think it is a joke,” said Madelaine.
“Ripper is so smart about some things and so damn dumb about others,” said Pidgeon. “Typical guy.”
“Got two heads, think with the little one,” said Pallas.
“That is enough,” snapped Madelaine.
“Wherever did you hear that?” said Pidgeon.
“From me,” said Madelaine. “She is not, say them things, company.”
Pidgeon snorted.
“She is sad,” said Pallas. “She is in love, this guy, he don’t know she is alive.”
Madelaine looked at Pidgeon.
“You like it he don’t know?” she said.
Pidgeon nodded vigorously.
“See?” said Madelaine, looking at Pallas. “It is not so simple.”
“It is not so complicated, either,” said Pallas. “Get your head out of your ass it isn’t anyway.”
Madelaine sighed. Susan Klein brought her a glass of pink fizzy wine.
“We try,” she said, “raise her right and all. She is born, this. First thing she say, the doctor picks her up she comes out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’”
Pidgeon laughed.
“Well,” said Pallas, “maybe I better go and see how Ripper is doing.”
“Sight of you,” said Madelaine, “calm him right down. Yep. Good of you, very Christian, go to help make poor Ripper feel better.”
“Silly fucker,” said Pallas. “He oughta go fishing or something.” She finished her pop and she ran out.
Phrases of Ripper’s address to the Lord God on High wafted in and were cut off when the door closed.
“Quite a kid,” said Pidgeon.
“That one is never a kid,” said Madelaine. “I think, maybe she is older than I am. Maybe who she marry oughta be Benetsee.”
Susan Klein roared with laughter.
So did Pidgeon.
The door opened again and a woman came in, wearing the long gray dress of the Host of Yahweh. She had a rolled sheet of paper in her hand. She walked up to the bar.
“Could I possibly put this up?” she said. “We are having a barbecue Sunday afternoon, and wish to invite anyone who would like to come. There will be barbecued buffalo and trimmings, pop, beer, and we hoped we might hire Mr. Du Pré and his band to play.”
“Him can’t,” said Madelaine, “other musicians are at Turtle Mountain, they be here, maybe two weeks.”
“Too bad,” said the woman. “But we have some pretty good musicians, too. You are all invited, of course. So may I put this up?”
“Sure,” said Susan Klein. She pointed to the big corkboard by the door where messages and advertisements were posted.
The woman put up the poster, an expensive four-color print.
Madelaine went over to look at it.
“They have that printed just for this,” she said. “Cost some money, that.”
“We have been racking our brains trying to find an excuse to get in there,” said Pidgeon. “And look at this.”
“Won’t do you much good,” said Susan Klein.
Pidgeon shrugged.
Du Pré came in. He left the door open for a moment.
“Ripper he is praying for lightning,” said Du Pré, “strike Pallas.”
“What is Pallas doing?” said Madelaine.
“Laughing at Ripper,” said Du Pré, “the dumb shit.”
“What you doing, Du Pré?” said Madelaine.
Du Pré shrugged and he let the door close.
“I am being thirsty,” he said.
Susan Klein got a tall glass and she made a ditch for Du Pré.
“You see the woman who was just in here?” said Madelaine.
“Yah,” said Du Pré, “invite everybody, a barbecue, the Eide place.”
“She want you to play there,” said Madelaine.
Du Pré shook his head.
“They ask you again,” said Madelaine.
“They ask a lot I still shake my head,” said Du Pré.
“So the White Priest is here,” said Pidgeon, “and the carnival begins.”
She walked over to the poster and looked at it carefully.
“Anybody can come in a costume,” said Pidgeon. “A hundred dollar prize for the best one.”
“Ripper win that,” said Du Pré.
Dress up, the Mad Hatter, when we raid that dope operation. Jesus.
Pidgeon came back to her stool. Susan Klein
Sinéad Moriarty
Cheryel Hutton
T. S. Joyce
Jordan Silver
Jane Robinson
Mia Moore
Allison Lane
Will Collins
Mark Tompkins
Maya Banks