was juvenile and asinine at times. Well, maybe all the time. Flip thought back to the unit on the eye, when they were dissecting a cow’s eye. The thing was a giant, fat-covered blob, and Dutch had prodded and poked it with the curiosity and intensity you’d expect from a seven-year-old. And he’d reduced Mimi to near hysteria by secretly popping a big plastic brown eye in his mouth and leering at her during that dissection session. Mimi, squeamish to begin with about the eye dissection, had nearly thrown a hissy as Dutch mouthed the plastic eye and worked it suggestively in and out of his lips.
And Mimi. That sure as hell hadn’t worked out. Dutch had told him all the men Mimi went for were in a select club, and clearly Flip wasn’t in that club. And Dutch hadn’t thrown any of the women who dogged him day and night Flip’s way. Well, he couldn’t really expect Dutch to procure women for him. And, even if he had, Flip was drowning in schoolwork. Redemptorist was so much harder than he had expected. He didn’t have time for a social life, as Dutch obviously did.
Yes, he had to admit it bothered him that everything came so easily to Dutch. Women, schoolwork, bike stunts, which he learned with dizzying speed—every damn thing. Dutch never seemed to pay attention in Dr. Abbott’s class, yet he zipped through their review exercises in record time, correcting Flip when he got something wrong. He’d expected that he would have to carry Dutch, because they were graded as a pair for lab work. But it was the other way around. The final straw had been dinner with Dutch’s folks in New Orleans. During his second visit to the “raised cottage,” their big wedding cake in the Garden District, Dutch had given him a tour. He stopped counting rooms after twenty. Obviously, the Abbotts were rolling in it. Second-best, that’s what Flip felt like, and the feeling was new to him.
But on the whole, Flip admitted, he wasn’t complaining. Old lady Simmons, their landlady, was sharp and funny and one hell of a cook, and they had a standing Wednesday night dinner invitation. The shotgun was a sweet deal, far cheaper than he’d expected, even if Dutch had blanketed every horizontal surface with board games, model cars, and other little-boy toys. Surprisingly, Dutch was neat and orderly and carried more than his share of the housework. He didn’t keep tabs of who took the garbage out or washed the dishes last. They had settled into a companionable routine, doing homework, playing Battleship and the other inane games Dutch insisted on, or watching movies, both sprawled on the couch, with Dutch plopping his big feet in Flip’s lap and Flip throwing them off in disgust.
The best, of course, was the stunting. Flip had conquered the cross-up, the tabletop, and the bunny hop, and together they were perfecting the Smith grind, double tail grind, and tailwhip. Flip had come up with a da -wum da -wum da -wum dah mantra to complement Dutch’s uhm-uhm bwah , and when they stunted and chanted together they drew a crowd. Crazy Wailin’ Elwood had approached them; he wanted to incorporate them into his Saturday sets. Archimedes Street, rarely traveled, smoothly paved, and with a nice high curb to ratchet off, was a perfect practice ground.
Flip tried to wrestle with whatever was gnawing at him. What the hell was irritating him? Maybe it was that Dutch had taken over his life, just as his fug had infiltrated the shotgun so every room, even Flip’s, smelled like, and seemed to belong to, Dutch. He had to admit it wasn’t Dutch’s fault. Dutch bathed twice a day. But for the past few days, Flip had become increasingly aware of the Dutch funk on the sofa, the chairs, his scent everywhere. It wasn’t repulsive or obvious, but always subliminally there. He didn’t know why, but it was beginning to wear on his nerves. And he found himself just staring at Dutch, for no reason.
Chapter 9
F RENCHY WAS on the way to becoming a fixture
And Mimi. That sure as hell hadn’t worked out. Dutch had told him all the men Mimi went for were in a select club, and clearly Flip wasn’t in that club. And Dutch hadn’t thrown any of the women who dogged him day and night Flip’s way. Well, he couldn’t really expect Dutch to procure women for him. And, even if he had, Flip was drowning in schoolwork. Redemptorist was so much harder than he had expected. He didn’t have time for a social life, as Dutch obviously did.
Yes, he had to admit it bothered him that everything came so easily to Dutch. Women, schoolwork, bike stunts, which he learned with dizzying speed—every damn thing. Dutch never seemed to pay attention in Dr. Abbott’s class, yet he zipped through their review exercises in record time, correcting Flip when he got something wrong. He’d expected that he would have to carry Dutch, because they were graded as a pair for lab work. But it was the other way around. The final straw had been dinner with Dutch’s folks in New Orleans. During his second visit to the “raised cottage,” their big wedding cake in the Garden District, Dutch had given him a tour. He stopped counting rooms after twenty. Obviously, the Abbotts were rolling in it. Second-best, that’s what Flip felt like, and the feeling was new to him.
But on the whole, Flip admitted, he wasn’t complaining. Old lady Simmons, their landlady, was sharp and funny and one hell of a cook, and they had a standing Wednesday night dinner invitation. The shotgun was a sweet deal, far cheaper than he’d expected, even if Dutch had blanketed every horizontal surface with board games, model cars, and other little-boy toys. Surprisingly, Dutch was neat and orderly and carried more than his share of the housework. He didn’t keep tabs of who took the garbage out or washed the dishes last. They had settled into a companionable routine, doing homework, playing Battleship and the other inane games Dutch insisted on, or watching movies, both sprawled on the couch, with Dutch plopping his big feet in Flip’s lap and Flip throwing them off in disgust.
The best, of course, was the stunting. Flip had conquered the cross-up, the tabletop, and the bunny hop, and together they were perfecting the Smith grind, double tail grind, and tailwhip. Flip had come up with a da -wum da -wum da -wum dah mantra to complement Dutch’s uhm-uhm bwah , and when they stunted and chanted together they drew a crowd. Crazy Wailin’ Elwood had approached them; he wanted to incorporate them into his Saturday sets. Archimedes Street, rarely traveled, smoothly paved, and with a nice high curb to ratchet off, was a perfect practice ground.
Flip tried to wrestle with whatever was gnawing at him. What the hell was irritating him? Maybe it was that Dutch had taken over his life, just as his fug had infiltrated the shotgun so every room, even Flip’s, smelled like, and seemed to belong to, Dutch. He had to admit it wasn’t Dutch’s fault. Dutch bathed twice a day. But for the past few days, Flip had become increasingly aware of the Dutch funk on the sofa, the chairs, his scent everywhere. It wasn’t repulsive or obvious, but always subliminally there. He didn’t know why, but it was beginning to wear on his nerves. And he found himself just staring at Dutch, for no reason.
Chapter 9
F RENCHY WAS on the way to becoming a fixture
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