Harvey Porter Does Dallas (6 page)

“What linkage?” asked Wilberta.

“All kinds,” she answered. “Linkage to history, to vast areas of the world, to Dallas and Ft. Worth, even to the very cosmos itself.”

“Linkage to Dallas and Ft. Worth?” asked Wilberta. “Does that mean he could indeed be a relative of ours.”

“That's a real possibility. Or it could mean historical linkage in our area.”

“That's it?” asked Mushrush impatiently.
This is just great; I've spent $20 dollars on calzones and cookies, fouled my car and home and clothing just for linkage?

“Oh, but it means a great deal,” Ingrid asserted. “With his
linkage
it means he has strong connections to history and the entire cosmos.”

“Are we done here?” asked Harvey impatiently.

“We can be.”

“Good. Since I've put up with this crap for almost an hour, I've got a few questions for you,” he told her.

“Fire away,” said Ingrid, with that witchy smile.

“Okay,” said Harvey. “First of all you got a bathtub or shower in that house of yours?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, use it. Your smell is nasty. It sucks.”

“What?” gasped Ingrid Finch as the smile disappeared from her face.

“I think you heard me.”

“Do you realize how insulting this is?”

“Yeah,” Harvey replied, “But I don't really care. Now don't get funky on me 'cause I've got a couple other questions.”

“I can only hope they aren't as insulting as your first one.”

“Yeah, go ahead and hope for that. Have you got a washing machine?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good. Use it too. All those layers of scarves just gross me out. Wash 'em once in a while. That's part of the bad smell problem.”‘

“Well, even more insults!” huffed Ingrid. “I've never seen such an impolite young man. And after all I've done for you! You need some lessons in polite behavior.” She got to her feet and started relocating her layers of scarves around her shoulders. Some of them reached below her waist.

Harvey said, “What you did for me is give me a pounding headache. What happened to all that super
linkage
? I'll be headed for the Tylenol bottle. And you'll thank me for it someday. In the meantime, I've got one more question.”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“Yeah, well we don't always get what we want. Those fingernails of yours; you got some clippers and a nail file?”

“I don't intend to respond to any more of your outrageously offensive questions.”

“I'll take that as a yes. Trim 'em and clean 'em up. The next guy you read may lose an eyeball. If they were clean, it might be different, but they're gross with dirt. Now that we're done, I'm gonna have to wash my whole face with soap and water. Right after I take the Tylenol. Okay, that's it.”

“Well, I should certainly hope so!” snapped the indignant psychic.

Bailey couldn't believe the exchange he had just witnessed. For the first time in three weeks, he liked Harvey Porter! How many of his office co-workers had longed to say these things to Ingrid for more than twenty years! And Harvey was neat and clean, with good table manners. Bailey had to give credit where it was due. He hoped that if
any
of Harvey rubbed off on his own children it was the table manners.

“In all my years I've never.…” huffed Ingrid as she headed straight for the front door. “Here's your pizza and calzone and that stuff,” said Bailey as he held up a white paper bag with grease spots.

Ingrid snatched it without speaking before throwing open the front door and charging outside. She was halfway down the sidewalk when Bailey hollered after her: “The Dr. Pepper is still in the car!”

“The hell with the Dr. Pepper!”

Bailey closed the front door and breathed a sigh of relief. His wife said, “I'll clean and deodorize tomorrow.”

“How's she gonna get home?” Bobo asked. “She's got no wheels.”

“She'll probably figure that out and come back,” said Bailey. “Or, if we're lucky, she'll take a cab or a bus.”

It was about 10:30 when Harvey was getting undressed to put on his pajamas. His pajamas were a pair of Los Angeles Lakers basketball shorts and a black t-shirt with a picture of Jimi Hendrix. Bobo was on his cot in the closet, but still had the overhead light on. He had a sad frown.

“Why the long face, Bobo? Excuse me. Glendon. Why the long face, Glendon?”

“How'd you find out?”

“Oh, I just keep my ears open.”

