THE ISLA VISTA FISH HEAD

         If one were to ask the Devil, “Will people bet on anything?”
         The Prince of Darkness would laugh first, eyes dancing, then answer yes, most certainly.
         If asked a follow-up question, “Would people even bet on whether a guy would smell a book handed to him?”
         Lucifer would assess the questioner for several beats, smile smugly, then nod his ugly head.

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Necks craned and heads turned toward Brad Gaston, solidly built, ruddy complexion, nearly white hair, nestled into a wicker chair on the edge of the patio. He had just said, “Who wants to place a bet?” Now he added, “When Jon’l comes back and I give him this book, you watch. He’ll smell it. Who wants to make a little wager?”
         The group was silent. Carl Azid knew not to bet against Brad. Chaz was not inclined to bet on anything. Billy Blume looked on with amusement. Only Cherie Johnson, sitting across the way, was intrigued.
         “Why would he smell a book?” she asked. “To make sure it’s not dirty?”
         “No,” Brad explained. “He just automatically smells anything he holds, especially books.”
         Cherie, fifty-something, smooth-faced, straight blonde hair, had sipped enough Long Island Iced Tea this afternoon to be game. “Okay. Five dollars.” She scooped a bill from her purse and held it up.
         The throng of a dozen or so weathered fifty- and sixty-something survivors of the sixties was assembled on chairs, benches, planters, and an old couch behind Brad and Nancy Gaston’s cinder block house on Alta Vista Street in Flagstaff. The back yard was enormously deep, defined primarily by weeds and red northern Arizona silt. Beers, wine, cocktails, and water bottles littered the tables. Everyone leaned into the shade away from the afternoon heat, grateful there were no monsoon rains this afternoon.
         “He won’t smell it,” Billy Blume said.
         “You on?” Brad challenged.
         “Naw.”
         “If he normally smells things, why wouldn’t he this time?” someone reasoned.
         Another said, “Not in front of everyone. He’d be too self-conscious.”
         Meanwhile Jon’l, the subject of this discourse, was inside the house using the restroom, oblivious to this conversation about whether or not he’d smell a book. As the group waited for him to