Whale Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

sparks.
    When they finally end up at Lucky’s RV Round-Up, the showroom lights are on. They press their faces against the dirty glass of the office window. There, in the fluorescent hum, Leon is sitting across from what seems to be a woman. The long brown hair. The narrow shoulders.
    â€œThat SOB,” Carlotta says, angry.
    That predictable SOB, Trot thinks. Leon’s got a new girl. God bless him.
    But as soon as Trot thinks this he feels ashamed, feels sorry for Carlotta. She’s a nice girl. Probably been through a lot. Deserves better. So he drives her home, even though “home” is Leon’s trailer. Trot tries not to think about that too much. The trailer is a 1963 “Sovereign of the Road” Airstream, complete with Sky Dome and extended cab. It shines like a baked potato under the streetlight. Makes Trot’s stomach growl.
    â€œWell,” she says.
    â€œWell.”
    â€œGood night,” she says. “Sorry about—”
    â€œNo problem. It’s my job. Protect and serve, remember?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œRight.”
    There is nothing else for them to say. And so, in the damp swamp air of Christmas morning with the rusty moon peeling above, Trot and Carlotta stand for a moment, silent. Disheveled. Exhausted. They search each other’s faces and see a bit of themselves—the sorrow, the bandaged hearts. So Carlotta leans into Trot. He closes his eyes. She gently kisses his cheek. Takes his breath away.
    I am love’s catcher’s mitt, he thinks sadly.
    The touch of her lips burns.

Chapter 5

    T he Dream Café is not just, as it is still called by the locals of Whale Harbor, a titty bar. Thanks to a new bank loan, they also have a website. Billboards span five miles up and down I-75 to alert drivers on their way to Miami to this fact. Fluorescent green, they feature the high school yearbook photos of Dagmar and the rest of the Pep Squad from St. Jude’s class of 1978. Plaid uniforms. Pom-poms. The girls are Clearasil clean and smiling.
    â€œNaughty but Nice!” the caption reads.
    The billboards really bring them in.
    Underneath the smiling faces fine print, tiny as wayward ants, states that these photos are representative, not the actual photos of women employed at The Dream Café.
    Nobody’s sued yet, but Dagmar’s not planning to go to a high school reunion anytime soon, either.
    Dagmar, Leon’s ex-wife, is a striking woman. She stands like an Egyptian queen. Honey-skinned, steady brown eyes, apricot hair piled on her head like a Twistee-Freeze. She commands every room she walks into, but never seems to notice. Or care. It’s second nature to her.
    â€œThe sex we sell here is good clean fun,” she tells her dancers. “If we keep it clean enough, we get couples in the door and double our profit.”
    Since Dagmar inherited the place from her uncle Joe five years ago, there have been a lot of changes. Last year, The Dream Café was identified by
Inc.
magazine as part of the “revolutionary trend in a new user-friendly adult entertainment industry.” Wholesome as it profitably can be. There’s even tour bus parking.
    The Café has always been a family business. Dagmar’s mother was a dancer, and Dagmar has worked there for as long as she can remember—first as a bartender, then bookkeeper, and then a manager—never danced herself. It only made sense that she would inherit the place. Uncle Joe, a bowling ball of a man, never married.
    So, when he died, Dagmar was the only one left. She’d always been interested in business. In between the endless “ons” and “offs” and “on agains” with Leon, she managed to finish a BA in Business Administration at the University of Miami. After graduation, even though she had just had her son, Cal, she planned to find a job with a Miami-based company. Work her way up from the mailroom if she had to.
    But Uncle Joe got