Finton Moon by Gerard Collins Page A

“Fuck-you-too” in the phone book under “Escort,” then calling her and hanging up, giggling among themselves.
    Al shrugged and pushed up his glasses on his nose so that they squared with his face. “All I know, he was at Jack’s Sunday evening, and Jack gave him a beer. He asked Lance for one, but Lance wouldn’t because Sawyer’s not allowed to drink. They say Tom Moon bought himself two Black Horse and gave one to Sawyer on the sly.” Al’s information was pretty reliable, since Lance, the bartender, was Al’s older brother. “Sawyers’s not supposed to be at it at all, sure. His medication’ll kill ’im.”
    Dolly took her compact out of her big purse and dabbed her cheeks. Finton tried to look away, but couldn’t. She reapplied her lipstick, smacked her glossy lips together and bit benignly on a lacy white handkerchief with two other sets of pink lip marks already on it. Finton’s head felt woozy. Dolly did not acknowledge his interest in her cosmetic touch-up, but there was something self-conscious in the way she looked at no one as she performed. “Either way,” she said, “I wouldn’t wanna be the one that liquored him up—’specially if he turns up dead.”
    â€œMaybe he just don’t wanna be found,” Skeet said, squinting out the window at the passing woods. Finton stared into woods as well, but found himself mesmerized by the November sun.
    Dolly shook her head. “Someone woulda seen him by now.”
    â€œNot if he don’t want to be seen,” said Finton. “You can hide forever if you don’t want anyone to find you.” Chewing worriedly on his bottom lip, he sneaked a look at Dolly applying makeup in her compact mirror.
    â€œWhy do you even care?” she asked. “What’d Sawyer Moon ever do for ye?”
    â€œI don’t care about ol’ Sawyer Moon,” Mary said. “I’m glad he’s gone.”
    â€œMe too,” said Finton. “We’re all better off.”
    Skeet assessed him warily. “For someone who don’t care, you sure seem to care a lot.”
    â€œI just don’t think he’s dead. Probably saw his chance and got the hell outta Darwin.”
    â€œWhat are you—psychic?” Dolly asked.
    Skeet poked Finton’s shoulder as the other two laughed. He noticed that Mary had taken to gazing out the window.
    â€œNo.” Finton spoke softly, almost to himself.
    That same night, in his dream, Dolly chased him through the graveyard—naked, her boobs bobbing gently. “Give me a kiss, Finton. I won’t bite you, my darling!” Her pink lipstick and white pearls glimmered in the moonlight. Finton ran as fast as he could, leaping over headstones and panting. He felt Dolly’s hot breath on his neck as she drew closer on her long, spidery legs.
    She was almost upon him when he started crying—deep, wretched sobs that rolled down his cheeks and caught his breath short. “Lemme alone!” he cried out.
    â€œJust one kiss, my love.” She captured and hugged him, kissed his face all over.
    â€œNo! Get away!” Hands flailing, legs kicking.
    His left hand fell under the curve of her right breast, and suddenly he seemed to lose control of his mind and body. He broke from her grasp and scurried away again.
    â€œFinton!” He heard a raspy female voice—not Dolly, but Miss Bridie. “You’re going the wrong way,” she said. He turned around to see her standing at a distance, like a bride of Dracula in red lipstick, a black wig, and a large, blue, cleavage-bearing dress. She strutted towards him, and he was trapped, struggling to breathe.
    Backing away from her, Finton turned around in time to feel his feet give way beneath him. He plunged into a shallow grave, face down in the dirt, with Dolly on top of him, kissing and stroking him. When he woke up in his bed, his right hand