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Don Johnson wannabe “retired” (drank himself into cirrhosis, then caught the clap off a drunk widow).
    Hopper had lost count on the list. He was shorthanding the sex with Divinity, a D and a smiley. For the others, he sometimes listed a full name, sometimes a last, sometimes a first. There was the occasional paragraph or two if it was really memorable, electric, nut-busting sex. Mostly it was a few words, boiling down to today’s “Kristen Hannity, Blowjob. Wet from Rain. Blonde.”
    Actually, he didn’t list every name after all. There was one glaring omission, and she would never find a place on his list.
     
     
    On the way home from the office, the rain finally fading and the steam from the concrete boiling his skin, Hopper looked at the list of names Kristen had given him. The guys sounded weak, ineffective, so they wouldn’t be much of an issue to talk with. No nerves there. His only sexual encounter with a man was when he questioned Cynthia’s ex-boyfriend, a mechanic. The guy got irritated at the questions, hit Hopper with a wrench, forced him to suck cock and then raped his ass. Hopper didn’t report it, too embarrassed. Still, some nights he would stake out the rapist’s garage, think about going after the bastard—work him over with one of the firm’s blood-stained bats. In the end, he couldn’t get up the nerve.
    The others on Kristen’s list bothered him because they were female. They were teenagers, but that wouldn’t stop them. He was either a natural magnet for fucking or he gushed pheromones unlike anyone else on earth. The guidance counselor, well, he’d have to wait and see.
    Hopper pushed through the front gate of his French Quarter apartment building, hidden down Burgundy Street, half-occupied. He didn’t pay much attention to the other tenants. The fountain in the courtyard was overflowing today and draining loudly into the grate. It seemed to Hopper that the whole city felt wet all the time now, even more so than before. Only a matter of time before they gave up trying to stay dry and became an American Venice. He stepped through a half-inch of rushing brownish water on his way to the stairs. At least the plant life was flourishing, maybe even taking over. Hopper had to push giant tropical leaves out of his way as he climbed. If he had to describe the smell, he’d say “a strong but sweet decay.” He’d seen a few snakes down there among the algae, weeds, vines, banana plants, and other wild-stemmed jungle species he could not name.
    Inside, he had three messages from his older sister. Her name was Violet. He never thought of her by name, though. Always “Sister.”
    First: “It’s too early for you to be working. Where are you? Give me a call soon, please. Colin just left for the Gulf.”
    Colin was her boyfriend of the last few years. He worked oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico, oil fields in Iraq, and was often back for a few days here and there before departing for weeks on end. Hopper imagined Colin had girlfriends waiting in most of his ports of call.
    Second: “You’re holding out on me. This rain…my head hurts a little. I’ll be okay for awhile. Call soon.”
    Hopper fell into his old mentor’s leather chair, reclined, and rubbed his temples with a thumb and finger. Most of the furniture was left over from the old man. The newer pieces were cheaper Wal-Mart buys, out of place and not covered with as much dust. Hopper didn’t want to call his sister.
    The third message: (Long silence, then a sigh) “You don’t even have to call first, but I’d like you to. Please, Hopper. I need you to come over and fuck me.”
     
     
    He would never understand her motives. A sickness, maybe the same type that screwed up the teacher who got knocked up—twice—by a seventh grader and went to jail over it. Maybe it was power, like the therapists say. Sister wasn’t an unattractive woman, and she obviously could hold down real relationships such as the one with Colin, and she