I asked her, and then I instantly threw up an impenetrable wall of white noise around my mind that no telepath could possibly penetrate, a feat that I accomplished by shutting my eyes and mentally reciting over and over the lyrics of the hit song “Three Little Fishies”:
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum, choo
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum—
“Joey!”
The kid snapped me out of it sharply.
“I told you that he loved you and to be good to him.”
Wham! And then of all the dumb luck, who do I see chatting and coming our way but Baloqui and Winifred Brady! When he saw me Baloqui stopped short for a second, maybe thinking of yelling, “Hey, I’ve got him! I’ve captured El Cheapo!” But then the two of them slowly started ambling toward us again. I looked down at Miss Enigma of 1941 and hoarsely whispered, “I thought you said the boardwalk was safe!”
And she hissed back, “Okay, so I thought it was safe! I never said I was a fucking oracle!”
My God! I thought. This really is Jane!
“Hiya, Joey! How ya doin’?”
Baloqui and Brady were now standing in front of us.
I said, “Fine, Baloqui. Fine. Where’s the gang?”
“They’re around.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Good. That’s good.”
For a second Baloqui eyed me inscrutably, then he lowered his droopy, dark gaze to Jane. “Who’s your friend?”
“You mean you see her?”
Baloqui looked up at me, squinting and knitting his brow.
He said, “What?”
I said, “I think she’s something to see.”
Baloqui turned his head to exchange blank looks with Brady, then back to me, his black eyes crammed with suspicion, although of what he as usual had no idea. “You look relieved,” he observed. “Why is that?”
“I guess it’s just the kind of hairpin I am.”
Baloqui shrugged. “Free country.”
He returned his gaze to Jane. “So who is she?” he asked.
“My niece.”
“You got a niece, El Bueno? Since when?”
“Since she was born,” I replied under color of invincible thickheadedness. “She’s here visiting from Peru,” I then added.
Jane looked down and put a hand to her head and slowly shook it, while, as usual, Winnie Brady continued to say nothing, mutely staring with wide blue eyes, her forte.
“From Peru,” Baloqui echoed flatly. He was staring in a way I hadn’t seen since that time I was ticked at him over beating me badly at Monopoly and to wound him I’d quoted a made-up travel expert writing in Holiday Magazine that Manhattan was “by far a more glamorous, vibrant and exciting city than either Barcelona or Seville,” at which Baloqui had lifted his chin and with a look of glacial ice mixed with lukewarm pity said, “Even the Devil can quote scripture out of context.” It was the single black eyebrow sickling up that was the killer: it would have turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of guava jelly laced with pull-string recordings of her constant “I need my space!” total bullshit, although now she really needed it, you could say.
“Yes, from Lima,” I said. And then, after a pause, I quietly added, “Or thereabouts.” And at this Jane set up a howl of crying and sobbing.
I looked down and said, “What’s wrong, little niece?”
“I have to go baffoom!” she bawled.
His inner vision always turned to an azure sky where puffy cloudlets tinted gold and vermillion by a constantly setting sun framed his pantheon of Apollo, Zeus and Manolete, Baloqui flinched, the corner of his mouth pulling back in a grimace of both fear and distaste at the mention of eliminatory matters, this coupled with a dread of even more to come, such as “ka-ka,” or “DaVinci Dew,” or, worst of all in his mind, “number two,” in the presence of Brady in this halcyon, taffy-scented glow of the day. Taking hold of Brady’s hand and with a stare in which a clear threat of maiming could be detected, he growled, “That dollar reward’s a lot of money, El Bueno. As long as I am silent you are safe. You owe me! ”
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum, choo
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum—
“Joey!”
The kid snapped me out of it sharply.
“I told you that he loved you and to be good to him.”
Wham! And then of all the dumb luck, who do I see chatting and coming our way but Baloqui and Winifred Brady! When he saw me Baloqui stopped short for a second, maybe thinking of yelling, “Hey, I’ve got him! I’ve captured El Cheapo!” But then the two of them slowly started ambling toward us again. I looked down at Miss Enigma of 1941 and hoarsely whispered, “I thought you said the boardwalk was safe!”
And she hissed back, “Okay, so I thought it was safe! I never said I was a fucking oracle!”
My God! I thought. This really is Jane!
“Hiya, Joey! How ya doin’?”
Baloqui and Brady were now standing in front of us.
I said, “Fine, Baloqui. Fine. Where’s the gang?”
“They’re around.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Good. That’s good.”
For a second Baloqui eyed me inscrutably, then he lowered his droopy, dark gaze to Jane. “Who’s your friend?”
“You mean you see her?”
Baloqui looked up at me, squinting and knitting his brow.
He said, “What?”
I said, “I think she’s something to see.”
Baloqui turned his head to exchange blank looks with Brady, then back to me, his black eyes crammed with suspicion, although of what he as usual had no idea. “You look relieved,” he observed. “Why is that?”
“I guess it’s just the kind of hairpin I am.”
Baloqui shrugged. “Free country.”
He returned his gaze to Jane. “So who is she?” he asked.
“My niece.”
“You got a niece, El Bueno? Since when?”
“Since she was born,” I replied under color of invincible thickheadedness. “She’s here visiting from Peru,” I then added.
Jane looked down and put a hand to her head and slowly shook it, while, as usual, Winnie Brady continued to say nothing, mutely staring with wide blue eyes, her forte.
“From Peru,” Baloqui echoed flatly. He was staring in a way I hadn’t seen since that time I was ticked at him over beating me badly at Monopoly and to wound him I’d quoted a made-up travel expert writing in Holiday Magazine that Manhattan was “by far a more glamorous, vibrant and exciting city than either Barcelona or Seville,” at which Baloqui had lifted his chin and with a look of glacial ice mixed with lukewarm pity said, “Even the Devil can quote scripture out of context.” It was the single black eyebrow sickling up that was the killer: it would have turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of guava jelly laced with pull-string recordings of her constant “I need my space!” total bullshit, although now she really needed it, you could say.
“Yes, from Lima,” I said. And then, after a pause, I quietly added, “Or thereabouts.” And at this Jane set up a howl of crying and sobbing.
I looked down and said, “What’s wrong, little niece?”
“I have to go baffoom!” she bawled.
His inner vision always turned to an azure sky where puffy cloudlets tinted gold and vermillion by a constantly setting sun framed his pantheon of Apollo, Zeus and Manolete, Baloqui flinched, the corner of his mouth pulling back in a grimace of both fear and distaste at the mention of eliminatory matters, this coupled with a dread of even more to come, such as “ka-ka,” or “DaVinci Dew,” or, worst of all in his mind, “number two,” in the presence of Brady in this halcyon, taffy-scented glow of the day. Taking hold of Brady’s hand and with a stare in which a clear threat of maiming could be detected, he growled, “That dollar reward’s a lot of money, El Bueno. As long as I am silent you are safe. You owe me! ”
Similar Books
