Damascus blade through Unguentine that Farragher and Connelly might be lurking in hiding and plotting to toss me into the river. I turned back and Baloqui put his hands on my shoulders, his intense black stare burning into mine as he said to me quietly and with emotion, “It doesn’t matter what our parents might do with one another. No, with us there is a friendship that is strong and can never be broken. And so I guard, my friend Joey. I protect you.”
“Protect me from what? ” I blurted, exasperated.
“It’s that girl, Jane Bent,” he said. “Or whoever she really is.”
That did it, that “whoever she really is,” and I drew back and wrenched his hands off my shoulders. “What in freak are you talking about?!” I blustered, and then smoother than Evel Knievel sailing over a canyon on his favorite Harley with a sack full of gifts of appreciation for his longtime friends and contacts in the Las Vegas Hospital Emergency Room, Baloqui launched even higher into Bizarro Land with some lunatic story about Jane being spotted very late the night before standing next to a white limousine with the California license tag STARLET 1 and head-to-head in a “secret-looking, guarded conversation” with the Little Orphan Annie comic strip character and God-figure “Mr. Am!” Baloqui described him to a tee : “Very tall and with a pointy long white beard? Yellow cummerbund, black top hat and jacket? Come on, Joey! No question about it! It was him! And then that other guy, The Asp, he’s in the driver’s seat, okay? So they finish up talking, your girl and Mr. Am, and they get into the limo and drive off and what’s spooky is you can’t hear the sound of the engine. Now I’m not saying it really was them. Understand? I’m not saying it. If it really was them, then no problem: Mr. Am and the Asp, they’re good people. But it actually can’t be them, Joey! They’re friggin’ cartoons! So now what kind of people would pretend to be them? See what I’m saying? What kind of person would do that?”
Baloqui took a step back then, maybe to avoid a potential right cross, although actually I think it was more like in self satisfaction as he folded his arms across his chest and nodded, saying, “Just looking after you, Joey. I don’t know what they’re after, but this girl is in it deep, she’s in deep with bad people, plus it looks like they’re rich, so they could finance expensive crazy plots to do you in. Stay away from her, Joey! That’s the only thing I’m saying. Just look out!”
I blinked a few times to clear my head. I’d known Baloqui all the way from first grade and while he had a few crotchets—well, maybe more than a few—it wasn’t until lately that I’d ever had reason to think that his brain waves, shall we say, had been inappropriately altered, and a paranoia dynamite fuse began sizzling and snaking through my mind about the people with the limo being rich, which made me flash on how Jane had whisked that five-dollar bill from her pocket. Who knew how many more might have been there? You know? Then my eyes began to narrow.
“You saw this yourself?”
“Joey, everyone sees things.”
“True. But was it you who in fact saw this? ”
“I have eyes.”
“Yes, I know you have eyes. So do I . What I’m asking is are you the eyewitness to this, or is it somebody else with the initials F.A.?”
“And if it’s me you won’t believe it?” he suddenly blurted and—swear before God!—with a tremor in his voice and I could see he was scrunching up his eyes in a ludicrous try at manufacturing tears, or at least some mist, though I admit this pathetic but engaging bit of theater was surely no harder to take than his legendary “Pensive Stork” maneuver, although what followed, which was a choked-up “Okay for you, Joey!” was as close to a crushing final word as the set that I ran with could possibly use. And with this he whipped around, and with his hands in his pockets and his
“Protect me from what? ” I blurted, exasperated.
“It’s that girl, Jane Bent,” he said. “Or whoever she really is.”
That did it, that “whoever she really is,” and I drew back and wrenched his hands off my shoulders. “What in freak are you talking about?!” I blustered, and then smoother than Evel Knievel sailing over a canyon on his favorite Harley with a sack full of gifts of appreciation for his longtime friends and contacts in the Las Vegas Hospital Emergency Room, Baloqui launched even higher into Bizarro Land with some lunatic story about Jane being spotted very late the night before standing next to a white limousine with the California license tag STARLET 1 and head-to-head in a “secret-looking, guarded conversation” with the Little Orphan Annie comic strip character and God-figure “Mr. Am!” Baloqui described him to a tee : “Very tall and with a pointy long white beard? Yellow cummerbund, black top hat and jacket? Come on, Joey! No question about it! It was him! And then that other guy, The Asp, he’s in the driver’s seat, okay? So they finish up talking, your girl and Mr. Am, and they get into the limo and drive off and what’s spooky is you can’t hear the sound of the engine. Now I’m not saying it really was them. Understand? I’m not saying it. If it really was them, then no problem: Mr. Am and the Asp, they’re good people. But it actually can’t be them, Joey! They’re friggin’ cartoons! So now what kind of people would pretend to be them? See what I’m saying? What kind of person would do that?”
Baloqui took a step back then, maybe to avoid a potential right cross, although actually I think it was more like in self satisfaction as he folded his arms across his chest and nodded, saying, “Just looking after you, Joey. I don’t know what they’re after, but this girl is in it deep, she’s in deep with bad people, plus it looks like they’re rich, so they could finance expensive crazy plots to do you in. Stay away from her, Joey! That’s the only thing I’m saying. Just look out!”
I blinked a few times to clear my head. I’d known Baloqui all the way from first grade and while he had a few crotchets—well, maybe more than a few—it wasn’t until lately that I’d ever had reason to think that his brain waves, shall we say, had been inappropriately altered, and a paranoia dynamite fuse began sizzling and snaking through my mind about the people with the limo being rich, which made me flash on how Jane had whisked that five-dollar bill from her pocket. Who knew how many more might have been there? You know? Then my eyes began to narrow.
“You saw this yourself?”
“Joey, everyone sees things.”
“True. But was it you who in fact saw this? ”
“I have eyes.”
“Yes, I know you have eyes. So do I . What I’m asking is are you the eyewitness to this, or is it somebody else with the initials F.A.?”
“And if it’s me you won’t believe it?” he suddenly blurted and—swear before God!—with a tremor in his voice and I could see he was scrunching up his eyes in a ludicrous try at manufacturing tears, or at least some mist, though I admit this pathetic but engaging bit of theater was surely no harder to take than his legendary “Pensive Stork” maneuver, although what followed, which was a choked-up “Okay for you, Joey!” was as close to a crushing final word as the set that I ran with could possibly use. And with this he whipped around, and with his hands in his pockets and his
Similar Books
