On Archimedes Street (32 page)

But before consigning this train of thought to his mental scrapyard—Achille practiced a strict regimen of mental hygiene, willfully forgetting the unimportant or irrelevant—he racked his brain as he always did when he was in possession of some secret knowledge or harbored some suspicion. Was this knowledge, if true, of any possible use? Could he use it to his advantage with Dutch? With Say-Say? Most certainly not in the latter case; in the former, perhaps, if he wanted to steer Dutch toward Frenchy. But that plan could certainly backfire. God knows how Dutch would react, or Flip for that matter. It might destroy their happiness, and he saw no reason for that unless the advantage was significant.

Belinda didn’t enter into his calculus at all. She was a stranger. Could this knowledge be of use with Paule? He didn’t see how—and then a subtle scenario, worthy of Machiavelli, played out in his mind. Yes, he’d pursue this, get to the bottom of it. And if it was true….
Yes. Some leverage over Paule. And God knows that I need every arrow in my quiver when dealing with that sly, immensely rich, and beautiful fox.

How to find out? Of course. Occam’s razor. The simplest way. He picked up the phone. “Angie? Will you scare up Claude Vandevoorde? Yes, the Redemptorist provost.”

Achille waited for the phone to ring. Claude was in no position to deny him any sort of favor, much less this insignificant, though vaguely improper, one.

“Claude? Achille Abbott here. Listen, I need a little favor. Can you get into student records and give me the home address and next of kin of a student of yours? Last name Abbott, spelled just like mine. Goes by ‘Flip.’ Don’t know what that’s short for; ‘Philip,’ I imagine. He’s buddied up with Dutch, and I’d like to reach out to his folks, propose a surprise trip for the boys. By this afternoon, if you can get a hold of the registrar by then. Excellent, thanks!”

In thirty minutes he had his answer. The mother’s name was indeed Belinda. Achille quickly rejected the possibility of coincidence. And his mind began to turn and churn in that smoothly oiled, disciplined way.

B
EATRICE
DAWDLED
in Gretna after picking up the Abbott laundry from the front porch of the shotgun double and stowing it in the pink van. The Abbott boys didn’t answer the bell, which was unusual. She hadn’t wanted to leave the dry cleaning and washing on the porch because it threatened rain. So, she’d left it with that nice Miz Rita next door. Imagine—she was about to marry Doodie Robey, a deacon at Mount Calvary, her church. Very well respected. She and Doodie were only nodding acquaintances, but maybe she’d stop by his hardware store and say how-do anyway. She wasn’t eager in the least to return to work. But first she’d stop in at LaNasa’s, see if she could afford any of the fish.

They sure had been fixing LaNasa’s up. Week after week, there was some change. The old sign, with “Raymond LaNasa, Prop.” was gone. In its place was a new one, of the same size and with the same old-timey lettering, proclaiming simply, “LaNasa’s,” and in smaller lettering below, “Your neighborhood greengrocer since 1937.” A popular addition had been the machine into which patrons could feed loose change in return for a voucher for folding money. Apparently, many locals had the habit of stowing change in penny jars or catchalls atop dressers but no patience for tediously sorting coins and stuffing them into cardboard rolls. Beatrice made a mental note to bring in her five mayonnaise jars full of nickels, dimes, pennies, and the rare quarter that didn’t find its way into Loo-loot’s or Dennis’s pocket.

Three men loitered at the back, each waiting his turn to christen that new curiosity, the waterless urinal, with his own blameless stream, then watch the pulsating puddle of blue gel, just barely visible below the ceramic dome of the drain, accept and transmogrify it through some mysterious alchemy. Among them was Doodie.

“Why, Deacon Robey! I was jes’ thinking of droppin’ inna your store. Who mindin’ it?”

“Nephew. Gettin’ ol’, Miz Beatrice. Givin’ up a lot of the day-to-day to him and my udder counterman. Might need to hire enudder.”

“Well, natural. Now dat you gettin’ marry’ an’ all. Congra-du-lations, by the way.”

“Thank you. Nebber too late for love, what I say. How dem boys of yours?”

Beatrice rehearsed Loo-loot’s virtues at some length, causing Doodie to fidget in annoyance. He actually needed the urinal, and soon. Lord! Women loved to gab! Doodie just let the talk of violins and scholarships wash over him, paying very little attention.

“But den dere’s Dennis.” Beatrice frowned. Then sighed. “He kep’ back las’ year, repeat grade sebben. He almos’ repeat grade six too, but den the teacher jes’ got tire’ of him and pass’ him to sebben anyways.”

