|buy prints of select halfsquatch photographs at etsy or dawanda. (prints of all photographs are available upon request)||day 90
Jeremy couldn’t believe it when Bob Richman’s cell phone number appeared on his call display. He was driving to Tucky Thompson’s Solid Gold Sasquatch Lodge when his phone rang. Bob wanted to meet, to talk. But there was a condition. In exchange for his story the Reporter had to stop humiliating his daughter. Jeremy explained that it was not his decision, which stories the paper ran, but he’d see what he could do. “How about I talk to my editor and give you a call back later this afternoon?”
There was much commotion as Jeremy pulled up to the lodge. Andrea Thompson played traffic director, barking orders to various workers who rushed about, picking up boxes and setting them down. Dave Thompson stood outside the main doors guarding an enormous television set while Stew helped Tucky lift a heavy roll wrapped in plastic out of the back of a truck. The animal rights demonstrators picketed across the road.
Jeremy sauntered over to where Stew and Tucky were struggling with the heavy, plastic-wrapped roll. “Need a hand?”
“No, siree, but thanks for askin’. We’ve got this baby under control, hey buddy?”
“You bet,” Stew said, his voice strained.
“What is it?” Jeremy asked.
“This here’s a goddamn red carpet.”
“For the premiere,” added Stew.
“Sasquatch Summer?” Jeremy asked.
“Yup. We thought we’d do it up right,” Tucky said. “You know – red carpet, big wing-ding party. Tickets are only fifty bucks. You gotta dress up, though.”
Jeremy followed them as they shuffled along a path of dry, brown grass that had been carved by weeks of tourists trampling to the Sasquatch Circus tent. They dropped the carpet. Tucky wiped his hands on the front of his work pants. “So what can I do you for today?”
“Just thought I’d check in, see how business was treating you.”
“She’s treatin’ me just fine, as you can see.” Tucky motioned to the line of tourists waiting to be admitted to the Sasquatch Circus tent. “What do you say we go inside for a drink?”
Jeremy looked at his watch. Aaron hadn’t been able to tell him what time Tucky would be served. “Sure thing. But just make it ginger ale for me.”
Tucky was into his second whisky when a uniformed security guard, with an earpiece and a crackling two-way radio strapped into a holster across his chest, came up to Tucky and muttered something Jeremy couldn’t hear. “And he won’t say what the hell it’s about?” Tucky asked. The security guard shook his head and Tucky excused himself. Jeremy set down his ginger ale and hopped off his bar stool. Stew did the same.
“Are you Theodore Thompson?”
Stew snorted. “Theodore. Heh, heh.”
“Indeed I am, but you can call me Tucky.”
The young man handed him a long manila envelope. “Have a nice day.”
Tucky tore into the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. He skimmed the documents. Stew gawked over his shoulder. Tucky swatted his head away. His expression soured. “Well, fuck me.”