When Pigs Fly Read Online Free PDF Page B

smoke to last her a long, long time. Tonight was her last night, and she’d already given notice.
     
    “What’s your name, darlin’?” The guy was bald. His sequined jacket was open, and a wig rested on the table next to a couple of empty beer glasses.
     
    “Cal. It’s on the name tag.”
     
    “Lordamercy, I looked right past that little plastic thing. You got the most splendid—”
     
    “Stop it.”
     
    “Nature’s such a wonderful thing, idn’t it? Hey, you gonna watch me up there?”
     
    “I’ll be here.”
     
    “The name’s Elvis Hornacre. And you know what I was thinkin’, maybe you and me could go someplace else for a couple pops later on.”
     
    “Sorry. I’m married,” she lied.
     
    “No, you ain’t. I checked. You’re prime, you’re fine, and you’re mine.”
     
    “I’d rather have shingles than date you.” She turned and walked away.
     
    “Great!” Elvis yelled. “See you after work, then.”
     
    She served a few more customers as off-key contestants hammed it up on stage while customers whistled, cheered and booed. Hornacre, the bald Elvis, headed for the rest room, and she happened to be looking in that direction when he came back out.
     
    Elvis Hornacre had his wig on, as well as a tuft of chest hair she hadn’t noticed earlier—how could she have missed it unless he’d just put it on? His jacket glittered, and he wore tight blue pants and blue plastic shoes. She blinked twice as she realized that his pants were unzipped and his sorry penis was hanging out.
     
    “And now,” the emcee’s voice boomed, “our next contestant—”
     
    Elvis winked at Cal. “My first song’s for you,” he said.
     
    “Wait,” she said, but he bounded up to the stage as his name was called.
     
    He strapped on his guitar and began to croon for her to love him tender. She cringed and looked away while customers howled with laughter and threw salted peanuts at the stage. Elvis looked puzzled. From several tables, a chorus of men sang “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dong.”
     
     
     
    Cal felt bad for the poor slob as the bar closed and she walked to her car. The lot had nearly emptied. She shrugged off a twinge of discomfort; this was her last night working at this lousy dive. Then Elvis appeared out of the shadows.
     
    “Babe,” he said to her. She fumbled in her purse for her keys as he put his hands on her waist.
     
    “Stop or I’ll scream.”
     
    “Lot’s empty. Who’d hear, darlin’?”
     
    He pulled her close and planted a sloppy kiss on her mouth as she struggled. Then she pushed hard at his chest and grabbed a plastic hairbrush from her purse. She swung fiercely. The plastic shattered against his jaw.
     
    “Ow-w-w-w!” he screamed as he fell to his knees. “You broke my jaw!”
     
    She reached for her cell phone to dial 911, but it was dead. Damn. She looked around for anyone who might help, but saw no one.
     
    “Gimme a ride to the E.R.,” he said.
     
    “No. I don’t trust you.”
     
    “I’m in awful pain here, and it’s your fault.”
     
    Finally she relented and opened the trunk. “You have to ride here.”
     
    “No, I’m ridin’ up front with you.”
     
    She still held a shard of hairbrush in her fist, and she brandished it like a dagger.
     
    “Take the trunk or hoof it, pal. That’s my only offer.”
     
    He climbed into the trunk. Even in the bad parking lot light, she could see that a large bruise was beginning to cover the left side of his face. She let him ride to the hospital with the trunk open. “You and me ain’t finished, darlin’,” he said as she left him at the front door of the emergency room. “I know where you live!”
     
     
     
    At home in her apartment, Calliope awoke from a fitful sleep and a nightmare involving sharp knives and Vienna sausages. The clock read 3:55. She had already packed her suitcases for her cross-country road trip. She looked into her purse. Keys, cash, credit cards, tampons,