John.
So far as I know, Big John Connolly has never
done anything as interesting as buying a town in order to get fifty or sixty
fireplace moldings.
I don’t mean to suggest that the general
public should be expected to judge the two men accurately. The general public
knows nothing of Big John Flint, a quasi-mythical figure even in Zanesville .
But Cindy wasn't the general public. She was
an antique dealer, whose stock, though predictable, was far from hopeless. She
had an ivory-tipped elephant goad, for example. I bought it instantly and sold
it to Boog two days later.
In certain moods Boog could be persuaded to
buy almost anything. Objects and people constantly vie for space in his houses.
"Hell, I got a daughter who's an
elephant," he said, handing me $400 and waving the goad playfully in the
direction of Linda Miller, a sweet teenager who happened to be going through a
pudgy phase.
"Get fucked, Daddy!" Linda said , whacking at him with a razor strop I had sold him a few
days earlier. It had not yet made its way off the kitchen table.
The Miller kids were scrappers. Linda's whack
caused Boog to spill most of his breakfast toddy on a suit that was the color
of fresh slime.
Micah Leviticus was sitting next to Boss,
eating a bowl of Cheerios and watching an early morning Mary Tyler Moore rerun
on his tiny TV. I glanced at it just in time to watch Mary fling her cap up to
be freeze-framed. The sight seemed to cheer Micah immensely. His tiny face lit
up.
"Look," he said. "It's Mary."
We all looked. It was Mary, sure enough.
"Don't you love her perky smile?"
Micah said.
Boss reached over and ruffled Micah's hair.
"It's because of you I'm fat—it's your
genes," Linda said, still whacking her father. "I wish I didn't love
you!"
Boss laughed, a loud
immediate peal of delight that filled the kitchen. It startled Micah so much
that he blinked and looked up from his milk-logged Cheerios, looking almost as
out of it as had the congressman from Michigan , when Pencil Penrose's two black pugs
trotted across the seventeenth-century table and began to eat his coq au vin.
Chapter IX
If Perkins, the Penroses' extraordinary
manservant, had had his way, the congressman's coq au vin would not have been
there for the pugs to eat.
That goes without saying, of course. Perkins
was easily the most impressive person at the party, if not the most impressive
person anywhere, now that Lord Mountbatten is dead. In fact, Perkins looked so
much like Lord Mountbatten that I faltered badly when I first walked in with
Cindy. Perkins is as tall as I am, and several times more dignified. I assumed
he must be our host, at the very least, so I attempted to shake his hand.
Perkins graciously ignored this gaucherie, but
Cindy didn't.
"If he wasn't the butler, he wouldn't be
opening the door," she pointed out.
Seconds later I was being introduced to
Senator Penrose, our real host, a little fellow I might have missed entirely if
left to my own devices. He had the constitution of a whippet and a complexion
not unlike that of a rag that has hung in the sun for several weeks. Splotchy and bleached, in other words.
At dinner I spent most of my time stealing
glances at Perkins, trying to anticipate his next move. Seldom have I felt so
intimidated by a man. Fortunately the two ladies bracketing me were experienced
diners, who knew when to pick up a fork or surrender a plate—by watching
So far as I know, Big John Connolly has never
done anything as interesting as buying a town in order to get fifty or sixty
fireplace moldings.
I don’t mean to suggest that the general
public should be expected to judge the two men accurately. The general public
knows nothing of Big John Flint, a quasi-mythical figure even in Zanesville .
But Cindy wasn't the general public. She was
an antique dealer, whose stock, though predictable, was far from hopeless. She
had an ivory-tipped elephant goad, for example. I bought it instantly and sold
it to Boog two days later.
In certain moods Boog could be persuaded to
buy almost anything. Objects and people constantly vie for space in his houses.
"Hell, I got a daughter who's an
elephant," he said, handing me $400 and waving the goad playfully in the
direction of Linda Miller, a sweet teenager who happened to be going through a
pudgy phase.
"Get fucked, Daddy!" Linda said , whacking at him with a razor strop I had sold him a few
days earlier. It had not yet made its way off the kitchen table.
The Miller kids were scrappers. Linda's whack
caused Boog to spill most of his breakfast toddy on a suit that was the color
of fresh slime.
Micah Leviticus was sitting next to Boss,
eating a bowl of Cheerios and watching an early morning Mary Tyler Moore rerun
on his tiny TV. I glanced at it just in time to watch Mary fling her cap up to
be freeze-framed. The sight seemed to cheer Micah immensely. His tiny face lit
up.
"Look," he said. "It's Mary."
We all looked. It was Mary, sure enough.
"Don't you love her perky smile?"
Micah said.
Boss reached over and ruffled Micah's hair.
"It's because of you I'm fat—it's your
genes," Linda said, still whacking her father. "I wish I didn't love
you!"
Boss laughed, a loud
immediate peal of delight that filled the kitchen. It startled Micah so much
that he blinked and looked up from his milk-logged Cheerios, looking almost as
out of it as had the congressman from Michigan , when Pencil Penrose's two black pugs
trotted across the seventeenth-century table and began to eat his coq au vin.
Chapter IX
If Perkins, the Penroses' extraordinary
manservant, had had his way, the congressman's coq au vin would not have been
there for the pugs to eat.
That goes without saying, of course. Perkins
was easily the most impressive person at the party, if not the most impressive
person anywhere, now that Lord Mountbatten is dead. In fact, Perkins looked so
much like Lord Mountbatten that I faltered badly when I first walked in with
Cindy. Perkins is as tall as I am, and several times more dignified. I assumed
he must be our host, at the very least, so I attempted to shake his hand.
Perkins graciously ignored this gaucherie, but
Cindy didn't.
"If he wasn't the butler, he wouldn't be
opening the door," she pointed out.
Seconds later I was being introduced to
Senator Penrose, our real host, a little fellow I might have missed entirely if
left to my own devices. He had the constitution of a whippet and a complexion
not unlike that of a rag that has hung in the sun for several weeks. Splotchy and bleached, in other words.
At dinner I spent most of my time stealing
glances at Perkins, trying to anticipate his next move. Seldom have I felt so
intimidated by a man. Fortunately the two ladies bracketing me were experienced
diners, who knew when to pick up a fork or surrender a plate—by watching
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