Preston Falls : a novel by 1947- David Gates Page B

tent of fabric with thumb and forefinger. "Had a guy silk-screen it. He's got the image on file, if you want one."
    "I'll pass," says Willis. "Listen. You just put this on to model it for me, right?"
    "No, not—oh. I see what you're saying. Too punk for Preston FaUs."
    "Well, not just that."
    ''Oh. Gotcha. Okay, that's cool. I got another thing I can put on."
    "That's a real autopsy photo?" says Willis.
    "Yep. Well, actually sort of yes and no. It's like it's reaUy him dead, but the CIA dicked around with the photo. Or they dicked around with the body. Like right here, see?" He cranes his neck to look down at his

    chest, then puts a finger just above and behind JFK's ear. "When you look at the Z film, right? This area here should be completely blown to fuck. So something's fuckin' weird. I don't know. Shit, I like wearing it, you know? Tina has the same reaction you do, by the way."
    "I'm past the point of having reactions," says Willis. "All I want now is an easy life." Champ plays an invisible violin at him as he gets down the JOE mug and the mug with the green band around the rim. "What got you started on this shit? You were like three years old."
    "I don't know. I saw the movie and then I just started reading up on it."
    "Yeah, but I mean why this?''
    Champ puts palm to elbow and fist to forehead. "The Thinker is thinking," he says. He puts index finger to temple. "The sum of the hypotenuse is equal in angle to the square root of the sum of the remaining three sides."
    "I should know better by now," says Willis.
    "You're afraid I'm going to wind up like the old man. And lose my mi-yi-yind." Champ sticks his tongue out and twirls index fingers at his ears. "Speaking of which, you been in touch with the mom?"
    "Talked to her a couple weeks ago. I probably should go visit sometime while I'm on leave."
    "You're a hero," says Champ.
    The water's boiling; Willis goes over to turn the burner off. "You are going to change out of that, right?" Jean could come down any minute.
    "No worries, mite." A couple of years ago. Champ would keep up the Aussie-talk for a whole conversation. "Listen, you remember that time you drove me up to see the old man? I think I was like ten? You had this thing back then about him and me spending time together and shit?"
    "Yeah, I remember I was on spring break. I had that black Ford Fairlane."
    "Right," says Champ. "I remember that."
    "I guess we picked a bad day."
    "What you mean, we, Kemosabe? I remember he spent the whole time playing this, like, Dave Brubeck record—"
    "Time Further Out," says Willis.
    "Right, and we were supposed to count the number of measures in a beat or some shit? Which was this secret code that hooked up with people's Social Security numbers?"

    PRESTON FALLS
    "Something like that."
    "You know, thinking back," Champ says, "it's bizarre that the mom let you take me."
    "Yeah, well, it was all bizarre."
    "Ah, but look at us now. Okay, listen, I'll be right back down." Willis hears him go clomping up the stairs. He doesn't return.
    When Jean comes downstairs, Willis is lying on the sofa drinking coffee and looking through Dombey and Son for more Joe Bagstock shit.
    "Morning," he says.
    "Good morning."
    "Coffee's all ready," he says, swinging his feet off the sofa and getting up. Makes his head throb, but he deliberately keeps his eyes open to make the wince less obvious. "I get you some?"
    "No, thank you." She goes into the kitchen.
    He salutes her backside and sits down again. Then lies down. He hears her go into the bathroom. Sometime later the toilet flushes. Then drawers opening and shutting in the kitchen, utensils chinging. He closes his eyes.
    The next thing he's aware of is Champ saying "Hey, bro," and the smell of bacon. "You missed a happening breakfast, man. Jean said let you sleep."
    Willis sits up. Classical music coming from the kitchen, Mozart-sounding shit that might even be Mozart. So some kind soul brought the boombox inside, and the rain didn't fuck it