At that moment, Wailin’ Elwood stepped out of the men’s. “Wondah how dat woik. What dat blue goo is?” he told no one in particular. Then he heard what Beatrice was saying to Doodie.

“Swear dat boy can’t spell ‘cat.’ Think he cut class alla the time. Say he ’shamed. Worry, and dat’s the truth.”

“I can help your boy,” Elwood interrupted eagerly. A fiery conviction had been burning inside Elwood for some time now—a deeply felt need to help kids see that learning was easy, was fun, if you approached it in the right spirit and with the right teacher. And he wanted desperately to be that very teacher. Saturday morning chanting was okay, but it could never be transformative. He wanted to open doors for someone as they had been opened for him.

“Dat boy soun’ jes’ like me when I was….” and then he remembered that Doodie was right there and stopped midconfidence.

Doodie gave a tight little grin. “Miz Beatrice, let me present you to Wailin’ Elwood the Tree Man. Wailin’ Elwood, dis Miz Beatrice, who drive the pink laundry wagon. Elwood sing chants about the alphabet an’ spellin’, an’ sums. Kids eat it up.”

“Howdy.”

“Very pleased. Do you really think you can help my boy? ’Fraid he gettin’ in wit’ the wrong crowd.”

“I sure I can!”

“Well, how much woodja charge for it?”

Elwood was unprepared for the question. He’d never thought about money, but maybe it would look suspicious if he offered his services for free. “Lemme think.”

“Miz Beatrice ain’t made outta money, Elwood.”

“Tell you what. He woik, your boy? For money?”

“He sing and tap in the Quawtahs some nights. Make a little, not much.”

“Well, I put him to woik! In my tree bid’ness. Pay him minimal wage, an’ I won’t chawge him none for the lessons.”

This sounded almost too good to be true. A job, a little extra money coming in, a tutor: something to keep Dennis off the streets and away from its temptations and snares. Like crack cocaine. Beatrice shifted her eyes to Doodie, seeking reassurance and guidance. He gave a small nod.

“I except. I except for him. You tell me if he don’t show, an’ I have his tail. When can he begin? An’ where?”

Lotte’s voice crackling over the new intercom interrupted the contract being sealed. “Armida, take regista four!” The store, they noticed, was bustling. There was a delicious smell of something being roasted or stewed wafting from the back kitchen. Beatrice was suddenly hungry.

Chapter 44

F
LIP
LAY
on the living room sofa, poring over the schedule of classes for next year. The first of June was swelteringly hot, and it found both men shirtless, shoeless, and in obscenely brief and bulging gym shorts. The air conditioner wheezed ineffectually in the background, and both were filmed in sweat. “I need an English credit next semester.”

“Hmm,” said Dutch, from the desk. He was online, surfing San Francisco tourist sites. “You think it’s worth going to Alcatraz? Probably a tourist trap.” Achille had surprised Dutch and Flip with two first-class, round-trip tickets to San Francisco and a hotel booking. “You know what the temp in SF is today? Sixty-five! Four weeks of sixty-five. I can’t wait. This heat is positively
putrid
.”

“You’re putrid yourself, and no, I’m not gonna look it up. Which do you think—Victorian Lit? The Novels of Jane Austen? The Modern Novel?”

“Not The Modern Novel. We’re definitely doing the Gay Pride Parade thing. Promises to be a display of dissolute dissipation. Haw. A spectacle of sybaritic surplus. Wanna dress up? I think you’d look good in chaps with your ass hanging out, like this shameless bawd.” Dutch held up his laptop for Flip to see.

“Meh.” He frowned at the screen. “Dutch, I feel strange accepting this trip from your dad. He acted like it was a done deal. Didn’t even give me the chance to refuse. My mom was expecting me to come home this summer.”

“Oh, get over it. He’s rolling in it. He’ll never miss it—it’s chump change to him. And your mom would want you to see the world, wouldn’t she?”

“Still….”

“Cheese and rice! Look at these two, buck naked and practically copulating on Market Street!” Dutch angled the laptop again so Flip could see. Dutch was intrigued and vaguely aroused by the thought of public sex. He put the laptop aside and gazed intently at Flip, who was looking very hot, literally and figuratively. A rivulet of sweat ran from his neck down the valley between his pecs and made its way onto the blond fuzz below his navel. Dutch could smell his sharp tang, even though Flip had showered recently. “Ever fantasize about doing it in public?”

“Pervert.”

