On Archimedes Street (33 page)

“Yeah, do it! Take it all! Claim it!”

Flip stopped midthrust and stilled. “Say, ‘I’m a slutty little piece of tail.’”

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.”

“Say it!”

“I’m a slutty little piece of tail!” he shouted.

Flip resumed his rhythm. He brought his lips to Dutch’s ear, bit the lobe, and whispered into it. “Say, ‘I’m a cheap little piece of slutty tail.’”

“
Talk
that talk!”

“Say it!”

“I’m a cheap little piece of slutty tail!” Dutch’s dick was bobbing rhythmically, alternately slapping against his belly and Flip’s chest like a metronome.

“Oh, yeah, oh shit. I’m gonna shoot my wad up your slutty hole. Almost… almost….”

The words, the sweaty musk, the electric jolts on the gland, all set Dutch on fire. He started to stroke himself.

“Say… again…,” Flip panted, pistoning in and out for all he was worth. The door was making a tremendous racket, creaking and rattling.

“I’m”—Dutch stroked himself to the words—“a… cheap… little… piece… of….”

Flip went crazy at what Dutch was saying, at the cock that slapped his chest, evidence of Dutch’s total arousal. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. He’d meant to keep the relentless pounding up, but he couldn’t help himself. It was just too much. He needed to come in a way he’d never needed to before. As he did, he let out a feral grunt. “Huunnhhh!”

Dutch felt the spasms and something warm and slick lubricating the final thrusts as he stroked and impaled himself. “Piece… of… slutty…
tail
!” he shouted. At
tail,
he came so violently that the spunk jetted onto Flip’s cheek, narrowly missing his eye. Flip’s knees gave, and they slumped to the floor, gasping.

After a few seconds, Dutch reached with his fingertips to collect some of the semen dripping from Flip’s face onto his torso. He smeared it savagely onto Flip’s lips, thrusting fingers against Flip’s clenched teeth. Flip twisted and turned his face, trying to evade those probing fingers.

“That’s for taking advantage. Eat my cum, you big bully!” Dutch growled.

“You mean the cum I just fucked out of you, you cheap piece of tail?”

“Eat it, fucker!” Dutch swabbed up some more and tried to force it into Flip’s mouth.

“No, no.” Flip scrunched away and sat, leaning his back against the door. He fought for breath, then reached for Dutch’s discarded gym shorts and swabbed his face and chest.

Dutch got up slowly, stretching and wincing, and made his way to the bathroom. From the living room, Flip heard Dutch drawing a bath. “My ass hurts,” he called from the bathroom.

“Aw, poor baby.” Flip wandered into the bathroom, where he loosed a torrent of urine into the toilet.

“You could kiss it and make it better.”

“Nah. It’s full of nasty spunk. Hygiene, Dabbott, hygiene.”

“Haw! At least it’s not full of shit. You know what?
You’re
full of shit, Flabbott. And not in the literal sense. You didn’t fool me for a second, Mr.
Occupied
.”

“You mean….”

“Yeah, I mean. If you ever try that again, I’ll fuck you so hard my cock will go up your ass and come out your gullet. Now get in this tub with me. You smell like cummy pecker.”

“And you love it.”

“W-e-e-l-l-l. Maybe. Get in here!”

Flip stepped gingerly into the gigantic, steaming bathtub. Dutch had placed towels all around the floor surrounding the tub. A wise precaution, because their combined bulk caused it to overflow. Flip’s feet were on Dutch’s chest, and Dutch’s at Flip’s side. With chins submerged, they faced each other across the tub.

“Rub my feet, and I’ll rub yours, Fulla Shit.”

“’Kay.” Flip started kneading the ball of one foot and the square, painstakingly cleaned toes. “Cheap piece of slutty tail.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Cheap piece of slutty tail.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

They lounged lazily, massaging each other’s feet, each content, and content to say nothing for a few minutes.

“Dutchie?”

“Whatie?” Dutch reached for the French hand-milled soap and started lathering Flip’s legs and thighs.

“It doesn’t feel right, taking this gift from your dad.”

“I already told you….”

“It’s just that lately, when I’ve been at your house, he’s been looking at me funny, possessively almost. Like he’s memorizing me or undressing me with his eyes or something.”

