they ever learn is how to be thankful for being manipulated into agreeing with her theories.”
I’d about had my fill of Professor Strock. “Well, thanks for all your help.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Far be it from me to discourage you from retaining Maisy, even indirectly, but you’re aware, are you not, that she is leaving us for a while?”
“Leaving?”
“Yes. A visitorship for the coming quarter. Spared of the cruelest months of the winter by venturing to San Diego with Bjom.”
“Bjom?”
“Or whatever the tennis bum’s name is. I’ve never actually met him, but I hope he bleeds her dry. That would be poetic justice, at least.”
I stood up. “Thanks again.”
Strock made no effort to rise. “Pleasure.”
As I reached the door, he said, “Oh, Mr. Cuddy?”
“Yes?”
“One more thing. Maisy is participating in a debate tonight.”
“She mentioned it.”
“You really ought to go. Get a sense of how she comes across in a public forum.”
“Will you be there, Professor?”
Strock smiled like a man serving his kids roast rabbit for Easter dinner. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
= 7 =
After leaving Walter Strock, I picked up my box of files from Inés Roja. By the time I got outside the school building, I realized the load was going to be too heavy to carry under one arm and too awkward to ferry in front of me under two. Since there were no cabs, it seemed to make more sense to find a place for lunch. Across the street and down from the school was Bandy’s, a burger-and-beer dug-out owned by another Vietnam vet in my student days.
Sometimes nostalgia is a bad emotion to indulge.
The interior was still dark and just a little dank. The floor was still tacky from spilled beer, the vinyl in the booths still taped at the seats. But instead of the Stones or the Doors, the speakers blared Grace Jones doing a bad Katharine Hepburn imitation as she recited rather than sang some lyric about walking in the rain. The barkeep had a purple Mohawk and more pieces of metal piercing his ears and nose than a shrapnel victim.
The only obvious holdover from the original Bandy’s was a television monitor above the bar, showing a video of a Celtics-Lakers game. Bird holding the ball on his hip, glaring at an official. Kareem, with shaved head and goggles, a praying mantis seeking just one more grasshopper before calling it a night. The screen jumped to a clip of the Lakers slaughtering some team you never saw play from a city that made you think of rodeos, not hoops.
I’d already lost my appetite when the Mohawk said, “Help you?”
I started to say no, then recognized one of the facial scars the artifacts couldn’t quite hide. “Bandy?”
“Yeah. I know you?”
Maybe not from this incarnation. “John Cuddy. I went to Mass Bay a long time ago.”
“Cuddy? Cuddy, sure, sure.” He stuck out a hand. “Southie by way of Saigon , right?”
I rested the carton on the bar, and we shook. “Good memory.”
“Wish I could say the same about business.”
I tried to look encouraging as I surveyed the room, seeing only the backs of three other customers, one a woman, scattered over twenty stools. “Lunchtime’s bound to be slow.”
“Tell me about it. Gave the cook a week off because it just wasn’t worth it, with Mass Bay out of regular session.” He flung a hand at the nearest stereo speaker. “This punk shit’s the only thing brings them in.”
“I listen to their songs, but I just can’t hear the music.”
“Aw, some of it ain’t so bad. There’s U2, Talking Heads, Fine Young Cannibals. They got something to say.”
“Oldies like you used to have just don’t cut it?”
“Shit, no. Held on as long as I could, but you gotta be downtown with a big dance floor for the yups or out in the burbs with parking for the young parents. Around here it’s new wave or no wave. But kids today, they can’t read, we probably shouldn’t figure they’ll listen too good either.
I’d about had my fill of Professor Strock. “Well, thanks for all your help.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Far be it from me to discourage you from retaining Maisy, even indirectly, but you’re aware, are you not, that she is leaving us for a while?”
“Leaving?”
“Yes. A visitorship for the coming quarter. Spared of the cruelest months of the winter by venturing to San Diego with Bjom.”
“Bjom?”
“Or whatever the tennis bum’s name is. I’ve never actually met him, but I hope he bleeds her dry. That would be poetic justice, at least.”
I stood up. “Thanks again.”
Strock made no effort to rise. “Pleasure.”
As I reached the door, he said, “Oh, Mr. Cuddy?”
“Yes?”
“One more thing. Maisy is participating in a debate tonight.”
“She mentioned it.”
“You really ought to go. Get a sense of how she comes across in a public forum.”
“Will you be there, Professor?”
Strock smiled like a man serving his kids roast rabbit for Easter dinner. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
= 7 =
After leaving Walter Strock, I picked up my box of files from Inés Roja. By the time I got outside the school building, I realized the load was going to be too heavy to carry under one arm and too awkward to ferry in front of me under two. Since there were no cabs, it seemed to make more sense to find a place for lunch. Across the street and down from the school was Bandy’s, a burger-and-beer dug-out owned by another Vietnam vet in my student days.
Sometimes nostalgia is a bad emotion to indulge.
The interior was still dark and just a little dank. The floor was still tacky from spilled beer, the vinyl in the booths still taped at the seats. But instead of the Stones or the Doors, the speakers blared Grace Jones doing a bad Katharine Hepburn imitation as she recited rather than sang some lyric about walking in the rain. The barkeep had a purple Mohawk and more pieces of metal piercing his ears and nose than a shrapnel victim.
The only obvious holdover from the original Bandy’s was a television monitor above the bar, showing a video of a Celtics-Lakers game. Bird holding the ball on his hip, glaring at an official. Kareem, with shaved head and goggles, a praying mantis seeking just one more grasshopper before calling it a night. The screen jumped to a clip of the Lakers slaughtering some team you never saw play from a city that made you think of rodeos, not hoops.
I’d already lost my appetite when the Mohawk said, “Help you?”
I started to say no, then recognized one of the facial scars the artifacts couldn’t quite hide. “Bandy?”
“Yeah. I know you?”
Maybe not from this incarnation. “John Cuddy. I went to Mass Bay a long time ago.”
“Cuddy? Cuddy, sure, sure.” He stuck out a hand. “Southie by way of Saigon , right?”
I rested the carton on the bar, and we shook. “Good memory.”
“Wish I could say the same about business.”
I tried to look encouraging as I surveyed the room, seeing only the backs of three other customers, one a woman, scattered over twenty stools. “Lunchtime’s bound to be slow.”
“Tell me about it. Gave the cook a week off because it just wasn’t worth it, with Mass Bay out of regular session.” He flung a hand at the nearest stereo speaker. “This punk shit’s the only thing brings them in.”
“I listen to their songs, but I just can’t hear the music.”
“Aw, some of it ain’t so bad. There’s U2, Talking Heads, Fine Young Cannibals. They got something to say.”
“Oldies like you used to have just don’t cut it?”
“Shit, no. Held on as long as I could, but you gotta be downtown with a big dance floor for the yups or out in the burbs with parking for the young parents. Around here it’s new wave or no wave. But kids today, they can’t read, we probably shouldn’t figure they’ll listen too good either.
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