The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(23)

That’s not anthropology. It’s gibberish.

Yeah yeah sure sure. Sit your nelly ass up. I dont have a lot of time to squabble.

Quibble.

That either.

She pushed herself up and sat and levered off her shoes and dropped them over the side. She crossed her legs and pulled the quilt up about her. The Kid had commenced his pacing. Jesus. The ups with which I put. All at the beck and call of some hickette from Hootersville. Up here under the eaves. Squirreled away with the nuts. Well fuck it.

Where are the others?

The other whats?

Your little friends.

Dont worry. They’ll be here in their own good time. Where was I?

Squirreled away with the nuts.

Right. Maybe we should move on. Where’s your report card?

What do you care where my report card is?

You got a B.

What business is that of yours?

That’s a first, Florence.

It was in religion.

So? Religion’s not a subject?

She doesnt know what she’s talking about. Sister Aloysius. She doesnt even know what the argument is.

Yeah. But you started quoting Aquinas to her in Latin like the smug little bitch that you are. What did you expect?

I thought you only cared about the math.

It’s still a B. And it’s still on your record. I suppose you intend to count your way to Paradise.

Jesus. What are you talking about?

Talking about you flunking religion.

I didnt flunk. I made a B.

Yeah? It’s the same thing.

I thought we were moving on.

Right.

Although I suppose I should ask to what.

Jesus. The winter months. Okay?

Sure. Why not? It’s getting dark sooner. You may have noticed.

Yeah? Have to be wary with you. This could be one of your philosophical observations.

What are you writing?

I’m just checking some of these people off. What are we looking at here? Early retirement? Where the fuck are these people?

I dont want these people.

Yeah? How do you know? You need to take a break, Brenda. You may not be at the edge but you can see it from here. Dont we have anybody in the wings for Christ sake?

The lawndwarves in the shadow of her desk put forth woodenly. Jesus, said the Kid. Not you. Where the hell is Grogan?

He clapped his flippers and the bathless one appeared out of the closet and doffed his floppery billcap. There were three rolls of fat at the base of his skull. As if his head had been assembled in a press. He held his cap at his chest in both hands and lowered his eyes and bowed to the girl. God prosper your kind, Mum, he said. Then he put his cap back on and folded his hands at the small of his back and began to do the shake-a-leg of the Lollipop Guild, grimacing the while.

Why cant we ever get any music for Christ sake? Okay. Enough with the hoofing. What else you got for us?

Grogan took off his cap and clutched it before him and began to sing to the tune of “Molly Brannigan”:

    Them old cangrejos

Is a-leapin in me lederhose

Why I bedded with the bitch

Is somethin only Jesus knows

And it’s off to the chemist

For a pot of ointment I suppose

Since Molly’s gone and left me

Here alone with the…





Okay, said the Kid. Jesus. Whatever happened to ballads of love and patriotism? What are you doing?

She’d pulled the quilt over her head. I’m going away, she said, her voice muffled under the covers.

Grogan had begun to dance again. His Irish stomp. She could hear him clomping about in his clodhoppers. The Kid told him to cool it. She cant see the fucking acts with her head under the covers.

I dont want to see the acts. Tell them to go away.

She’ll be all right in a minute. Probably had a rough day at school. Hey under there. You cant be going to bed. It’s only seven thirty.

I have school tomorrow.

What? Knock it off, Grogan.

She pushed back the covers. I have school tomorrow.

I have school tomorrow, he mimed.

What happened to Grogan?

I think he left. You probably pissed him off.

What do I have to do to piss you off?

Just bear with me. Let me look through some of this stuff.

Oh great.

The Kid flipped through his book. Maybe we’ve just tried to get a little too upscale with you.

Upscale?

Yeah. Sometimes it’s a mistake to try and tailor your acts.

Sure.

Anyway, I’m beginning to sniff out a hint of the prurient in that patrician demeanor of yours.

He pushed away some papers on her desk and sat back in the chair with his notes. Jesus, he said. Who takes these bloody pictures. Dog acts? Are you shitting me? You never know what you’re going to find when you drain the swamp. And the names. The Supposables? How about The Disposables? Or The Suppositories? Christ. Got to be something here.

The only one I care about is Miss Vivian.

Yeah. But she aint an act. Let’s stick with the program.

It’s not a program. It’s just stupid.

Sure. What the fuck is this? Jugglers? Wait a minute. Here we go. These two look good. Hailing from Snook-Cockery in the West Country. Okay.

He shoveled away his notes and clapped his flippers and leaned back in the chair. Places, he called. The closed door flew open and a pair of diminutive hoydens in pale taffeta sallied forth doing the shuffle-off-to-Buffalo and rolling their painted eyes. They began to sing inanely in a highpitched trill, their arms locked and their cheap patentleather shoes padding on the boards. The Kid moaned and clutched a flipper to his brow. Jesus, he whispered. He rose from the chair and clapped his flippers. That’s it. Thank you. Jesus. What is this fucking business coming to? Get these septic titpigs out of here. Mother of God. What is that smell? Liederkranz? Out, goddamit. That’s it. Break. Back here at eight.