Cruddy - Lynda Barry [86]
He looked about seventeen and was decently foxy, although not in my style. He had blond hair and Sir Lancelot features. His eyes were large, with lashes so long I have to say he looked slightly like a girl. He wore in-style clothes, looking new, very hip, but even so, something about him looked lame. When he saw us he looked really irritated.
Vicky lifted her hand. “Hey, Dane.”
He blew out a huge exhale and said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Vicky said, “We have chocolate mesc.”
The person playing the piano was a fat and pale person in a blue bathrobe. His face was babyish and his hair was scraggly and he was sweating hard. He looked up at Vicky and me and nodded calmly. His expression was friendly. He had a look of kindness.
He rocked back and forth as he played and the music kept shifting, melodies strange and ancient turned into the music for “Marvel the Mustang,” which turned into “Winchester Cathedral.” No song ever finished, one just turned into the other. He said, “Adagio con molto sentimento d’affetto,” and “Junior Samples leads me through worlds of wonder.”
Vicky smiled at me. She smiled the smile of “Didn’t I tell you it would be incredible?” She whispered, “That’s him. That’s his brother. Didn’t I tell you he was perfect?”
She handed the Turtle’s stash box to Dane. He said, “This isn’t mesc. This is that mental-house shit. Wes. Wes.” Dane held up a cap. “It’s that psycho shit you guys stole from the nuthouse, right?”
The piano player nodded.
“The preferred term is pharmaceutical shit,” said the Turtle.
Dane said, “Fuck off, fuckhead.”
The Turtle said, “Are you familiar with the work of Dr. Peter Mark Roget? He understood that to dump sewage into the river you drink from is to no one’s advantage. He would be very happy if you would open up his thesaurus and quit saying ‘fuck.’”
“Don’t fuck with me, man. I can fucking turn you in. Your parents got a reward out, fuckhead. Five thousand bucks. One phone call. You fucking better watch it.”
Vicky said, “Reward? What reward?”
The Turtle said, “Ladies, will you stone?” He offered us smoker tubes. We took in the water-cooled clouds. Dane stared at Vicky for a while and then stood up. He said, “Come on.” She followed him down some stairs.
“Violent One,” called the Turtle. “Reconsider!”
After a while there was the sound of splashing. I went to the window and in the turquoise swimming-pool light I saw Vicky and Dane in some naked positions. The Turtle stood beside me. He said, “He will conjugate her verb. He will use her in a single sentence and punctuate her and there is nothing we can do.”
He leaned onto the piano and said, “My dear dear Wesley. Your brother is the Sultan of all Ass-heads.”
The Great Wesley nodded sadly.
Chapter 43
MEAN, TECHNICALLY,” said the father, “I might be your father. There’s a resemblance, but—” Glug, glug, glug. He never finished the sentence. Glug glug glug. There was severe slippage. The Whitley’s was shrinking his mind.
“All I’m trying to say here, Clyde, is that, except for possibly technically, I’m not your father. I want us to be clear on that. It’s partners, fifty-fifty, partners all the way. If you’re in, you’re in. You in?”
“I’m in,” I said.
“Her.” The father pointed at Pammy. “Fat-ass here. When we hit Vegas I mean to get a powerful buzz on and then I’m going to technically marry her. But it’s not technically going to mean shit to me at all. Technically, I’m still married to your mother, which also don’t count because I never let technical shit constrict me. My philosophy is live and let live or kiss my ass.” Glug glug glug.
“Maybe I’ll go back up to the Knocking Hammer, maybe we’ll just say fuck-all. Maybe I’ll shove her out on the way to goddamned Tijuana. Maybe keep rolling ’til I hit the Panama Canal. Park my car, take my pants off, go wading in my skivvies. What I’m trying to say here, Clyde, is there’s a reason