Distraction - Bruce Sterling [64]
Oscar nodded.
“I dote on mudbugs,” Huey said. “Gimme some butter dip.” He pulled his pajama sleeves up, reached out with nutcracker hands, and wrenched the tail from the carapace with a loud bursting of gristle and meat. He flexed the tail, everting a chunk of white steaming flesh. “C’est bon, son!” He stuffed it into his mouth, set his teeth, and tore. “That GOOD or what! Gonna BODY-SLAM them Boston lobsters! Bring me a menu. My Yankee friend the Soap Salesman here, he’s gotta order hisself somethin’. Tell the chef to put some hair on his chest.”
Their table was now densely crowded with waiters. They were materializing through the ranks of state cops, bringing water, cream, napkins, butter, hot bread, panniers of curdled sauce. They were thrilled to serve, jostling each other for the honor. One offered Oscar a fresh menu.
“Get this boy a jambalaya,” Huey commanded, waving the menu away with a flick of his dense red fingers. “Get him two shrimp jambalayas. Big ol’ shrimp. We need some jumbo shrimp here, the Child Star looks mighty peaked. Girl, you gotta eat something more than them salads. Woman can’t live on chicken salad. Tell me somethin’. You. Oscar. Man’s gotta eat, don’t he?”
“Yes, Governor,” Oscar said.
“This boy of yours ain’t eatin’!” Huey crushed the crawdad’s boiled red claw between his pinching thumbs. “Mr. Bombast. Mr. Architecture Boy. I cain’t have a thing like that on my conscience! Thinkin’ of him, and his pretty wife, just wasting away up north there on goddamn apple juice. It’s got me so I cain’t sleep nights!”
“I’m sorry to hear that you’re troubled, Your Excellency.”
“You tell your boy to stop frettin’ so much. You don’t see me neglectin’ life and limb because the common man can’t get a decent break up in Boston. We get Yankees like y’all down here all the time. They get a taste of the sweet life, and they forget all about your goddamn muddy water. Hungry Boy needs to lighten up.”
“He’ll eat when those soldiers eat, sir.”
Huey stared at him, chewing deliberately. “Well, you can tell him from me—you tell him tonight—that I’m gonna solve his little problem. I get his point. Point taken. He can put down his goddamn cameras and the apple juice, because I’m gonna do him a favor. I am taking proactive executive measures to resolve the gentleman’s infrastructural contretemps.”
“I’ll see to it that the Senator gets your message, sir.”
“You think I’m kidding, Mr. Valparaiso? You think I’m funning with you tonight?”
“I would never think that, Your Excellency.”
“That’s good. That’s real good. You know something? I loved your dad’s movies.” Huey turned to gaze over his shoulder. “WHAT’S WITH THE BAND?” he bellowed. “Are they DRUNK? Put the band on!”
The musicians rapidly reassembled and began playing a minuet. The Governor slurped a demitasse, then returned his attention to the monster crayfish and lit into it savagely. He snapped and devoured both claws, and then sucked hot spiced juice from its head with every appearance of satisfaction.
The waiters began laying out fresh platters of Cajun delicacies. Oscar examined the steaming feast. He had rarely felt less like eating.
“What about you now, darlin’?” Huey demanded suddenly. “You’re not saying much tonight.”
Greta shook her head.
“You gotta know what the Soap Boy here is up to, right? Dougal is out, the FedDems are in, it’s s’posed to be somebody else’s pork now. What do you think? Nice little lab up on Route 128? Some kind of promise, I guess.”
“He doesn’t make many promises,” Greta murmured.
“He better not, because he can’t promise Boston beans. I got two boys in the Senate who can sit on his Senator’s neck from here to Sunday. I built that goddamn laboratory! Me! I know what it’s worth. Up in Baton Rouge, we just put a new bill through the Ways and Means Committee. A big expansion for ‘Bio Bayou.’ Maybe my lab ain’t as big as yours, but it don’t need to be big, if you don’t have to feed every pork-eatin’ lawn jockey in the fifty states.