Jack, stopping her finger-drumming, licking her Red Cap. “It was Thursdays, brought to you by Cheerios. And Tony was Tom Mix’s horse, anyway.”
“B.
Pank
hurst. A new Vice-President for Student Affairs. She’s putting through a bill about coeds in apartments.”
“Sundays was Nick and Nora Charles,” said Heff, not looking up from his project, “with that crazy dog they had. What the hell was that dog?”
“Do you realize I’m being fined TEN DOLLARS for that dinner, you
maniac?!
” yelled Fitzgore, lurching over suddenly, shoving his carrot-colored hair away from his eyes. “Ten goddamned bills?!”
Pretend you can’t hear him. Lost his mind. What to do? Return the enema bag.
Gnossos reaching into his rucksack and handing over the rubber bag and tube while looking casually for the waitress. Highball, the near-perfect drink, la la. Defines social status. “Heff—excuse me a minute, would you, Youngblood?—they didn’t truly throw you out, did they?”
“An’ the House of Mystery, that was Sundays too.”
“And Sky
King
,” said the Lumpers girl with delight, shifting weight, nudging Gnossos accidentally with her left breast.
“Sky King was Saturdays,” from Heff. “With Bobby Benson and the B-Bar-B Riders. And you bet your rosy buns they threw me out, man.”
“Look, Gnossos,” insisted the editor of the
Sun
. “We have to talk over this Pankhurst thing, if you follow me. I mean, what she’s after is to keep unchaperoned coeds out of apartments.”
“In Maracaibo we have chaperones, ha ha.” Rosenbloom giving up the twenty to a sequined shirt pocket and fingering his Saint Christopher absently.
“Listen,” Agneau was whispering to a broiling Fitzgore. “Don’t get excited. Why get excited, really?”
“I don’t mind the ten bills, it’s only this embarrassing a whole damn house for a lousy T-bone steak, or whatever the hell it was. Who wasn’t embarrassed, for instance? Tell me you weren’t embarrassed?”
“Who?” continued Heff, ignoring them, “was the Green Hornet’s faithful Filipino companion?”
“Kato,” answered Gnossos casually, taking his highball from the passing waitress. “Who by the way was a Jap to begin with, but they had to cool it after the heat at Pearl Harbor.”
“Check. And Hop Harrigan’s ace buddy?”
“Oh. Hop
Har
rigan.”
“Tank Tinker,” from Gnossos, sipping.
“Listen,” insisted Youngblood. “You don’t realize that if she gets this chaperone thing through, you won’t be able to have
women
in your apartments!”
A subtle collective pause in everyone’s breathing. “I beg your pardon?” asked Gnossos and Fitzgore, almost simultaneously.
Another pause.
“No women.” Youngblood leaning back.
“Townies, even?” Agneau twisting his cuticle-free pinky, smiling falsely at the two coeds, who froze him right out.
“She said,” continued Youngblood, sensing his time, “this Pankhurst actually said that male apartments, if you follow me, are conducive . . . to petting and intercourse.”
Silence.
“She’s only doing her duty,” from Heff, pulling himself up, “as God gave her the right.”
“To do her duty,” added Jack.
“Who sponsored Jack Armstrong?” asked Heff.
“Wheaties,” said Gnossos. “She’s down on humping, is she?”
“
Intercourse
,” corrected Fitzgore in despair, “for goddamn Christ’s sake.”
“An’ who was responsible for bringing you Captain Midnight?” asked Heff.
“Ovaltine, man. Now if you could get her to come out and say it again—”
“Don’ bother leetle things,” said Rosenbloom. “Have a revolutiong. Smash her, how you call her, Panghurts.”
“Somebody’s getting involved,” warned Heffalump slyly, across all the jumbled conversation. “Somebody better be careful, he gets himself infuckingvolved.”
True. Proceed with caution: “What’s the ploy, man?”
“You had it figured. We want her to say it again. In public this time.”
“Have a
“B.
Pank
hurst. A new Vice-President for Student Affairs. She’s putting through a bill about coeds in apartments.”
“Sundays was Nick and Nora Charles,” said Heff, not looking up from his project, “with that crazy dog they had. What the hell was that dog?”
“Do you realize I’m being fined TEN DOLLARS for that dinner, you
maniac?!
” yelled Fitzgore, lurching over suddenly, shoving his carrot-colored hair away from his eyes. “Ten goddamned bills?!”
Pretend you can’t hear him. Lost his mind. What to do? Return the enema bag.
Gnossos reaching into his rucksack and handing over the rubber bag and tube while looking casually for the waitress. Highball, the near-perfect drink, la la. Defines social status. “Heff—excuse me a minute, would you, Youngblood?—they didn’t truly throw you out, did they?”
“An’ the House of Mystery, that was Sundays too.”
“And Sky
King
,” said the Lumpers girl with delight, shifting weight, nudging Gnossos accidentally with her left breast.
“Sky King was Saturdays,” from Heff. “With Bobby Benson and the B-Bar-B Riders. And you bet your rosy buns they threw me out, man.”
“Look, Gnossos,” insisted the editor of the
Sun
. “We have to talk over this Pankhurst thing, if you follow me. I mean, what she’s after is to keep unchaperoned coeds out of apartments.”
“In Maracaibo we have chaperones, ha ha.” Rosenbloom giving up the twenty to a sequined shirt pocket and fingering his Saint Christopher absently.
“Listen,” Agneau was whispering to a broiling Fitzgore. “Don’t get excited. Why get excited, really?”
“I don’t mind the ten bills, it’s only this embarrassing a whole damn house for a lousy T-bone steak, or whatever the hell it was. Who wasn’t embarrassed, for instance? Tell me you weren’t embarrassed?”
“Who?” continued Heff, ignoring them, “was the Green Hornet’s faithful Filipino companion?”
“Kato,” answered Gnossos casually, taking his highball from the passing waitress. “Who by the way was a Jap to begin with, but they had to cool it after the heat at Pearl Harbor.”
“Check. And Hop Harrigan’s ace buddy?”
“Oh. Hop
Har
rigan.”
“Tank Tinker,” from Gnossos, sipping.
“Listen,” insisted Youngblood. “You don’t realize that if she gets this chaperone thing through, you won’t be able to have
women
in your apartments!”
A subtle collective pause in everyone’s breathing. “I beg your pardon?” asked Gnossos and Fitzgore, almost simultaneously.
Another pause.
“No women.” Youngblood leaning back.
“Townies, even?” Agneau twisting his cuticle-free pinky, smiling falsely at the two coeds, who froze him right out.
“She said,” continued Youngblood, sensing his time, “this Pankhurst actually said that male apartments, if you follow me, are conducive . . . to petting and intercourse.”
Silence.
“She’s only doing her duty,” from Heff, pulling himself up, “as God gave her the right.”
“To do her duty,” added Jack.
“Who sponsored Jack Armstrong?” asked Heff.
“Wheaties,” said Gnossos. “She’s down on humping, is she?”
“
Intercourse
,” corrected Fitzgore in despair, “for goddamn Christ’s sake.”
“An’ who was responsible for bringing you Captain Midnight?” asked Heff.
“Ovaltine, man. Now if you could get her to come out and say it again—”
“Don’ bother leetle things,” said Rosenbloom. “Have a revolutiong. Smash her, how you call her, Panghurts.”
“Somebody’s getting involved,” warned Heffalump slyly, across all the jumbled conversation. “Somebody better be careful, he gets himself infuckingvolved.”
True. Proceed with caution: “What’s the ploy, man?”
“You had it figured. We want her to say it again. In public this time.”
“Have a
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