“Believe me, Pops does
not
want to undress you, with his eyes or with anything else. He’s a big old skirt chaser. Pussy houn’ of renown.” Dutch lay back and swiped at his pits briefly with the bar of soap, then wallowed indolently.

“Do you think he knows about us?”

Dutch shrugged, making the water ripple around his mouth. “Could be. Not much escapes his notice. Don’t think it would make much difference to him one way or another. Maybe that’s why he’s giving you this trip. Maybe he thinks of you as his son-in-law.”

“But I’m
not
his son-in-law.” He sounded a little wistful.

“Haw.” Dutch used his giant foot to splash water onto Flip’s face. “My ass begs to differ.” Another splash. “You big brute.” Splash. “
Animal.
”

H
ONORIA
HAD
persuaded Rita that black would not do for her wedding dress. Rita looked good, she thought, in the light-gray satin. It picked up the silver highlights in her salt-and-pepper—well, mostly salt—hair. For herself, she had chosen drab ecru lace. Dowdy, really—mousy. But it was the day for the bride to shine, and for the maid of honor to fade into the background. But neither woman was truly focused on her attire.

“I was on the porch, watering the begonias. Elwood was sauntering down the street with that mutt of his. What a dreamboat!”

“The mutt?” Honoria spoke through the pins between her lips. She was on her knees, pinning up the hem. “Yes, I would
love
to see Elwood in the altogether.”

“At any rate, the door to their apartment started to rattle and bulge. I swear it was coming off its hinges. And I heard him shout.”

“Who?”

“Dutch. I’m sure it was Dutch.”

“And what? Spill it, woman!” Honoria took the pins out of her mouth.

Rita whispered, “The door was almost buckling under the assault. And he said the most thrilling, beautiful thing”—she lowered her voice even further and repeated the words reverently—“
I’m a cheap little piece of slutty tail
!”

“No!”

“Yes! A truly Anglo-Saxon assertion.”

Honoria paused. “I feel dirty.”

“That’s because you
are
dirty, you debauched Celestina! You stage-managed the whole thing!”

“Well… they were meant for each other. So gratifying, to bring them together. So beautiful!”

“Hmmphh!”

“Don’t ‘hmmphh’ me, Rita! I see where your mind is headed. You can’t wait to tell Doodie that you’re a cheap little piece of slutty tail.”

“Well, yes. Those boys inspire me. But not on the wedding night. Later, after I’ve talked to his cardiologist. I think he’s got a big old snake in his pants, even if he is a nut-comer.”

At this, Honoria was thankful that she no longer had pins in her mouth. She would have aspirated them.

“Rita, you are something else.”

“Why, thank you, Honoria. Always have been. Too late to change now.”

Chapter 45

F
RENCHY
HAD
talked it over with Dr. Gupta, but the decision was his. Once again he hugged the ferry rail on his way to Archimedes Street. Nothing would ever come of this, but he had to clear the air. He hadn’t meant to be deceitful, but obviously Manny had drawn all the wrong conclusions. All his life he’d been taught it was wrong to flaunt your money. There was nothing tackier than ostentatious display—that was the Saint-Paix creed. Ironically, his outfit the last time had flouted that principle. The ripped jeans had been flashy; the designer label pretentious. But quite obviously Manny was clueless about labels and the cost of jeans.

What hurt the most? What he’d said about Papa. “Behind every great fortune there’s a great scoundrel.” And something else about sucking people dry and letting them die in misery. Replaying the scene in his mind later, he’d traded his heartbreak for indignation.

“There’s a germ of truth—more than a germ—in what your friend’s father said,” Maman had said last night. “The great fortunes of the nineteenth century don’t pass any ethical sniff test by a long shot. When fortunes are first amassed, what your Mr. Twardowski said is especially likely.

“But consider, Leo. Soon a good portion of your money will come under your control. Not the lion’s share by any means, but still more than you might imagine.”

“How much?”

Maman shrugged. “It changes day by day, but in the tens of millions. This will come to you in three years. Then every five years, more, until you’re forty. What great moral wrong have
you
committed to gain this money?

“But I didn’t earn it.”

“That’s true.”

“I could give it away.”

Paule sighed. “We do give it away. In enormous quantities. But giving so much money away is a full-time job in itself, for many people. You have to research, make sure it doesn’t fall into the hands of crooks, doesn’t get siphoned off by administrators.”

