betraying the impulse to act on his own suggestion.
Klinger got to his feet.
“We’ll take a cab to North Beach,” Frankie said, still not getting up, his eyes slits. “Get you something to drink.”
“Talk about your perfectly executed half notes,” Klinger said. “But it seems fair to mention that I’m just about tapped.”
Frankie opened his hand over the Formica, and a twenty-dollar bill, folded twice, fell out of it. “Be my guest.” Klinger marveled at the twenty. Frankie stood out of the booth. “Taxi and drinks, on me.”
Klinger shook his head. “Two weeks?”
No comment accompanied Frankie’s fey gesture. Gaining the sidewalk, Frankie said, “Jesus Christ,” and reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
“You already got them on,” Klinger told him.
Frankie touched the hinge of his sunglasses with the other hand. “Oh.”
The dog was tied to the parking meter nearest the corner. Seeing Klinger, it stood up and wagged its tail. Klinger offered him the backs of his fingertips. The dog licked them with barely a sniff, redoubling the oscillations of its tail. Klinger ruffled its ears. “Somebody’s glad to see me.”
“A little doggie every day,” its owner said, as she dropped a bag of waste into a trash can beyond the parking meter, “is all a body needs.”
“Yeah,” Klinger murmured, as a taxi magically pulled to the curb. With not so much as a backwards glance at thewoman or her dog, Frankie opened the curbside door and slid across the back seat. “Broadway and Columbus,” he told the cabbie. “C’mon, man,” he said to the open door.
“What’s his name?” Klinger asked the owner.
“Douglas Englebart, Jr.,” she told him.
“The—.” Klinger frowned. “Who?”
“He’s named for Douglas Englebart.”
The dog sat down and looked expectantly up at his mistress. “I don’t—,” Klinger began.
“Sure you do.” The woman fed the dog a biscuit. “He invented the mouse.”
“The mouse?” Klinger repeated stupidly.
Frankie was chuckling, but at or with what or whom, it would have been difficult to say.
The woman made a squeezing motion with her free hand. “Point and click? Englebart,” she laughed, “can you point and click?” The dog wagged its tail.
“Englebart,” Klinger told the dog. The dog looked at Klinger. “I’ll see you later.” The dog turned its head. “Won’t I see you later?” The dog furrowed its brow and turned its head the other way.
“He’s hip to the interrogative tone,” the woman said, “but he has no idea what you’re asking.”
Klinger nodded thoughtfully.
“Let’s go!” Frankie said.
SEVEN
“The problem with this app,” said the voice in the phone, “is that its memory footprint imposes conflicts in cache. Period.”
Phone clasped to his right ear, Phillip Wong twirled fettuccine onto the fork in his left hand, its tines held against the curvature of the spoon in his right hand. “You’re blaming my app for an out-of-date hardware fault,” he protested. “That shit flies on the dual core.” He filled his mouth with
pasta puttanesca
.
In the audio background, Enrico Caruso was shedding a fugitive tear. “Phil Phil Phil,” the phone chided. “Do you have any idea of the ratio of dual-core owners versus every other goddamn phone on the market?”
“That’s not my problem, Marci.” Phillip dropped the spoon, took the phone to hand and glanced at the screen. At that moment, for some reason, he recalled a hod carrier he’d noticed on a construction site a couple of weeks back, stacking cinderblocks with a phone clenched between ear and shoulder. They’ll have to build a special coffin for that guy, Phillip had thought at the time, with a dogleg toward the top. If I couldn’t afford out-call shiatsu, I’d be courting a similar fate. He reparked the phone on his opposite shoulder and took up the fork. “Besides, it’s nine fucking thirty. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”
“In
Klinger got to his feet.
“We’ll take a cab to North Beach,” Frankie said, still not getting up, his eyes slits. “Get you something to drink.”
“Talk about your perfectly executed half notes,” Klinger said. “But it seems fair to mention that I’m just about tapped.”
Frankie opened his hand over the Formica, and a twenty-dollar bill, folded twice, fell out of it. “Be my guest.” Klinger marveled at the twenty. Frankie stood out of the booth. “Taxi and drinks, on me.”
Klinger shook his head. “Two weeks?”
No comment accompanied Frankie’s fey gesture. Gaining the sidewalk, Frankie said, “Jesus Christ,” and reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
“You already got them on,” Klinger told him.
Frankie touched the hinge of his sunglasses with the other hand. “Oh.”
The dog was tied to the parking meter nearest the corner. Seeing Klinger, it stood up and wagged its tail. Klinger offered him the backs of his fingertips. The dog licked them with barely a sniff, redoubling the oscillations of its tail. Klinger ruffled its ears. “Somebody’s glad to see me.”
“A little doggie every day,” its owner said, as she dropped a bag of waste into a trash can beyond the parking meter, “is all a body needs.”
“Yeah,” Klinger murmured, as a taxi magically pulled to the curb. With not so much as a backwards glance at thewoman or her dog, Frankie opened the curbside door and slid across the back seat. “Broadway and Columbus,” he told the cabbie. “C’mon, man,” he said to the open door.
“What’s his name?” Klinger asked the owner.
“Douglas Englebart, Jr.,” she told him.
“The—.” Klinger frowned. “Who?”
“He’s named for Douglas Englebart.”
The dog sat down and looked expectantly up at his mistress. “I don’t—,” Klinger began.
“Sure you do.” The woman fed the dog a biscuit. “He invented the mouse.”
“The mouse?” Klinger repeated stupidly.
Frankie was chuckling, but at or with what or whom, it would have been difficult to say.
The woman made a squeezing motion with her free hand. “Point and click? Englebart,” she laughed, “can you point and click?” The dog wagged its tail.
“Englebart,” Klinger told the dog. The dog looked at Klinger. “I’ll see you later.” The dog turned its head. “Won’t I see you later?” The dog furrowed its brow and turned its head the other way.
“He’s hip to the interrogative tone,” the woman said, “but he has no idea what you’re asking.”
Klinger nodded thoughtfully.
“Let’s go!” Frankie said.
SEVEN
“The problem with this app,” said the voice in the phone, “is that its memory footprint imposes conflicts in cache. Period.”
Phone clasped to his right ear, Phillip Wong twirled fettuccine onto the fork in his left hand, its tines held against the curvature of the spoon in his right hand. “You’re blaming my app for an out-of-date hardware fault,” he protested. “That shit flies on the dual core.” He filled his mouth with
pasta puttanesca
.
In the audio background, Enrico Caruso was shedding a fugitive tear. “Phil Phil Phil,” the phone chided. “Do you have any idea of the ratio of dual-core owners versus every other goddamn phone on the market?”
“That’s not my problem, Marci.” Phillip dropped the spoon, took the phone to hand and glanced at the screen. At that moment, for some reason, he recalled a hod carrier he’d noticed on a construction site a couple of weeks back, stacking cinderblocks with a phone clenched between ear and shoulder. They’ll have to build a special coffin for that guy, Phillip had thought at the time, with a dogleg toward the top. If I couldn’t afford out-call shiatsu, I’d be courting a similar fate. He reparked the phone on his opposite shoulder and took up the fork. “Besides, it’s nine fucking thirty. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”
“In
Similar Books
