The Teratologist Read Free

plane for a few minutes and smoke while you’re fixing the motherfucker?” he asked the stew. He was told he could not, but, if he liked, he could get a different flight with another airline. Then there was the fat guy sitting next to him who smelled like he hadn’t washed his shirt in a year. It’s my karma, Westmore resigned. Now he was sitting in the airport bar waiting for what’s-his-name-Bryant, the journalist. Westmore typically drank beer but after the grueling flight, he wanted to start with a little kick. He ordered a scotch and water and gasped at the first sip.
    “ Do I look like I’m in the Rat Pack?” he griped to the barmaid. “I ordered a scotch and water. This seems to be sufficiently lacking the water.”
    She smirked back, too much lipstick, and bad hair. The blond perm looked like a pile of curly fries on her head. “Most drunks don’t complain when you pour them a hard drink.”
    Westmore, actually, appreciated the snide answer. He believed that what didn’t kill him made him stronger. “You got me pegged that fast?”
    “ It’s easy, buddy. Most drunks are bad tippers, too.”
    “ I like you already! Are you married?”
    She wandered away to some other chores, while Westmore nursed the scotch. It must be a rail brand, tasted like kerosene. When he looked around, he noticed he was the only one in the bar, and beyond, the airport concourse looked almost empty.
    It was only eleven a.m., which didn’t help Westmore’s impressions. It was the dichotomy: the safety of the late-morning and the black cloud he felt hovering over his head. He knew he wasn’t psychic but whenever he got the willies before a shoot, something often rang true. Like when he’d gone to the Hamptons to interview the famous abstract painter in the fussy beach house. Westmore thought his art looked like someone tossing paint on a canvas, not too tough a trick. The old geezer had croaked in his armchair before Westmore even had time to get a light reading. Heart attack. What am I supposed to do! he screamed to the fates. Take pictures of a fuckin’ corpse? Then there was the time the magazine had flown him to Redmond, Washington, to shoot some pictures of Bill Gates. Westmore got some serious willies on the way to the airport. His cab got a flat in rush hour on Sepulveda and he’d missed his flight. The plane crashed.
    He had some big time willies right now.
    Then he thought one word, one name. Farringworth.
    Even the name sounded pinky-in-the-air, like Carnegie, Van Buren, and Rothschild. Thirty-year-old multi-billionaire, Westmore thought. It was nothing new to him; he’d been snapping pix of these caviar-scarfing snobs five years. Bluebloods. Their fucking handkerchiefs cost more than Westmore’s best suit. But what the hell was putting the butterflies in his gut? Bryant would know more.
    They worked for Blue Chip magazine, a Forbes clone that had taken off. He’d teamed with Bryant on a couple jobs in the past—Trump, Rockefeller’s kid, and some Indian Chief who owned the biggest casino in the country, in Connecticut of all places. Best thing about Bryant was he didn’t fuck around. Westmore’d snap the pix right off, and Bryant would take his notes, and they were out of there. He hoped this gig would go as well.
    He glanced around, bothered. He didn’t like being the only person in a bar; it made him feel like a man with a problem, which he supposed he had. “Hey, how come nobody’s in the bar?”
    “ Because you’re here?” she answered.
    “ Beautiful and witty.”
    “ Hate to tell you this, killer. Not many people drink this early.”
    “ Ah, there is that…”
    She meandered away just as a massive shadow crossed Westmore’s back.
    “ Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”
    Westmore frowned. “Everybody seems to be telling me that today.” Bryant stepped up to the bar: black, shaved head, six-five, two-fifty, and zero body fat. The barmaid winked at him. Figures, Westmore