'Don't you worry, my good boy,' Arnold Mulcahy told Bogus, still smiling at him. His voice was a poor nasal imitation of W.C. Fields. 'Everyone knows you're quite innocent. That is to say, almost innocent. What we mean is, we haven't noticed you trying to give the dope back.' He winked at the men sitting on either side of Bogus. They released his arms, then, and let him rub his sore shoulders.
'Just one question, son,' Mulcahy said. He held up a little scrap of paper; it was the note Bogus had left for Merrill on the bulletin board at American Express. 'Who's Merrill?' Mulcahy asked, and when Trumper just stared at him, he went on. 'Would this Merrill be a prospective buyer, son?' he asked, but Trumper was afraid to talk. He thought that whoever they were they knew more than he did, and he wanted to wait and see where the car was going. 'My good boy,' Mulcahy said, 'we know you didn't mean to get the dope, but we can only guess what you were going to do with it.' Trumper didn't say a word. The car rounded the Schwartzenburgplatz, circling behind the spot where they'd picked him up. Trumper realized he'd seen too many movies; there was an astonishing similarity between the cops and the crooks, and he didn't know for sure which these men were.
Arnold Mulcahy sighed. 'You know,' he said, 'I personally think we may have saved you from an act of crime. Your only crime so far is one of omission, but if this Merrill character is someone you were planning to sell the stuff to - now that's another sort of crime.' He winked at Bogus and waited to see if Bogus was going to respond. Bogus held his breath.
'Come on,' said Arnold Mulcahy. 'Who's Merrill?'
'Who are you?' said Bogus.
'I'm Arnold Mulcahy,' said Arnold Mulcahy, who held out his hand and winked. He wanted to shake hands again, but Bogus still remembered the falling arm-drag and double chicken-wing, and he hesitated before accepting Arnold Mulcahy's firm grasp.
'Got just one more question for you, Mr Fred Trumper,' Arnold Mulcahy said. He stopped shaking Trumper's hand and suddenly looked as serious as a plump, twinkling man could look. 'Why did you leave your wife?' he asked.
29
What Happened to Sprog?
HE WAS DE-BALLED with a battle-ax. Then he was exiled to the coast of his native Schwud. To remind him of his castration, his lewd wife, Fluvia, was exiled with him. All this was t
he customary punishment for sexually assaulting a member of the royal family.
When I asked her why her gynecologist recommended that she have her intrauterine device removed, she does this infuriating thing with her hot-shit tit - flipping that big bosom of hers as if to tell me that her contraceptive device, or lack of one, is entirely her business.
'When did he take it out?' I ask, and she shrugs, as if she can't be bothered to remember. But I can remember that it's been several times now that I haven't felt its little string touching me in there.
'Why didn't you tell me, for God's sake? I could have been using a rubber.'
She mumbles casually that her gynecologist would not have recommended a rubber, either.
'What!' I scream. 'Why did he recommend that you have the thing pulled out in the first place?'
'For what I wanted,' she hedges, 'it was the first thing that was recommended.'
I still don't get it; I suspect the poor girl doesn't understand reproduction. Then I realize I do not understand the girl.
'Tulpen?' I ask her slowly. 'What is it you wanted for which removing your IUD was recommended?' And of course she doesn't need to answer; making me phrase the question has been enough. She smiles at me and blushes.
'A baby?' I say. 'You want a baby?' She nods, still smiling. 'You might have told me,' I say, 'or even asked me.'
'I've already tried that,' she says smugly, about to flip her tit again, I can tell.
'Well, I ought to have something to say about this, dammit.'
'It will be my baby, Trumper.'
'Mine too!' I scream.
'Not necessarily, Trumper,' she says, flitting across the room like one of her aloof fish.
'Who else have you slept with?' I ask her, dumb.
'No one,' she says. 'It's just that you don't have to have any more to do with the baby than you want to.' When I look skeptical, she adds, 'You won't have any more to do with it than I let you, either, you shit.'
Then she waltzes into the bathroom with a newspaper and four magazines, waiting for me ... to do what?! Fall asleep? Leave her alone? Pray for triplets?
'Tulpen,' I tell the bathroom door. 'You might already be pregnant.'
'Move on if you want to,' she says.