Part 31 (1/2)

”Arthur, I'm so worried about you. I spoke to your cousins yesterday, they tell me you're not doing so good there.”

”No, no I'm not.” The st.i.tches in my jaw throb in counterpoint with my back.

”I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn't have the details right. He said it didn't make any sense.”

”It doesn't. They don't care. They've just put me here.”

”He said that they should have let you put your own experts up when you had your hearing.”

”Well, of *course* they should have.”

”No, he said that they *had* to, that it was the law in Ma.s.sachusetts. He used to live there, you know.”

”I didn't know.”

”Oh yes, he had a congregation in Newton. That was before he moved to Toronto.

He seemed very sure of it.”

”Why was he living in Newton?”

”Oh, he moved there after university. He's a Harvard man, you know.”

”I think you've got that wrong. Harvard doesn't have a divinity school.”

”No, this was *after* divinity school. He was doing a psychiatry degree at Harvard.”

Oh, my.

”Oh, my.”

”What is it, Arthur?”

”Do you have Father Ferlenghetti's number, Gran?”

28.

Tonaishah's Kubrick-figure facepaint distorted into wild grimaces when Art banged into O'Malley House, racc.o.o.n-eyed with sleepdep, airline crud crusted at the corners of his lips, whole person quivering with righteous smitefulness. He commed the door savagely and yanked it so hard that the gas-lift snapped with a popping sound like a metal ruler being whacked on a desk. The door caromed back into his heel and nearly sent him sprawling, but he converted its momentum into a jog through the halls to his miniature office -- the last three times he'd spoken to Fede, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been working out of his office -- stealing his papers, no doubt, though that hadn't occurred to Art until his plane was somewhere over Ireland.

Fede was halfway out of Art's chair when Art bounded into the office. Fede's face was gratifyingly pale, his eyes thoroughly wide and scared. Art didn't bother to slow down, just slammed into Fede, bas.h.i.+ng foreheads with him. Art smelled a puff of his own travel sweat and Fede's spicy Lilac Vegetal, saw blood welling from Fede's eyebrow.

”Hi, pal!” he said, kicking the door shut with a crash that resounded through the paper-thin walls.

”Art! Jesus f.u.c.king Christ, what the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?” Fede backed away to the far corner of the office, sending Art's chair over backwards, wheels spinning, ergonomic adjustment k.n.o.bs and rods sticking up in the air like the legs of an overturned beetle.

”TunePay, Inc.?” Art said, booting the chair into Fede's s.h.i.+ns. ”Is that the best f.u.c.king name you could come up with? Or did Toby and Linda cook it up?”

Fede held his hands out, palms first. ”What are you talking about, buddy? What's wrong with you?”

Art shook his head slowly. ”Come on, Fede, it's time to stop blowing smoke up my c.o.c.k.”