sort of Sister 3. She collects herself and smirks back, then wanders off to the kitchen.
“For God’s sake, Billy …” Joe says.
“Ahh, dear. Handsome fella like you, Joseph, you’re a bit young to be so old. Tell you, why don’t we go out together one night?”
“No, thank you. Tell me about the clockwork book.”
“You used to be a lot more fun, Joe. You’ve got sensible, is what it is.Terrible thing to happen to anyone, puts years on you. I know a place in Soho. No, not that kind of place, though if you’ve a mind … no, thought not. No, just a bar, matey, with convivial clients. Australians, mostly. Bored and up for it.”
“Billy, I’m only going to say this once more, and then I’m going to assume you are pulling my pisser. And then we’re going back to formal payments, cash on delivery. Right? Because I’ve got to open the shop. So, God help me: tell me about your doodah.”
Billy Friend measures Joe and sees, if not resolve then boredom, and knuckles down.
“Party wants it cleaned up and repaired, made ready for use, and delivered to a gentleman in Wistithiel. That’s Cornwall, by the way. Cash in advance, naturally, this being a hard and dishonest world.” Billy Friend, in his time both hard and dishonest, sighs the sigh of a disappointed philanthropist. “Party has also supplied a tool to go with. I have taken to referring to this object as the whojimmy. It resembles no tool the like of which I have ever seen, and I am to inform you that you are permitted to keep it as a souvenir or part-payment. The whojimmy is apparently necessary to gain access to certain of the moving parts of the doodah. Thus not, in fact, merely a twofer, as our American cousins would have it, meaning two-for-one, but a threefer, which I believe is heretofore unknown in the world but which I am proud to bring before you now in the spirit of commerce and collegial respect.” Billy smiles his winning smile.
“Who’s the party?”
“A gentleman never tells.”
“A lady.”
“I think we may say without fear of breaching the seal of professional confidence that she is of the female persuasion.”
“And there’s no question that she owns these items?”
“None at all. Very respectable old duck, I thought.”
“She acquired them in this estate sale you mentioned.”
“Ah. There, Joseph, you have me. It is my unfortunate habit to refer to any object whose origin I am not at liberty to divulge as coming from an estate sale. It defers questions and creates a proper sense of
gravitas
.”
He lifts his brows so that Joe can admire the clear, unquestionable honesty in his gaze. He waits. And waits. And waits, looking just a little hurt. Finally—
“Drop them round to me this afternoon,” Joe says. Billy Friend grins and sticks out his hand to seal the deal. He pays the bill and collects a phone number from the waitress. Joe wraps the erotomaton in its tissue paper again, for transport.
“They miss you at the Night Market,” Billy informs him from the door to the street, “ask after you. It’s not the same without … well. You should come by.”
“No,” Joe Spork says. “I shouldn’t.”
And even Billy Friend doesn’t quarrel with that one.
A tugboat hoots out on the river. Joe Spork puts Billy to one side—bad news always finds you in the end—and picks a key from the trolley and walks moodily across the road and down a narrow, mean little alley to a padlocked gate, and through a gap between two buildings, and finally to a row of rusted and barnacled doors facing the river. Traitor’s gates, perhaps, or boathouses for very small boats. Or maybe, when the river was lower, nuclear-hardened bathing cabins. He has no idea. Ghost architecture, hanging on when the reason for it is past. Now, though, one of them stores the remaining bits of his past he doesn’t wish to think too much about. He opens the door once every few months to make sure the water hasn’t risen above the level of the
“For God’s sake, Billy …” Joe says.
“Ahh, dear. Handsome fella like you, Joseph, you’re a bit young to be so old. Tell you, why don’t we go out together one night?”
“No, thank you. Tell me about the clockwork book.”
“You used to be a lot more fun, Joe. You’ve got sensible, is what it is.Terrible thing to happen to anyone, puts years on you. I know a place in Soho. No, not that kind of place, though if you’ve a mind … no, thought not. No, just a bar, matey, with convivial clients. Australians, mostly. Bored and up for it.”
“Billy, I’m only going to say this once more, and then I’m going to assume you are pulling my pisser. And then we’re going back to formal payments, cash on delivery. Right? Because I’ve got to open the shop. So, God help me: tell me about your doodah.”
Billy Friend measures Joe and sees, if not resolve then boredom, and knuckles down.
“Party wants it cleaned up and repaired, made ready for use, and delivered to a gentleman in Wistithiel. That’s Cornwall, by the way. Cash in advance, naturally, this being a hard and dishonest world.” Billy Friend, in his time both hard and dishonest, sighs the sigh of a disappointed philanthropist. “Party has also supplied a tool to go with. I have taken to referring to this object as the whojimmy. It resembles no tool the like of which I have ever seen, and I am to inform you that you are permitted to keep it as a souvenir or part-payment. The whojimmy is apparently necessary to gain access to certain of the moving parts of the doodah. Thus not, in fact, merely a twofer, as our American cousins would have it, meaning two-for-one, but a threefer, which I believe is heretofore unknown in the world but which I am proud to bring before you now in the spirit of commerce and collegial respect.” Billy smiles his winning smile.
“Who’s the party?”
“A gentleman never tells.”
“A lady.”
“I think we may say without fear of breaching the seal of professional confidence that she is of the female persuasion.”
“And there’s no question that she owns these items?”
“None at all. Very respectable old duck, I thought.”
“She acquired them in this estate sale you mentioned.”
“Ah. There, Joseph, you have me. It is my unfortunate habit to refer to any object whose origin I am not at liberty to divulge as coming from an estate sale. It defers questions and creates a proper sense of
gravitas
.”
He lifts his brows so that Joe can admire the clear, unquestionable honesty in his gaze. He waits. And waits. And waits, looking just a little hurt. Finally—
“Drop them round to me this afternoon,” Joe says. Billy Friend grins and sticks out his hand to seal the deal. He pays the bill and collects a phone number from the waitress. Joe wraps the erotomaton in its tissue paper again, for transport.
“They miss you at the Night Market,” Billy informs him from the door to the street, “ask after you. It’s not the same without … well. You should come by.”
“No,” Joe Spork says. “I shouldn’t.”
And even Billy Friend doesn’t quarrel with that one.
A tugboat hoots out on the river. Joe Spork puts Billy to one side—bad news always finds you in the end—and picks a key from the trolley and walks moodily across the road and down a narrow, mean little alley to a padlocked gate, and through a gap between two buildings, and finally to a row of rusted and barnacled doors facing the river. Traitor’s gates, perhaps, or boathouses for very small boats. Or maybe, when the river was lower, nuclear-hardened bathing cabins. He has no idea. Ghost architecture, hanging on when the reason for it is past. Now, though, one of them stores the remaining bits of his past he doesn’t wish to think too much about. He opens the door once every few months to make sure the water hasn’t risen above the level of the
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