Nightlife by Brian Hodge Page A

had divided the room into fresh- and saltwater sides. Of course, the saltwater tanks held fish far more vivid than the fresh, as vivid as anything seen by Jacques Cousteau on a coral reef. Absolutely stunning yellows and blues and reds and blacks and whites. Sometimes it took the breath away, that something so beautiful existed in the world. By comparison, the freshwater fish were bland. Dowdy stepsisters paling beside Cinderella’s beauty. But he loved them too, like a commoner ascending to royalty refusing to forget his roots.
    The room never failed in therapeutic value. He could leave the rest of the world outside the door whenever he wanted. Just ease back into the recliner—the sole furniture in here— and stare at whichever tank he wished. Letting the music of gurgling water and humming filters lull him into something like a dream state. Aquatic heaven.
    Every important lesson of life that he needed to know was right here in these tanks. When to go for the prize, when to lie low. The powerful eat the weak, the large eat the small. Nowhere was it any more apparent than in the piranha tank. The pit bulls of the underwater world. He owned an even dozen of the little wonders.
    He gently tapped the thick glass wall of their home. A couple turned toward the noise in their sluggish way that could be oh so deceiving. Mouths slightly open, jutting lower jaws rimmed with sharp ridges of teeth. Muscular sides silvery and scaly, as if bejeweled.
    “Morning, babies,” he said to them.
    At last the phone gave its shrill electronic chirp. He let it chirp a couple more times, let the kid on the other end sweat a bit'. Tony flipped it on and answered, finally.
    “What took you so long?” With a grin.
    Listened a moment to the thin piping voice on the other end.
    “Got something heading your way today. One-thirty. Same spot as last week. Rice Krispies for lunch!” His own slang term for another substance. Snap crackle pop. The kiddies got a kick out of it sometimes. And at ten to twenty bucks a chunk, it was a rock that every kid could afford to get a piece of.
    Listened to the kid whine.
    “Hey, you think I give a fuck you got a big math test this afternoon? What are you now, twelve years old? Man, you gotta start getting some priorities straight, own up to your responsibilities. You blow this meet, I can get somebody else to cover that junior high action just like that.” He snapped his fingers by the mouthpiece.
    Listened. Now the kid was singing a more agreeable tune. Standing there in a junior high office, using the phone between classes on the pretense of calling a parent about a doctor’s appointment or some other good one.
    They signed off and Tony compressed the aerial back down. A minute later he heard the front door open, close. Heavy footsteps.
    “In here,” he called out. Lupo joined him, carrying a couple of boxes that looked as if they might hold reams of paper, were it not for the airholes punched around the sides.
    “Good news,” Lupo said. “They had plenty of white ones this time.” He set.the boxes on the floor and opened the first. A dozen furry little white mice squirmed inside, pink feet scurrying, pink tails flicking about.
    “Ah, bless you, Lupo. You know how to brighten a day, don’t you.”
    Lupo shrugged modestly. He looked very fit and resplendent this morning. He was far more the morning person than Tony. The guy didn’t need but four, five hours of sleep a night. Tops.
    Tony reached in to pluck up a mouse at random. Held him aloft by the tail, watching his four legs flail like nobody’s business. All that energy, wasted. And for what? Futility.
    Tony dropped him into the piranha tank, watched the nearest fish home in on the splash and make short work of little albino Mickey. A few quick chomps, and a wet cloudburst of red. He dropped another, this one squeaking, into the tank’s opposite end. Zap. Two more flashes of chomping silver, and it became an underwater tug of war. The rest of