Cockeyed - Stevenson Richard - Страница 35
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Art said, “That lady who died was a farmer. Maybe she went the way she always wanted to go.”
“I can see Mom keeling over at Applebee’s with a huge plate of nachos in front of her. She would be dying happy.”
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“Like mother, like son,” Art said. “A fatal helping of Applebee’s nachos sounds like just the ticket for you, dear one.
In fact, include me in. Or would we rather die in the sack with a pair of humpy rugby players sitting on our faces?”
Hunny laughed. “That’s a tough one.”
Nelson shot a glance at me — he badly wanted me to be his ally in disapproving of Hunny and Art’s far-from-Noel-Coward-like sexual humor — but I found myself letting him down, and I was almost sorry I could not oblige. Though I did hope that Hunny could find a way to contain himself in the future when on national television.
“Well, let’s get going then,” Nelson said. “Lawn and I are driving back over to East Greenbush to see how Mother is doing, and I guess you’ll be talking to Antoine. Right, Uncle Hunny? I’ll get the name of the motel.”
“Yes, but I do have to do one thing. My old boss at BJ’s called earlier and said most of the staff had quit because I was going to give them all a million dollars. The managers are having trouble both with stocking and at the checkouts, and Earl asked me if I would urge the gals and guys to come back temporarily and then give a week’s notice after I presented them with their checks.
I said I would do that for the sake of the customers who are apparently waiting an eternity to get out to the parking lot with their three hundred rolls of toilet paper, so I have to make a few phone calls.”
“Okay.”
“One other thing, Nelson. Tell Lawn I will invest some money with him — maybe a million or so — as a favor to you and my sister. But the bulk of my fortune, whether or not it includes the half a billion the Brienings are after, is going to be placed in safe investments that are socially responsible. I was just thinking about this after something Arthur said, and my plan is to invest heavily in — for one thing — Applebee’s. tgi Friday’s also, even though it has some unpleasant associations for me now, what with the kidnapping scam and the tgi‘s Dumpster’s role in that. But I love their nachos, too. I just want you and Lawn to CoCkeyed 159
understand that this is the first time anybody in our family ever had such a huge amount of money, and I simply am not about to take any chances with it.”
Nelson did not sigh or roll his eyes over this announcement.
He looked as if he could not figure out for the life of him exactly how to respond.
ChAPteR twenty-thRee
Quentin Shoemaker and eight of his Radical Drama Queen friends arrived around eleven that night. They had a big wooden box full of the paraphernalia Quentin said they would need for any “action” that might be called for. Among the six was Ethan Kulak, the Rdq‘s psychic, and Savion Davenport, the commune’s astrologer. Kulak was even tinier than Shoemaker, with intense black eyes and a small round mouth that made him look as if he was always about to say something starting with a W. Davenport was also skinny, and had a brown bony face and enough dreadlocks for a small sheep to get lost in. The communards were all in raggedy shorts or jeans and T-shirts, except for a rugged older man named Graham who wore a Hawaiian grass skirt and halter top.
Antoine had gone off to work the overnight shift at Golden Gardens, but Marylou and the twins were in the living room monitoring the eleven o’clock local newscasts for any reports on Mrs. Van Horn, or any new outbreaks of anti-Hunny activity.
The rest of us gathered in the kitchen, where Shoemaker astonished Hunny, Art and me by declaring, “Ethan and Savion have consulted the heavens, the spiritual and energy flows, and each other. And they can say with some degree of certainty, Hunny, that your mother is at the present moment in the town of Lake George.”
“Whoa. Really?”
“That’s amazing,” Art said.
Kulak had placed the photograph of Mrs. Van Horn that Shoemaker borrowed earlier in the center of the kitchen table.
She grinned up at us, and just at the bottom of the frame was the top of a cocktail glass with a swizzle stick peeking out.
“Whereabouts in Lake George?” Hunny asked. “And what is she doing? Is she well? Is she being held captive or anything?”
“Your mother is asleep right now,” Kulak said. “So it wouldn’t 162 Richard Stevenson
be good to call her even if we had her number. She is healthy and contented but somewhat worn out.”
“Wow. How can you tell that?”
“Savion Googled her name, and that helped. There was some kind of blog saying she had been seen in Lake George.”
Hunny’s face drooped. “Oh. You’re getting your information from Tom In Paine. Now I don’t know. That guy is an idiot.”
“Yes, I know he is, but we confirmed the sighting,” Davenport said. “Your mother’s sign of Jupiter is entering the seventh house, and today is August seventeenth, so she is sure to be equidistant between Saratoga Springs and Schroon Lake. That has to be Lake George.”
Hunny looked at Art, who shrugged. “Why the hell not?”
I said, “So you guys have a wireless laptop you carry around to make your calculations?”
“I’ve got my Blackberry,” Shoemaker said. “And Ethan has his human mind.”
I said, “So, Ethan, can your human mind come up with an address for us where Mrs. Van Horn can be found?”
Nelson had phoned earlier to tell us that the motel where Rita and Miriam Van Horn used to like to stay was called the Silvery Moon. We had let Antoine know about that, but no one else had yet been told.
Kulak said, “I am fairly sure it’s the Super 8, but I’m not one hundred percent certain.”
“Hunny and Art’s friend Antoine, along with Tyler and Schuyler, who you met out in the other room, are going to take a drive up to Lake George in the morning to try to check out the supposed sighting of Mrs. Van Horn. Maybe a couple of you could ride along and add your extrasensory gPs.”
The Rdqers agreed to do that and asked if they could spend the night in Art and Hunny’s house. They said they had their Tibetan prayer mats they could sleep on, and they had brought their own dried head cheese breakfast cakes. Hunny said, sure, CoCkeyed 163
there was plenty of room. I said they were also welcome to Hunny and Art’s guest room and I would spend the night at home. I thought about inviting some of them to come over and spread their mats out at the foot of Timmy’s and my bed but concluded that Timmy’s bemusement might be limited.
I asked Hunny to walk with me out to my car. It was a hot moonlit buggy August night on Moth Street. We passed the two security guys sitting on the porch, and one of them said to me,
“Are those hippies?”
“You could call them that. I doubt if they would use the word.”
“They look like they are.”
“That word is mostly used now for revivals of Hair. These guys aren’t actors. They’re genuine.”
“I just wondered.”
When we got out to my car, I said to Hunny, “You know, Quentin and his crew are full of shit.”
“I thought they might be.”
“They are good and sweet and decent, but they have no more idea where your mother is than Bill O’Malley does, or the balloon boy.”
“I know. But Quentin is nice to me and he doesn’t treat me like I’m a bad gay person and a traitor to gays just because I’m so fun-loving and enjoy a stiff one once in a while. Oh, I mean drink,” he added and chortled.
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice blowjob, Donald?”
“No.”
“It relieves tension.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I guess you’re getting it at home.”
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