Making Money - Terry Pratchett [97]
“Why, thank you, shister,” he said, beaming. “And is it not written: ‘The eleemosynary cup is more worthy than the thrown hen’?”
Then he noticed the discreet little silver ladle pinned to her bosom, and that her earrings were two tiny spatulas. The holy symbols of Anoia, yes. He’d just been reading about Anoia in the religious pages. All the rage these days, thanks to the help of young Spangler. Started out way down the ladder as the Goddess Of Things That Get Stuck In Drawers, but the talk in the religious pages was that she was being tipped for Goddess Of Lost Causes, a very profitable area, very profitable indeed for a man with a flexible approach but, and he sighed inwardly, it was not such a good idea to do business when the god in question was active, in case Anoia got angry and found a new use for a spatula. Besides, he’d soon be able to put all that behind him. What a clever lad young Spangler had turned out to be! Smarmy little devil! This wasn’t going to be over quick, oh no. This was going to be a pension for life. And it’d be a long, long life, or else—
“Is there anything more I can get you, Reverend?” said the woman anxiously.
“My cup runneth over, shister,” said Cribbins.
The woman’s anxious expression intensified. “Oh, I’m sorry, I hope it hasn’t gone on the—”
Cribbins carefully put his hand over the cup. “I meant that I am more than shatisfied,” he said, and he was. It was a bloody miracle, that’s what it was. If Om was going to hand them out like this, he might even start believing in Him.
And it got better the more you thought about it, Cribbins told himself, as the woman hurried away. How’d the kid done it? There must have been cronies. The hangman, for one, a couple of jailers…
Reflectively, he removed his false teeth with a twang, swilled them gently in the tea, patted them dry with his handkerchief and wrestled them back into his mouth a few seconds before footsteps told him the woman was returning. She was positively vibrating with genteel courage.
“Excuse me, Reverend, but can I ask a favor?” she said, going pink.
“Og orsk…ugger! usht arg ogent—” Cribbins turned his back, and against a chorus of snaps and twoings dragged the wretched dentures around the right way. Damned things! Why he had ever bothered to lever them out of the old man’s mouth, he’d never know.
“I do beg your pardon, shister, a little dental mishap there…” he murmured, turning back and dabbing at his mouth. “Pray continue.”
“It’s funny you should say that, Reverend,” said the woman, her eyes bright with nervousness, “because I belong to a small group of ladies who run, well, a god-of-the-month club. Er…that is, we pick a god and believe in him…or her, obviously, or it, although we draw the line at the ones with teeth and too many legs, er, and foreign ones, of course, and then we pray to them for a month and then we sit down and discuss it. Well, there’s so many, aren’t there. Thousands! We’ve never really considered Om, though, but if you would care to give us a little talk next Tuesday I’m sure we’ll be happy to give him a jolly good try!”
Springs pinged as Cribbins gave her a huge smile.
“What is your name, shister?” he asked.
“Berenice,” she said. “Berenice, er, Houser.”
Ah, no longer using the bastard’s name, very wise, thought Cribbins. “What a wonderful idea, Berenish,” he said. “I would consider it a pleshure!”
She beamed.
“There wouldn’t be any biscuits, would there, Berenish?” Cribbins added.
Ms. Houser blushed. “I believe I have some chocolate ones somewhere,” she volunteered, as if letting him in on a big secret.
“May Anoia rattle your drawers, shister,” said Cribbins to her retreating back.
Wonderful, he thought, as she bustled off, blushing and happy. He tucked his notebook into his jacket and sat back and listened to the ticking of the clock on the wall and the gentle snores of the beggars, who were the normal habitués of this office on a hot afternoon. All was peaceful, settled, organized, just like life ought to be.
It was going to be the gravy boat