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of clinging normaley that made me want to scream, and at the same time left me
unable even to whimper. Whatever it was, I had to get out of here.
"I have an errand I have to run," I said, and they all looked at me with
wounded surprise.
"Oh," Rita said. "What kind of errand?"
"Wedding business," I blurted out, without any idea what I was going to say
next, but trusting the impulse blindly. And happily for me, at least one thing
went right, because I remembered my conversation with the blushing, groveling
Vince Masuoka. "I have to talk to the caterer."
Rita lit up. "You're going to see Manny Borque? Oh," she said. "That's
really-"
"Yes, it is," I assured her. "I'll be back later." And so at the reasonable
Saturday-morning time of fifteen minutes before ten o'clock, I bid a fond
farewell to dirty dishes and domesticity, and climbed into my car. It was an
unusually calm morning on the roads, and I saw no violence or crime of any
kind as I drove to South Beach, which was almost like seeing snow at the
Fontainebleau. Things being what they were for me lately, I kept an eye on the
rearview mirror. For just a minute I thought that a little red Jeep-style car
was following me, but when I slowed down it went right past me. The traffic
stayed light, and it was still only ten fifteen when I had parked my car, rode
up in the elevator, and knocked on Manny Borque's door.
There was a very long spell of utter silence, and I knocked again, a little
more enthusiastically this time. I was about to try a truly rousing salute on
the door when it swung open and an exceedingly bleary and mostly naked Manny
Borque blinked up at me. "Jesus' tits," he croaked. "What time is it?"
"Ten fifteen," I said brightly. "Practically time for lunch."
Perhaps he wasn't really awake, or perhaps he thought it was so funny it was
worth saying again, but in any case he repeated himself: "Jesus' tits."
"May I come in?" I asked him politely, and he blinked a few more times and
then pushed the door open all the way.
"This better be good," he said, and I followed him in, past the hideous
art-thing in his foyer and on to his perch by the window. He hopped up onto
his stool, and I sat on the one opposite.
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"I need to talk to you about my wedding," I said, and he shook his head very
grumpily and squealed out, "Franky!" There was no answer and he leaned on one
tiny hand and tapped the other on the table. "That little bitch had
better-Goddamn it,Franky !" he called out in something like a very
high-pitched bellow.
A moment later there was a scurrying sound from the back of the apartment,
and then a young man came out, pulling a robe closed as he hurried in and
brushing back his lank brown hair as he came to a halt in front of Manny.
"Hi," he said. "I mean, you know. Good morning."
"Get coffee very quickly," Manny said without looking up at him.
"Um," Franky said. "Sure. Okay." He hesitated for half a second, just long
enough to give Manny time to fling out his minuscule fist and shriek, "Now,
goddamn it!" Franky gulped and lurched away toward the kitchen, and Manny went
back to leaning his full eighty-five pounds of towering grumpiness on his fist
and closing his eyes with a sigh, as though he were tormented by numberless
hordes of truly idiotic demons.
Since it seemed obvious that there could be no possibility of conversation
without coffee, I looked out the window and enjoyed the view. There were three
large freighters on the horizon, sending up plumes of smoke, and closer in to
shore a good scattering of pleasure boats, ranging from the
multimillion-dollar playtoys headed for the Bahamas all the way down to a
cluster of Windsurfers in close to the beach. A bright yellow kayak was
offshore, apparently heading out to meet the freighters. The sun shone, the
gulls flew by searching for garbage, and I waited for Manny to receive his
transfusion.
There was a shattering crash from the kitchen, and Franky's muted wail of
"Oh,shit ." Manny tried to close his eyes tighter, as if he could seal out all
the agony of being surrounded by terrible stupidity. And only a few minutes
later, Franky arrived with the coffee service, a silver semi-shapeless pot and
three squat stoneware cups, perched on a transparent platter shaped like an
artist's palette.
With trembling hands Franky placed a cup in front of Manny and poured it
full. Manny took a tiny sip, sighed heavily without any sense of relief, and
opened his eyes at last. "All right," he said. And turning to Franky, he
added, "Go clean up your hideous mess, and if I step on broken glass later, I
swear toGod I will disembowel you." Franky stumbled away, and Manny took
another microscopic sip before turning his bleary glare on me. "You want to
talk about your wedding," he said as if he couldn't really believe it.
"That's right," I said, and he shook his head.
"A nice-looking man like you," he said. "Why onearth would you want to get
married?"
"I need the tax break," I said. "Can we talk about the menu?"
"At the crack of dawn, on a Saturday? No," he said. "It's a horrible,
pointless, primitive ritual," and I assumed he was talking about the wedding
rather than the menu, although with Manny one really couldn't be sure. "I am
truly appalled that anyone wouldwillingly go through with it. But," he said,
waving his hand dismissively, "at least it gives me a chance to experiment."
"I wonder if it might be possible to experiment a little cheaper."
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"It might be," he said and for the first time he showed his teeth, but it
could only be called a smile if you agree that torturing animals is funny,
"but it just won't happen."
"Why not?"
"Because I've already decided what I want to do, and there's nothing you can
do to stop me."
To be perfectly truthful there were several things I could think of to stop
him, but none of them-enjoyable as they might be-would pass the strict
guidelines of the Harry Code, and so I could not do them. "I don't suppose
sweet reason would have any effect?" I asked hopefully.
He leered at me. "How sweet did you have in mind?" he said.
"Well, I was going to say please and smile a lot," I said.
"Not good enough," he said. "Not by a great deal."
"Vince said you were guessing five hundred dollars a plate?"
"I don'tguess ," he snarled. "And I don't give ashit about counting your
fucking pennies."
"Of course not," I said, trying to soothe him a bit. "After all, they're not
your pennies."
"Your girlfriend signed the fucking contract," he said. "I can charge you
anything I fucking feel like."
"But there must be something I can do to get the price down a little?" I said
hopefully.
His snarl loosened into his patented leer again. "Not in a chair," he said.
"Then what can I do?"
"If you mean what can you do to get me to change my mind, nothing. Not a
thing in the world. I have people lined up around the block trying to hire
me-I am booked two years in advance, and I am doing you a very large favor."
His leer widened into something almost supernatural. "So prepare yourself for
a miracle. And a very hefty bill."
I stood up. The little gnome was obviously not going to bend in the least, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]