deviancy and deliver the defense with conviction. She’s heard a lot of horseshit in her time, but there’s something curious about the way Lloyd crafts his portions. Horseshit folded into small paper boats.
She finds him in the reference section, halfway along the aisle, squatting between two sets of encyclopedias. He’s removed a couple volumes and peers through the gap left behind, the same technique she employed with de Tocqueville last week. Lily backtracks around the shelf and watches as he balances nervously on his haunches. It’s the position of an industrious squirrel tossed a bag of nuts. How and where will one carry off such a grand treasure? She’s taken by his tenure. This is the kind of passion she needs to whip up herself if she wants to get on with the business of the pointed arch.
She moves slowly down the aisle so as not to startle him, the search party flyer still in her hand. And it strikes her then that Lloyd, with his many foibles, is the perfect confidant. They could trade culpabilities like precious stones.
She lowers herself on the carpet a few feet away. “What do you got?”
“No one,” he tells her, squinting between the books as though sighting ships through a periscope. “Just testing the setup.”
“For?”
“My great moment.”
“Let me guess. You’re the poster boy for meticulous felony?”
He turns, runs an eye over her. “You know something?” A curious twist of his lips. “Don’t get too excited by this, but you’re just about pretty enough to molest.”
Lily has a sudden memory of being woken one night by a fire alarmin their building. She remembers how her instinct to evacuate had to fight hard against the desire to sleep through the clamor. The same feeling now with Lloyd, a clear warning and conflicting choices.
She changes her mind. Lloyd cannot be taken into her confidence. Their mutual confessions will never be of a similar nature. Hers are brusque and uncomfortable, divulged only so that she may receive some degree of clemency, while Lloyd’s provide him pleasure. He takes them out of their silk pouch only to hold them up to the light.
“They’d order in a load of Latino-American ground fighters,” Duncan is telling Anne. “Because unlike their all-American compatriots—big, hulking farmboys from the Midwest—these guys were slender, narrow-boned, and could slip down those Viet Cong tunnels and shafts like ferrets. They’d get smoked, most of them. The VC booby-trapped miles of those tunnels; think metal spikes under a false floor of leaves.”
“Vietnam. The dark side of the sixties.”
“Right. We asked ourselves, what else was going on at the time?”
Anne sits with her legs crossed, chain-smoking on his couch. “The draft was going on. Kooch’s father went over.”
“Only after he was caught by Canadian Mounties.” Duncan scratches his head impatiently. “But also, Anne, I’ve been to Vietnam.”
“Yes. You and the little missus.”
Duncan nods. “That’s why I feel I’ve got the edge on it. Historically.” No need to mention that he went alone.
“Where do the jeans come in?”
“We put our girl soldier in the depths of the Cu Chi tunnels—”
“Women didn’t serve as soldiers.”
“Creative anachronism. We call them Grunt Girls.”
Anne looks at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay—reminds me of the Gorilla Girls.” Smoke wads up into a cloud above her head. “Could be a joint promotion in there somewhere.”
“I’m thinking, photojournalism, khaki-colored TV footage. Our Grunt Girl’s on her hands and knees, strapped to an M-16, and behind her, a Viet Cong soldier literally has her by the flared pant leg.” Duncan sits on his desk. “The tag line is:
History Repeating.”
Anne is nodding slowly. “Double entendre, keep going.”
“The flare leg is a commentary on war.”
“Oh yeah? America lost the war because of bell-bottom jeans?”
“Well, call it the acuity of hindsight.” He picks up his stapler,
She finds him in the reference section, halfway along the aisle, squatting between two sets of encyclopedias. He’s removed a couple volumes and peers through the gap left behind, the same technique she employed with de Tocqueville last week. Lily backtracks around the shelf and watches as he balances nervously on his haunches. It’s the position of an industrious squirrel tossed a bag of nuts. How and where will one carry off such a grand treasure? She’s taken by his tenure. This is the kind of passion she needs to whip up herself if she wants to get on with the business of the pointed arch.
She moves slowly down the aisle so as not to startle him, the search party flyer still in her hand. And it strikes her then that Lloyd, with his many foibles, is the perfect confidant. They could trade culpabilities like precious stones.
She lowers herself on the carpet a few feet away. “What do you got?”
“No one,” he tells her, squinting between the books as though sighting ships through a periscope. “Just testing the setup.”
“For?”
“My great moment.”
“Let me guess. You’re the poster boy for meticulous felony?”
He turns, runs an eye over her. “You know something?” A curious twist of his lips. “Don’t get too excited by this, but you’re just about pretty enough to molest.”
Lily has a sudden memory of being woken one night by a fire alarmin their building. She remembers how her instinct to evacuate had to fight hard against the desire to sleep through the clamor. The same feeling now with Lloyd, a clear warning and conflicting choices.
She changes her mind. Lloyd cannot be taken into her confidence. Their mutual confessions will never be of a similar nature. Hers are brusque and uncomfortable, divulged only so that she may receive some degree of clemency, while Lloyd’s provide him pleasure. He takes them out of their silk pouch only to hold them up to the light.
“They’d order in a load of Latino-American ground fighters,” Duncan is telling Anne. “Because unlike their all-American compatriots—big, hulking farmboys from the Midwest—these guys were slender, narrow-boned, and could slip down those Viet Cong tunnels and shafts like ferrets. They’d get smoked, most of them. The VC booby-trapped miles of those tunnels; think metal spikes under a false floor of leaves.”
“Vietnam. The dark side of the sixties.”
“Right. We asked ourselves, what else was going on at the time?”
Anne sits with her legs crossed, chain-smoking on his couch. “The draft was going on. Kooch’s father went over.”
“Only after he was caught by Canadian Mounties.” Duncan scratches his head impatiently. “But also, Anne, I’ve been to Vietnam.”
“Yes. You and the little missus.”
Duncan nods. “That’s why I feel I’ve got the edge on it. Historically.” No need to mention that he went alone.
“Where do the jeans come in?”
“We put our girl soldier in the depths of the Cu Chi tunnels—”
“Women didn’t serve as soldiers.”
“Creative anachronism. We call them Grunt Girls.”
Anne looks at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay—reminds me of the Gorilla Girls.” Smoke wads up into a cloud above her head. “Could be a joint promotion in there somewhere.”
“I’m thinking, photojournalism, khaki-colored TV footage. Our Grunt Girl’s on her hands and knees, strapped to an M-16, and behind her, a Viet Cong soldier literally has her by the flared pant leg.” Duncan sits on his desk. “The tag line is:
History Repeating.”
Anne is nodding slowly. “Double entendre, keep going.”
“The flare leg is a commentary on war.”
“Oh yeah? America lost the war because of bell-bottom jeans?”
“Well, call it the acuity of hindsight.” He picks up his stapler,
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