Read Online Agnes Among the Gargoyles by Patrick Flynn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Flynn
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has inflicted. "GorillaGrams were made for people like you. Excellent."
   A recorded voice issues from the telephone receiver. "I'm sorry, all ticket agents are busy at the moment. Please hold on, your call will be answered by the first available representative...."
   "Hah!" says the Great Man. "In the middle of winter, no less."
   "I don't get it," says Agnes.
   "He's been doing this parlor trick all week," says Madelaine. She pours herself some Evian. She is dressed in a red velvet suit, and some of the "fun" jewelry that is her trademark: a brooch depicting three quizzical fish with gold fins and rubies for eyes, and earrings that are hexagonal bars of lapis lazuli. She seems too dressed up, Agnes thinks, considering her husband's condition. Agnes has always gone by the rule for proper sickroom etiquette that visitors, too, should look as though they bathed with a sponge. Madelaine's life is obviously going on with a minimum of interruption. "I've had enough, Ron," she says. "You just want to be miserable. Agnes, I'll see you later."
  Agnes and the Great Man watch Madelaine leave the room.
   "You know why every fucking phone line in the city is busy?" Wegeman growls.
   "Sure. A.T.& T. should never have broken up."
   "No," he says, his face darkening. "It's because it's impossible to have a thought by yourself in this cocksucking city. Think about getting tickets for next year's Fourth of July game at Yankee Stadium, and you can bet your ass someone else is thinking the same thing at the same time. That's why all the fucking phones are tied up. If Fred Geister wanted to shoot me, others do, too. The idea of killing Ronald Wegeman is in the air, and I don't like it."
   His intravenous unit empties with a small belch.
   "Maybe you want to kill me too," says Wegeman. pulling the covers up to his chin. He does not have the hands of a wealthy man. There are tufts of hair on his knuckles, and his nails are bitten to the quick. "You're one of those lunatics in the Telamones Society. You weren't at the dedication to congratulate me. If you want to kill me now, go ahead. Just do me a favor and make it fast."
   His musings unsettle her. She didn't imagine that he even knew about the Telamones Society. She's glad she didn't bring Gandalf with her.
   "I don't want to kill you," Agnes assures him. "Maybe at one point I did. But I'm a lot older now."
   "I can't walk, you know," he says with remarkable calm. "The bullet did something to my spinal cord, shocked it or nicked it or exploded the filaments or something. They explained it to me with charts and slides, and I can't even program a fucking VCR. They just looked at me, like I'd have a suggestion about what to do." He rubs his temples and goes white,. and licks the accumulated crust from his lips. "I may never walk again."
   "I'm sorry," says Agnes. "That shouldn't happen to anyone."
   "Not even to a dog, right?" he says. "I like you, Travertine. Your disgust is so apparent."
   He grins with malice.
   "What is it about me that pisses everyone off? I don't want anyone taking any more shots at me. Tell me and I'll change."
   "I can't do that," says Agnes primly.
   "Now what?"
   "It's not my job to redeem you. Look into your own soul."
   "I'm sure you don't think I have one."
   "That's true. I guess you're in a pickle, aren't you?"
   "Compassion, Travertine. Have some compassion. Show me the way. Give me a makeover."
   Agnes can hardly believe she's having this conversation with him. Ron Wegeman. Weege. The Great Man. His Competency. The Billionfuckingaire. The Ruthless Cocksucker. The Master Builderâof buildings that are sleek and insubstantial and lacking in all grandeur, the sorts of places that look as though they might
   A recorded voice issues from the telephone receiver. "I'm sorry, all ticket agents are busy at the moment. Please hold on, your call will be answered by the first available representative...."
   "Hah!" says the Great Man. "In the middle of winter, no less."
   "I don't get it," says Agnes.
   "He's been doing this parlor trick all week," says Madelaine. She pours herself some Evian. She is dressed in a red velvet suit, and some of the "fun" jewelry that is her trademark: a brooch depicting three quizzical fish with gold fins and rubies for eyes, and earrings that are hexagonal bars of lapis lazuli. She seems too dressed up, Agnes thinks, considering her husband's condition. Agnes has always gone by the rule for proper sickroom etiquette that visitors, too, should look as though they bathed with a sponge. Madelaine's life is obviously going on with a minimum of interruption. "I've had enough, Ron," she says. "You just want to be miserable. Agnes, I'll see you later."
  Agnes and the Great Man watch Madelaine leave the room.
   "You know why every fucking phone line in the city is busy?" Wegeman growls.
   "Sure. A.T.& T. should never have broken up."
   "No," he says, his face darkening. "It's because it's impossible to have a thought by yourself in this cocksucking city. Think about getting tickets for next year's Fourth of July game at Yankee Stadium, and you can bet your ass someone else is thinking the same thing at the same time. That's why all the fucking phones are tied up. If Fred Geister wanted to shoot me, others do, too. The idea of killing Ronald Wegeman is in the air, and I don't like it."
   His intravenous unit empties with a small belch.
   "Maybe you want to kill me too," says Wegeman. pulling the covers up to his chin. He does not have the hands of a wealthy man. There are tufts of hair on his knuckles, and his nails are bitten to the quick. "You're one of those lunatics in the Telamones Society. You weren't at the dedication to congratulate me. If you want to kill me now, go ahead. Just do me a favor and make it fast."
   His musings unsettle her. She didn't imagine that he even knew about the Telamones Society. She's glad she didn't bring Gandalf with her.
   "I don't want to kill you," Agnes assures him. "Maybe at one point I did. But I'm a lot older now."
   "I can't walk, you know," he says with remarkable calm. "The bullet did something to my spinal cord, shocked it or nicked it or exploded the filaments or something. They explained it to me with charts and slides, and I can't even program a fucking VCR. They just looked at me, like I'd have a suggestion about what to do." He rubs his temples and goes white,. and licks the accumulated crust from his lips. "I may never walk again."
   "I'm sorry," says Agnes. "That shouldn't happen to anyone."
   "Not even to a dog, right?" he says. "I like you, Travertine. Your disgust is so apparent."
   He grins with malice.
   "What is it about me that pisses everyone off? I don't want anyone taking any more shots at me. Tell me and I'll change."
   "I can't do that," says Agnes primly.
   "Now what?"
   "It's not my job to redeem you. Look into your own soul."
   "I'm sure you don't think I have one."
   "That's true. I guess you're in a pickle, aren't you?"
   "Compassion, Travertine. Have some compassion. Show me the way. Give me a makeover."
   Agnes can hardly believe she's having this conversation with him. Ron Wegeman. Weege. The Great Man. His Competency. The Billionfuckingaire. The Ruthless Cocksucker. The Master Builderâof buildings that are sleek and insubstantial and lacking in all grandeur, the sorts of places that look as though they might
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