The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(75)

I’m not.

Bet your ass, said the dummy.

Do you travel a lot?

Sure.

What sorts of places do you visit?

Sure.

Maybe he’s been dropped on his head, said the Kid.

What else is in the trunk?

I dont know. Could be a battery pack. Transformer. Maybe even something cute like a ballastdriven generator.

What do you do in there? she asked.

What do I do? I dont do a goddamn thing. What do you think I do? It’s a traveling wankery and that’s about the size of it. What time do you get off?

Do you think he’s anatomically correct?

Sure, said the dummy. Birchwood balls and a clockwork cock.

She looked at the Kid. I dont know what to do with him.

Maybe we should be taping this stuff.

You dont know anything about him?

Well aside from not knowing who he is or where he’s from or what he’s up to I think we’ve pretty much got it covered. There’s waterstains in the trunk suggestive of misadventure at sea. Dont know if Walnuthead here might have suffered immersion on his travels. Could be a corroded circuit or two. Ask him something else.

You do that, said the dummy.

He has sort of a southern accent. How old are you?

Dont know. Papers lost in transit.

Do you speak any other languages?

Sure. Doubledutch and piglatin. I play the twelvestring psaltery and the pathological lyre and I can fart in four octaves. What about yourself, Deweydrawers?

Do you know any math?

I can count forward without repeating myself and backward without starting over. Try it some time.

Can you solve problems?

Sure I can. What about you, Peachfuzz?

She turned to the Kid. What does it say on the trunk?

What does what say?

There’s a sticker on the trunk.

Yeah. It says progeny of Western Union.

Progeny?

Property. Property of Western Union.

The two chaps in their slickers stood waiting. Puddles of water pooled about their seaboots.

Where did you get the suit? she said.

It’s my suit. Whaddaya mean where did I get it? I came with it.

That’s it, said the Kid. He folded shut his notebook. Fuck it. You cant win em all. Load his weird ass up.

They stepped forward and tilted the trunk and one of them picked up the dummy.

Crandall? she said.

They stopped. They looked at her and they looked at the Kid.

Load his ass up.

Crandall is that you?

What is it with this broad?

Crandall it’s me. It’s Alice. I’m a lot bigger now.

And Bob’s your ruddy fucking uncle. Get me out of here. Christ.

I’m sorry, Crandall. I was only six. Dont go. Please.

The stevedores waited. They looked at the Kid.

My grandmother made that suit. Out of the old curtains in the upstairs bathroom. She even made the hat.

Will somebody please tell me what this silly bitch is going on about?

Please dont go.

Travel the seven fucking seas for this? Jesus.

That’s it, said the Kid. Bloody hell. Stick to the program. Didnt I say that? Stick to the program? Is that so goddamned difficult? Fuck it. Get his ass out of here.





He came upon the long one at his customary wateringhole leaning back in one chair with his feet crossed in another a good distance away. His hat tilted over one eye. A Macanudo Prince Philip in his teeth. He hardly even looked up. Sit down, he said. And no cute chat. I’m in a vile mood.

Again?

I suppose you sense a trend. Dont answer that.

Nice boots.

John studied them. Looks are deceiving. A poor fit, as it turns out. Hand made by Scarpine and Sons of Fort Worth. They have my lasts on file. What are you drinking?

Nothing, thank you.

A coffee.

No.

Suit yourself.

I will. Where are you staying?

You’ll find me at the Burke and Hare. Hostelry for impecunious gentlemen.

I saw an old friend a day or two ago who was asking after you.

Sheddan took the cigar from his teeth and studied it. Cant be too old or he’d be among the deceased.

Borman.

I thought he was in fact among the deceased. Is he still with Dame Jaquelyn?

No. He’s ditched her for a new companion he refers to simply as his widow woman.

Well. She has shoes to fill. Not to mention drawers. The last time I saw Lady Jaquelyn she had moved out of clothes altogether and into tarpaulins. Awnings. The whole affair calls up images you’d rather not entertain. Her great hummocky fundament wobbling away down the street like a sack of cats headed for the river. You just dont want to think about it. Flailing about in that tentlike lingerie. Like an actor struggling to find his way back through the curtain. Snufflings. Cries of discovery. Just the boldness of it takes your breath. Sit down, Squire, for God’s sake.

Western sat. Is that why the brown study?

No. Tulsa’s left.

Sorry.

Decamped. Flown the coop. It’s hard to keep them entertained, Squire. They keep upping the ante. You think you’ve done a workmanlike job of fucking them but that’s just the beginning. God. The hoops a man will put himself through. At some age you fancy you might rise above these sorts of things and at some age you dont. What is it that we’re looking for? It’s not grace or salvation and it is droll beyond words to imagine that it’s love. The ancients claim that there is truth in the grape. God knows I’ve looked. I suppose that when a man is sick of pussy he’s sick of life but I do think the bitches may have finally done me in. God but we’re fools. For something that should be delivered with the morning milk. As Crowley would have it. Jesus. Why am I asking you?