Vernon God Little Read Online Free PDF Page B

uselessly around the jokey red bow on her dress.

    I prompt her from the laundry end. 'Ma?'
    'Well there you are - go ask that TV man if he'd like a Coke, it must be ninety degrees outside.'
    'The one dressed like Ricardo Moltenbomb?'
    'Well he's much younger than Ricardo Montalban - isn't he, girls? And better-looking …'
    'Hnf,' says Pam.
    George leans out of her chair to catch Mom's eye. 'You're going to ask a total stranger inside, just like that?'
    'Well Georgette, we Martirians are known for our hospitality …'
    'Uh-huh,' snorts George. 'I didn't see many of those cheerleaders up here, after their bus broke down that time.'
    'Well but this is different.'
    All the girls except for Pam exchange lip-tightenings. George clears her throat a little.
    Brad Pritchard finishes with his ass. Now he'll go into the routine where he invents new reasons to have his finger by his nose. As I slip through the kitchen door, I catch his eye, point to my ass, then suck my finger.
    'M-om,' he squeals.
    Beulah Drive is spongy with heat. I wander over to a lemonade stand some kids have set up on number twelve's driveway; they ask fifty cents for information about the reporter, so I wander back, and check the red van under the Lechugas' willow. My nose flattens to the rear glass. You can see a lunchbox behind the seat, with half a brown apple in it. Some wires on the floor. A chewed-up ole book titled 'Make It In Media'. Then you see Ledesma's head rested on a pair of ole boots. He splays naked across a canvas mat inside, eyes closed, muscles heavy and slick. He jackrabbits when I spot him.
    'Shit!' He jerks up onto an elbow, rubbing his eyes. 'Big man - come round to the door.'
    I tap a stray teddy onto the Lechugas' lawn, and move around to the side. A blast of sweat hits me when the door opens. The guy's face is waxy. Definitely over thirty. I can tell my ole lady likes him, but I ain't so sure.
    'You live in the van?' I ask.
    'Tch - the motel's full. Anyway, it gives my corporate Amex a break.' A bunch of glass phials tumble across the floor as he grabs his clothes.
    'Mom says you can come up for a Coke.'
    'I could sure use your bathroom. And maybe a bite to eat.'
    'We have joy cakes.'
    'Joy cakes?'
    'Don't ask.'
    Ledesma grabs a handful of the tiny bottles from the floor, stuffing them into a pocket as he stretches into his overalls. He studies me through quick, black eyes. 'Your mom's stressed today.'
    'This is one of her better days.'

    He gives a laugh like asthma, 'Hururrr, hrrr,' and slaps me on the arm. Kind of slap my dad used to give me, when he was feeling friendly. We move back over the road and up the driveway, but Ledesma stops by the wishing bench to adjust his balls. Then he shakes his head, and looks at me.
    'Vern - you're innocent, right?'
    'Uh-huh.'
    'I don't know why it gets to me, tch. All this shit raining down on you, I can't help thinking -
    what kind of fucking life is this?'
    'Tell me about it.'
    He puts a hand on my shoulder. 'I'd be prepared to help.'
    I just stare at my New Jacks. To be honest, intimate moments aren't my scene at all, especially when you just saw a guy naked. Next thing you know you're in a fucken TV-movie, quivering all over the place. I guess he senses it. He takes his hand away, tweaks his crotch again, and leans against the wishing bench, which sharply tilts away.
    'Shit,' he says, pulling back. 'Can't you stand this somewhere flat?'
    'Yeah, like - back at the store.'
    He laughs. 'You should tell your story, little big man, clear your name - the world loves an underdog.'
    'What about the spot we just did, with Deputy Gurie?'
    'Tch - camera wasn't running.'
    'Get outta town.'
    'Call it a favor - between underdogs.'
    'You're an underdog?' Mrs Porter's door opens as I say it; Kurt's nose snuffles out.
    'Only underdogs and psychos in this world,' says Ledesma. 'Psychos like that fat-assed deputy.
    Think about it.'
    I don't think long. You have to quiver on TV, it's a fucken law of nature. You