“And proud of it.” Dutch rose and ambled over suggestively to the sofa where Flip slouched among the Redemptorist course offerings. He bent to put his face near Flip’s armpit and licked at the crease there. “Your apocrine glands are in overdrive today, you hot piece of tail, you.”

“I resent being called a piece of tail, you asshole!” Flip shoved at him. “Now, I’m serious—Victorian Lit or The Novels of Jane Austen?”

Dutch was persistent. “Oh, Austen, definitely.” He pulled down the skimpy shorts to Flip’s knees and puffed softly on his uncut meat, which plumped. “Austen’s right up your alley.” He used two fingers to pull the foreskin back and stroke it slowly. “There’s
Pride and Pre-juice
….”

“Ass!” But after half a minute of stroking, there was indeed some clear slick beading up at the slit. Dutch licked it off with a quick swipe.

“There’s
Enema
….” He buried his fingers in Flip’s pubic hair. “There’s
Low-Hanger Abbey
….” He lifted the balls and nuzzled behind them.

Flip’s whole body stiffened. “
Don’t.
” But nonetheless he used his big feet to work out of his shorts altogether.

Dutch rose, shrugged off and tossed his gym shorts, and knelt on the sofa between Flip’s spread knees. He brought the calves to his shoulders, spat on his fingers, and reached to smear the spit where he wanted it. “There’s
Semen and Sensibility
. There’s
Mansfield Pork
. There’s
Perver-suasion
….”

Flip thought the titles were very funny, but he didn’t let on. He frowned and struggled out of Dutch’s grip, then sprang to his feet. It was time to use Diminutiva’s
truc
.

“Sorry!” Flip smirked a dimple into existence. “
Oc
-cu-pied,” he sang.

“What do you mean occu….”

The light dawned. “Oh.” He made a face. “Eeew.”

“Must be all this rich Creole food. I find it very binding, don’t you?”

“Wha…. Well, no, I don’t…. I’m not….” Dutch seemed a little unsettled at this discomfiting disclosure. His dick, suddenly flaccid, wilted over his balls.

“Is that so?
Interesting.
” Flip hadn’t lost his erection. He hauled Dutch to his feet and spat onto his hand, slicked up his cock, and pushed the foreskin back. “Well, then. Work some spit into yourself. Get your
unoccupied
self ready for some occupation. I wanna see you put your fingers into it. Go ahead. Finger yourself. Make me hot.”

“I’m not in the mood, as you can plainly see.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” He shoved him up against the front door and brought one dark-furred leg up over the crook of his elbow. He held up the other hand to Dutch’s chin. “Spit on my fingers.” Dutch just looked at him. “Spit, or I swear I’ll take you dry.” Reluctantly, Dutch spat.

Flip fingered him with that spit for a few seconds, then angled his hips for entry. When the glans was on the pucker, he braced a hand against the door and jabbed up sharply.

Dutch still wasn’t hard. “Shit. Slow down. Cheese and rice. That hurts!”

“No, it doesn’t.” Flip brought his teeth to a nipple and gave it a vicious bite.

Dutch howled in protest. “Fuck! What do you think you’re doing? That’s not funn—”

“Forgot all about your ass, didn’t you? Now say, ‘Ream me good with that big dick.’” Another sharp jab.

“Ow!”

“Say it!”

Dutch’s eyes blazed in anger. But, like a cobra, his traitor cock swelled and rose at the spoken filth.

“Say it!” Flip circled his hips, giving a little thrust at the end.

“Ream me good with that big dick,” he whispered.

That was all the encouragement Flip needed. He was only an inch in, but he withdrew to the muscular ring and plunged in halfway with no further preparation.

“Fuck! Slow down! Shit, you’re big.”

But Flip didn’t slow down. “Shucks. It’s just a little pencil.” He brought his other arm under the standing leg, and now Dutch was off the floor, legs on the crooks of Flip’s elbows and torso trapped between Flip and the front door. Flip hunched down, and gravity impaled Dutch on the upwardly mobile member.

“Fuck! You animal!”

“Oh, yeah. Open up for Papa. Who’s the hot piece of tail
now
? Nice, tight, and so hot it’s burning up my dick.” Then Flip started a relentless hammering of Dutch’s ass, plunging in and out with such force that the door rattled on its hinges. After five minutes of this onslaught, Dutch’s dick was standing tall, and, despite the discomfort, leaking profusely in silvery strings that stretched between his dick slit and Flip’s torso as he moved up and down. At each vigorous thrust, he yielded further. Slowly, the discomfort turned to pleasure, and from pleasure to euphoric delirium. He was flying, dandled like a baby in Flip’s strong grasp while being fucked into next week.