perfectly befitting a crime noir femme fatale. It makes my hair stand on end in a good way. "No one ever drowned in the rain."
    Cobb ignores her. He's got a drink before him and intends to finish it. He squeaks back around to face the bar. "Can I use the phone?" he asks Gracie, and this at least she's willing to allow, even though it's a payphone and no one should need permission. But this is Gracie's place, and things run differently here. Stone-faced, she scoops one of the nudist's dollars off the bar, feeds it into the till, and drops four quarters into his outstretched palm. With a grin of gratitude, Cobb hops off his stool and heads out to the small hallway that leads to the payphone, and the restrooms beyond.
    No one says anything.
    There is silence except for the clink of Cadaver's pennies.
    A few moments later, Cobb starts swearing into the phone.
    No one is surprised.
    I raise my glass with a muttered: "To Blue Moon," in honor of the man who can't be here, and take the first sip of whiskey. It cauterizes my throat. I hiss air through my teeth. Flo goes back to talking to Wintry, leans in a little closer, one leg crossed over the other, one shoe awful close to brushing against the big black man's ankle, and there's that envy again. But I remind myself that she's probably only cozying up to him because he's mute, and therefore unlikely to ever ask her about her past. For the second time in a handful of minutes, I'm covetous of Wintry's condition.
    Cobb slams down the phone, curses and stalks back to the bar, his flaccid tool whacking against his thigh. I close my eyes, pray my gorge can handle another night of the old man's exhibitionism and concentrate on refilling my glass.
    "She weren't there," he mutters before anyone has a chance to ask, and slaps a hand on the counter. "Fill me up, Gracie," he says. "And make it same as Tom's. It'll keep me warm on the walk home."
    I almost expect Cadaver to remind Cobb of his offer, but Cadaver is ill, not dumb. He says