“How did we make all this money?”

And then Maman explained the holdings—agriculture, dairy, banking, manufacturing, but most of all commercial real estate and of course stocks. She also talked about the charitable foundations that funded projects mostly in Africa and other parts of the developing world. “That’s where the charitable dollar has the most impact, buys the most, relieves the greatest suffering.”

“And you handle all of this?”

“Of course not. There are boards, trustees, committees, executives, but we have controlling interest in many ventures and proxy representatives on boards.”

“Proxies?”

“It’s all complicated, and there are details that I never will—don’t need to—understand. We should have begun your financial education sooner.”

“It sounds boring. Do I have to do it?”

“Well, you’ll have to manage your money or find someone to do it for you, even if you decide to give it all away. What would you like to do instead?”

“I want to learn how to make violins. Be a luthier. In Cremona, Italy.”

Paule was charmed. “So, working with wood. We come full circle to your Mr. T.”

Frenchy felt himself flush. “Just tell me this. Was Papa a crook? Did he use people and then let them die in misery?”

“Most assuredly not. There was a scoundrel or two, I’m sure, early on. The later generations can relax into gentility and good works and wink at that early wickedness, even excuse it in light of their own philanthropy. Ah, listen to me! I sound cynical, don’t I? Well, remember that I married into this wealth, and even now it seems all a little strange to me. If only your father hadn’t….”

Maman looked upset. “Can we continue this discussion later? Talk of money gives me a headache. Anything you want to know, we’ll find the best person to teach you. Eventually you need to know this all. But it’s a lot, Frenchy.”

He really hadn’t wanted to continue the discussion either. It had been enough. He replayed it in his head as the ferry approached the West Bank and he rehearsed what he planned to say to Manny.

S
PECIAL
E
D
eavesdropped on Elwood and his new student, Dennis.

“Dat really say ‘jit’?”

“Yeah. Ain’t dat hilarious?” Elwood boomed in laughter. “Here, write it down on dis special paper for doity woids.”

In preparation for his role of teacher, Elwood had pumped Ed about the beanbag, the tracing of letters while walking and crawling, about everything and the theory behind it. So, he’d given Elwood a crash course on special education even as he continued to supervise the curriculum. Elwood was making great strides.

Ed was touched by Wailin’ Elwood’s profound need to reach out to others who were like him. It showed a beautiful heart. More affecting had been his request that Ed hover inconspicuously nearby as he taught Dennis, in case Elwood was stumped or came up blank. “But only if you see I wrong or doin’ somethin’ the wrong way. Okay?”

“Tit!” Ed overheard Dennis’s triumphant recognition.

“Write dat, too, on the special paper. Don’t show your maw.”

Both teacher and student interrupted the lesson with profane guffaws.

For some reason, it was bittersweet for Ed. He remembered the precursor lesson with affection but real sadness. Something wasn’t right, and he dreaded admitting it to himself.

D
OMINIC
WAS
at his aunt’s, as before. Manny was backing away, like that first time, and Frenchy was aggressively touching the older man’s chest in the same possessive way. As before, the shop vacuum proved a hazard, and Manny tripped over it and landed with legs splayed just as he had on the day Dutch had driven Frenchy weeping over the Greater New Orleans Bridge. Gone were the helmet hair and the cologne. Thrillingly back were the thinning spot that promised a monk’s tonsure in ten years, the fragrant, grubby khaki shorts and loose tee, the gold-fuzzed calves and forearms, and the scent of wood shavings and man. He felt flushed, on fire. Frenchy abandoned any intention of having the conversation he’d rehearsed on the ferry. The fantasy scenario was coming impossibly true for a second time, and this time it would have a different outcome. He was eighteen; he was ripped. Frenchy was on him in a second, face to the placket of those grubby shorts.

Manny wriggled and reached for Frenchy’s head, trying to turn it so he could look into his eyes. “Frenchy, this is not a good idea even if you are eighteen. You don’t have to do this. I’ll help you. You don’t have to pay for it with your body.”

“Will you please just fucking
let
me? Don’t you see how much I
need
to?
Want
to? Have wanted to since the day I leaned into you while you showed me how to throw the baseball?”