Pierre was the first to get over his surprise. “Are you dryigg do dell uz you bade id with Lloda whed all of uz bobbed oud?” he asked.
“I don’t think I understood the question.”
“Zorry. I habe a derrible cohd,” Pierre explained.
“And I guess we all know who you caught it firom,” Rammer interjected. “Now, about these panties—-”
“What would you like to know?” Cal Lowe, office boy-turning-man spoke without stuttering.
“Everything.”
But Cal Lowe didn’t know everything. He knew nothing, for example, of the scene in Llona’s bedroom that night after Pierre departed. He knew nothing of her dialogue with Cousin Mortimer.
“A Zionist conspiracy!” Mortimer had insisted bitterly, wincing as he finger-tested the lump on his noggin.
It hadn’t taken Llona too long after her marriage to find out that Cousin Mortimer was the family bigot. Still, the extent of his bigotry, its all-encompassing nature, which managed to apply to all ethnic groups and all situations, continually amazed her. Mortimer was no run-of-the-Klan bigot; he was a hater par excellence.
When Mortimer’s TV went on the blink, it was the fault of the “kike manufacturer,” the “mick salesman” and “that lousy wop repairman.” When Mortimer’s taxes went up it was blamed on “all those little spic bastards crowding up the schools,” and “the lazy niggers on welfare” and “the bohunks on the city payroll.” All day and every day, the “chink” was trying to choke him with too much starch in his shirts, the “frog” at the restaurant where he ate was trying to poison him, and “that kraut” he worked for was out to put the final nails in his coffin.
George Wallace was too middle-of-the-road for Mortimer. Lester Maddox sold out when he didn’t “string up that nigger, Julian Bond.” Only for Adolf Hitler-“kraut” though he may have been-did the Eternal Light burn faithfully (albeit secretly) in the stone cranny of Mortimer’s heart.
“A Zionist conspiracy!” he repeated now to Llona as he picked himself up from the floor.
“Mortiber,” Llona asked, “why are you such a bigod?”
“Me? A bigot? How can you say that, Llona? Just because a man sees the dangers around him—”
“Whad dangers?”
“The Jewish plot. The insidious Oriental conspiracy. Black Communist revolution. The Catholic takeover. The Red clergy. The--”
“Enough!” Llona held up her hand. “By the tibe you ged through, who’s left?”
“Not many,” Mortimer confessed morosely. “There’s only a stalwart handful of hundred percent Americans ready to defend our—”
Llona interrupted him. “The odly huddred per cent Abericad,” she pointed out with firmness, if not originality, “is the Abericad Indian.”
“Bloody redskins!” Mortimer was off. “The only good Injun—”
“—is a dead Idjun.” Llona finished the sentence for him. “You’re beating a dead pinto, Mortimer. They’re all dead dow. ‘The ones we didn’t slaughter whed we ‘civilized’ the West have been fidished off by the movies. It’s gedocide by MGM, Udiversal add Republic, with ad assist from Johd Wayde. But dod’t desbair. There’s always adother reservation to raze over the horizon. Viet Dam is odly the Missouri River of manifest destidy circa 1969. We’ve god a whole other contident before us. The cavalry may be mechadized add wear greed berets, but we haved’t rud out of Indians yed.”
“Some times I just don’t understand you, Llona. First you hit me over the head without the slightest regard for law and order. And now you spout anarchist propaganda. If you weren’t Archer’s wife-—”
“I didd’t hid you ober the head!” Llona protested.
“No? Then who did?”
Llona reversed her field quickly. “Well, I did,” she admitted, realizing that if Mortimer found out about Pierre’s being there he’d most certainly tell Archer. “Bud id was ad accidedt.”
“And with a jar of Zionist soup too!” Mortimer rubbed his head. “Where did you get it anyway?”
“A deighbor.” Llona thought fast.
“I told Archer he should have found an apartment in a restricted neighborhood. First the sheenies, then the spades—-”
“Mortiber, whed id comes to cause add effect, you’re fantastig! Bud led’s stigg to the poidt. Whad were you doigg crawligg through by widdow ad this tibe of dight adyway? I thoughd you were a burglar!”
“Well, I just came from seeing Archer in the hospital and he asked me to—”
“Oh? How is he?”
“In the hands of Jewish doctors and Papist nurses and heathen Chinee attendants, how should he be?”
“Forged id. Go od with your story.”
“Okay. He asked me to stop by here and pick up some fresh pajamas for him and some shaving stuff. He gave me a key so I could let myself in.”
“Why didd’t you use id?”
“Because some goddam wop neighbor of yours made it impossible! That’s why!”
“Whad do you mead?”
“Just as I was coming up the sidewalk in front of the house this old wop bumps into me with an armful of bundles. He falls all over himself saying ‘Scusa! Scusa!’ -—all those dagos talk Yiddish, you know; you’d think they’d take the trouble to learn American! -- but it’s too late.”
“Why doo lade?”
“Because I’d already taken out the key to open the vestibule door, you know, and when he slammed into me—these Mussolinis think they own the streets-—he knocked the key right out of my hand and it fell down a grating. I didn’t even have a piece of chewing gum to try to fish it out. Goddam Mafia greaseball!”
“Why didd’t you just rigg the bell?”
“I was going to, but all your windows were dark. I figured you must be out. I was just going to leave when I noticed the fire escape. Well, it was right there and I figured if the window wasn’t locked, why not? I’d save myself the trouble of having to come back and Archer would get his stuff. I never thought you’d hit me with some Semite blackjack!”
“I’b sorry. Bud how could I know? I really did think I was beigg robbed.”
“You could have asked first.” Mortimer patted his injured scalp. “If you hit me any harder, I’d have ended up in the hospital with Archer at the mercy of those spic interns and the limey attendants and--”
“Boy! With thad kind of talk you bust habe done wonders for Archer’s borale!” Llona said sarcastically.
“Actually, I did.” Archer said smugly. “When I left him, he was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes.”
“Laughigg? Aboud whad?”
“I was telling him about this married chick who went to work as a nude receptionist.”
“I cad believe there were tears id his eyes,” Llona told Mortimer.
“What do you mean?”
“You know how he feels about my worlcigg. Why do you have to add fuel to the fire, Mortimer?”
“Because I think he’s absolutely right. A woman who works can't help being brought into contact with sheenies and micks and all kinds of other lechers! He should have forbid you!”
“I knew I could depend od you, Mortiber,” Llona sighed. “Bud whad was so fuddy about id? Why was he laughigg?”
“Well, you see, I know this -- umm—lady who used to work there, and she goes out with the boss and he told her -- now catch this— he told her that the entire office staff got together and formed a pool to see who could make her first.”