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By Jeff Abbott

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He didn’t think that the films those two did involved screenwriting. Didn’t they just point the camera, clamber on the bed, and do their artful moaning and thrusting with all the sincerity of professional wrestlers? Last week he had driven into Corpus Christi when he learned that his soon-to-be Darling did movies, of an extremely dubious sort. He frequented adult bookstores, driving the two hours to San Antonio or the thirty-odd miles to Corpus Christi, avoiding the few establishments that were too close to Port Leo along the ribbon of Highway 35, never going to any single store too often, paying with bills worn thin from lying under Mama’s mattress.

Babe Mosley asked. He wore a silk robe Hefner would have approved of. ‘Dead body, Daddy,’ Whit answered. ‘Ah,’ Babe said, watching Whit. ’ Whit stuck his feet into the old boat shoes. A hole at the front of one showed a sliver of his toenail. ‘Well, son, God Almighty, there might be some voters there. A crowd. You ought to look more judicial. ’ Whit kept his voice in check. Thirty-two and still his father lectured him. ’ He pushed past his father and pulled a beaten navy baseball cap that commemorated a Port Leo fishing tournament (‘Pray for Marlins’) off a hat tree on the kitchen wall.

I’m tired of us sneaking around this town and you pissing off these dumbasses. Let’s go to Houston to write your movie, I’m in big favor of Plan B. The hint that his Darling was making a movie, here in Port Leo, tightened his throat with desire. The boyfriend muttered no. Then she’d said, Jesus, let this crap with your brother go. The sweet agony of being close to her flamed into fear. He’d grabbed a gallon of cheap cabernet in terror and bolted for the checkout lines, crowded with new winter Texans.

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