“I bet my mom told you.”

“Let's just leave it as a mystery, huh Glendon? So what's with the sad face?”

“I got a detention at school today.”

“A detention, Glendon? What were we doing?”

“It was from Mr. Bartholomew, in health class. He was talking about the epidemic of overweight teenagers in America.”

“And you argued with him.”

“Yes I did. That's all I did. But he wrote me the detention for
talking back
.

“Talking back, Glendon
?” Harvey pretended to shiver and said “Oooooh.”

“What?”

“Glendon, this is serious. Talking back is right up there with chewin' gum in class.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” He turned out his light.

8. SPECIAL ALTERNATIVE SCHOOL

Harvey liked his new residential school right away. He liked it from day one. He didn't even miss a day of classroom work; the SAS began its fall semester on September 11. Mr. M. dropped him. “I sure hope this works out for you, Harvey. Good luck.”

“Well, Mr. M., I want to thank you for puttin' me up. And for puttin' up with me.”

“Aw shucks, Harvey it was our pleasure.”

“Let's don't bullshit each other, Mr. M. Let's just leave it like it is. But I've got two cents if you wanna hear it.”

“Advice?”

“Yeah, you might put it that way.”

Bailey Mushrush was in such a grand mood (now that Harvey Porter was no longer living at his house) that he was ready for anything. “Fire away!”

“You need to get Mrs. M. out of that dirty canning factory. She's too nice a lady. She doesn't deserve that. I'd say, cut back on all of that expensive crap you buy. Then you wouldn't need the 40 bucks she gets every day.”

“I'll tell you what, Harvey, I'll turn one of your favorite expressions right back at you: I'll take it under advisement.”

Harvey laughed. He couldn't help it. “Okay then. Oh—” he said, as he was taking his suitcase out of the car—“One more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Tell BoBo I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Just.… just tell him okay? He'll know what I mean.”

He entered the first floor lobby, put down his suitcase and just looked.
God, this is the Texas School Book Depository where that chickenshit Oswald shot President Kennedy
. He knew he would have to visit the sixth floor as soon as possible.

He looked at the long information counter and the office cubicles around the perimeter. There was also a huge lounge with couches and easy chairs and a TV. The lounge must have been 40 feet long, at least. He saw a bald guy with thick glasses, who was also using a huge magnifying class to read transcripts in small print. He introduced himself to the man, whose name turned out to be Weber Weeble. He asked Weber Weeble if he could give him directions to Headmaster D'artagnan's office.

“Sure. Go on up to the fourth floor. That's where the administrative offices are located.”

“Thanks, bro.” Harvey chose to use the stairs instead of the elevator. He passed the second and third floor dormitories on the way. He found D'artagnan's office open, and the headmaster was free at the moment.

He welcomed Harvey. “Welcome to SAS. Your paperwork is in order. Do you have the books on the reading list?”

“Got 'em all,” said Harvey. “I've even started reading the one on Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Good for you.”

“Can I ask you about your name?” said Harvey.

D'artagnan sighed wearily and rubbed his closed eyelids. “Sure. Go ahead. What would you like to know?”

“Well, you used to be a cop, right?”

“That's right.”

“I'm just thinkin'—no offense—but that doesn't sound like a cop's name at all.”

“Oh. And you know all the cops?”

“No,” Harvey admitted.

The headmaster waved his hand. “It doesn't matter. I've been asked that question for 25 years. The way it happened was, my mother was really into the
Three Musketeers
books. But my father insisted on
Devin
. My mother wouldn't budge on the D'artagnan thing, so they gave me that as my last name.”

“You mean you don't even have the same last name as your parents?”

“That's right. Weird, huh? Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher and they live in Corpus Christi.”

“It's not so weird really,” said Harvey. “It's kind of like you and I have something in common.”

“How's that?”

“It's a long story. You can read all the details in the letter Mrs. M. added to the application. Maybe we'll talk about it some other time. But I've got another question.”

“Which is?”

