The Husband. Dean Koontz

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      This apparently ordinary but in fact momentous morning, the California sun was a buttery ball. The sky had a basted sheen.

      Pleasantly warm, not searing, the day nevertheless left a greasy sweat on Ignatius Barnes. His brow glistened. His chin dripped.

      At work in the same bed of flowers, ten feet from Mitch, Iggy looked boiled. From May until July, his skin responded to the sun not with melanin but with a fierce blush. For one-sixth of the year, before he finally tanned, he appeared to be perpetually embarrassed.

      Iggy did not possess an understanding of symmetry and harmony in landscape design, and he couldn’t be trusted to trim roses properly. He was a hard worker, however, and good if not intellectually bracing company.

      “You hear what happened to Ralph Gandhi?” Iggy asked.

      “Who’s Ralph Gandhi?”

      “Mickey’s brother.”

      “Mickey Gandhi? I don’t know him, either.”

      “Sure you do,” Iggy said. “Mickey, he hangs out sometimes at Rolling Thunder.”

      Rolling Thunder was a surfers’ bar.

      “I haven’t been there in years,” Mitch said.

      “Years? Are you serious?”

      “Entirely.”

      “I thought you still dropped in sometimes.”

      “So I’ve really been missed, huh?”

      “I’ll admit, nobody’s named a bar stool after you. What—did you find someplace better than Rolling Thunder?”

      “Remember coming to my wedding three years ago?” Mitch asked.

      “Sure. You had great seafood tacos, but the band was woofy.”

      “They weren’t woofy.”

      “Man, they had tambourines.”

      “We were on a budget. At least they didn’t have an accordion.”

      “Because playing an accordion exceeded their skill level.”

      Mitch troweled a cavity in the loose soil. “They didn’t have finger bells, either.”

      Wiping his brow with one forearm, Iggy complained: “I must have Eskimo genes. I break a sweat at fifty degrees.”

      Mitch said, “I don’t do bars anymore. I do marriage.”

      “Yeah, but can’t you do marriage and Rolling Thunder?”

      “I’d just rather be home than anywhere else.”

      “Oh, boss, that’s sad,” said Iggy.

      “It’s not sad. It’s the best.”

      “If you put a lion in a zoo three years, six years, he never forgets what freedom was like.”

      Planting purple impatiens, Mitch said, “How would you know? You ever asked a lion?”

      “I don’t have to ask one. I am a lion.”

      “You’re a hopeless boardhead.”

      “And proud of it. I’m glad you found Holly. She’s a great lady. But I’ve got my freedom.”

      “Good for you, Iggy. And what do you do with it?”

      “Do with what?”

      “Your freedom. What do you do with your freedom?”

      “Anything I want.”

      “Like, for example?”

      “Anything. Like, if I want sausage pizza for dinner, I don’t have to ask anyone what she wants.”

      “Radical.”

      “If I want to go to Rolling Thunder for a few beers, there’s nobody to bitch at me.”

      “Holly doesn’t bitch.”

      “I can get beer-slammed every night if I want, and nobody’s gonna be calling to ask when am I coming home.”

      Mitch began to whistle “Born Free.”

      “Some wahine comes on to me,” Iggy said, “I’m free to rock and roll.”

      “They’re coming on to you all the time—are they?—those sexy wahines?”

      “Women are bold these days, boss. They see what they want, they just take it.”

      Mitch said, “Iggy, the last time you got laid, John Kerry thought he was going to be president.”

      “That’s not so long ago.”

      “So what happened to Ralph?”

      “Ralph who?”

      “Mickey Gandhi’s brother.”

      “Oh, yeah. An iguana bit off his nose.”

      “Nasty.”

      “Some fully macking ten-footers were breaking, so Ralph and some guys went night-riding at the Wedge.”

      The Wedge was a famous surfing spot at the end of the Balboa Peninsula, in Newport Beach.

      Iggy said, “They packed coolers full of submarine sandwiches and beer, and one of them brought Ming.”

      “Ming?”

      “That’s the iguana.”

      “So it was a pet?”

      “Ming, he’d always been sweet before.”

      “I’d expect iguanas to be moody.”

      “No, they’re affectionate. What happened was some wanker, not even a surfer, just a wannabe tag-along, slipped Ming a quarter-dose of meth in a piece of salami.”

      “Reptiles on speed,” Mitch said, “is a bad idea.”

      “Meth Ming was a whole different animal from clean-and-sober Ming,” Iggy confirmed.

      Putting down his trowel, sitting back on the heels of his work shoes, Mitch said, “So now Ralph Gandhi is noseless?”

      “Ming didn’t eat the nose. He just bit it off and spit it out.”

      “Maybe he didn’t like Indian food.”

      “They had a big cooler full of ice water and beer. They put the nose in the СКАЧАТЬ