“Why do you call yourself ‘headmaster' instead of ‘principal?'”

“Well, this is an alternative school, so I thought an alternative title might be appropriate. Kind of like in England.”

“Does the SAS have anything to do with England?”

“No. It doesn't. Do you always ask so many questions?”

“I gotta admit,” Harvey answered. “I've got a real curious streak in me.”

“Curious streaks can get you into trouble.”

“Don't I know it!” said Harvey.

“Well,” said D'artagnan. “Let's drop all this chit-chat and get you settled. There are empty beds in 2A. That would be on the second floor. Each bed has a large hutch at the end for your clothes and personal items. I'm sure you'll find them roomy enough to suit you.”

“Thanks,” said Harvey as he left the office. He went down to dorm 2A. 2B was just across the hall. Each dorm room had 20 beds, ten down each side. Harvey did the math in his head. If all the dorm rooms were like these two, then SAS couldn't enroll more than 80 students. Small is good, he thought.

Harvey didn't like what he saw in 2A. He saw the three or four beds that were empty. There were several guys lying around reading comic books and
Penthouse
magazines.

He went up to the third floor and figured out the landscape. Here were dorms 3A and 3B. 3B was for the girls. 3A was another dorm room for boys.
I need to be on this floor
, he thought. I need to be where the
chicas
are. There were two dormitories for the boys on the second floor, and a third on third floor. Only one for girls. “Not very good odds,” Harvey mumbled to himself.

He went into 3A. There were several guys here too, lying around and reading comic books or
Hustler
magazine. It was quiet; there wasn't much talking. Harvey could tell, by looking at the hutches at the end of the beds, that this dorm was filled. There were no beds available.

On a bed near the door lay a long, skinny, pimply guy who looked about fifteen. He was reading an
Incredible Hulk
comic. Harvey sat on the empty bed next to him and said, “My name's Harvey Porter. What's yours?”

“Alberto Lichtenstein,” was the answer. Lichtenstein was one of those people who had the bouncing Adam's apple when he spoke. He sat up on the edge of his bed and shook hands with Harvey. “Pleased ta meetcha.”

“Well 'Berto, I'm pleased to meet you too. I think I've got a project the two of us need to work on.”

“What project?” Lichtenstein looked a little nervous.

“Let me ask you a question,” said Harvey. “What would you do if you wanted to move to a different bed in this dorm room?”

“I couldn't. They're all filled.”

“Just what I thought. No freedom of choice; no options.”

“Well, I guess you could say that.”

Harvey stood up. “Why don't you come with me for a minute? There's something I want to show you.”

“Is this the project?”

“Exactly.” Lichtenstein stood up, but Harvey could tell how tense and nervous he was. “Oh come on,” said Harvey. “It'll only take about five minutes and nobody's gonna hurt you.”

Reluctantly, Alberto Lichtenstein followed Harvey into the hallway. They made their way down the stairs to dorm room 2A, where the same few guys were still lazing around. Harvey wondered briefly why nobody was reading a book from the reading list.

Harvey put his arm around Lichtenstein's shoulders. “Look at this. Four empty beds.”

“So?”

“Choices, 'Berto,
choices
. On third floor, you have no choices, no options. In other words, no freedom.”

“But I don't want to move down here. I want to stay where I am.”

Harvey took him to the end of the south row, where there were three unoccupied beds. They could talk in private. Harvey gripped Alberto's left shoulder with his right hand. “Let me explain something. I'm not really
askin
' you. I'm
tellin
' you to look over the four empty beds and decide which one you like best.”

Lichtenstein looked at Harvey's swarthy complexion, the feral dark eyes, and the ragged forehead scar. He began to stutter: “How, h-h-how did you get that sc-scar of yours?”

“Oh God, 'Berto, if you had any idea how often I get this question. I'll make it short and sweet. I got it in a fight with Carlos Villanueva. He cut me with his blade, so I beat the shit out of him. I just left him there in the street, all doubled up, he couldn't even stand up.”