"Fine," Vic said. He arose, grasping his sandwich, bent down to drink the last of his coffee, and then started for the door.
Now the cheek, Ragle thought. So we're doomed. We can't win.
"We have to get going," he said to the waitress. "Never mind the pie. How much?" He groped in his coat pocket, a futile gesture.
The waitress added up the bill. "Eleven-Nine," she said.
Ragle opened his wallet. The two boys watched. So did the waitress. When they saw the money, the paper banknotes, the waitress said, "Oh dear. I haven't seen paper money in years. I guess it's still good." To the first of the boys she said, "Ralf, does the government still redeem those old paper notes?"
The boy nodded.
"Wait," the waitress said. She recomputed the bill. "That'll be one-forty," she said. "But I'll have to give you your change in tokes. If that's all right." Apologetically, she dug a handful of small plastic wafers from the register, and as he gave her a five-dollar bill she handed back six of the wafers. "Thank you," she said.
As he and Vic left, the waitress seated herself with a paperbound book and resumed her reading at a flattened page.
"What an ordeal," Vic said. They walked along, both of them eating the last of their sandwiches. "Those kids. Those ghastly damn kids."
_Lunatic_, Ragle thought. Did they recognize me?
At the corner he and Vic stopped. "What now?" Vic said. "Anyhow, we can use our money. And we've got some of theirs." He lit his cigarette lighter to inspect one of the wafers. "It's plastic," he said. "Obviously a substitute for metal. Very light. Like those wartime ration tokens."
Yes, Ragle thought. Wartime ration tokens. Pennies made out of some nondescript alloy, not copper. And now, tokes. Tokens.
"But there's no blackout," he said. "They have their lights on.
"It's not the same any more," Vic said. "Lights was when--" He broke off. "I don't understand," he said. "I remember World War Two. But I guess I don't, do I? That's the whole point. That was fifty years ago. Before I was born. I never lived through the 'thirties and 'forties. Neither did you. All we know about it -- they must have taught us."
"Or we read it," Ragle said.
"Don't we know enough now?" Vic said. "We're out. We've seen it." He shuddered. "They had their teeth filed."
Ragle said, "That was almost pidgin English they were talking.
"I guess so."
"And African tribal markings. And garments." But they looked at me and one of them said, _Hey, you lunatic_. "They know," he said. "About me. But they don't care." Somehow, that made him feel more uneasy. Spectators. The cynical, mocking young faces.
"It's surprising they're not in the army," Vic said.
"They probably will be." To him, the boys had not appeared old enough. More like sixteen or seventeen.
As he and Vic stood on the corner, footsteps echoed along the dark, deserted street.
Two shapes approached them.
"Hey, you lunatic," one of them said. Leisurely, the two boys emerged in the street light of the intersection, their arms folded, their faces blank and impersonal. "Hold you-self stopstop."
thirteen
The boy on the left reached into his robe and produced a leather case. From it he selected a cigar and a small pair of gold scissors; he cut off one end of the cigar and placed the cigar in his mouth. His companion, with equal ritual, brought forth a jeweled cigar lighter and lit his friend's cigar.
The boy smoking the cigar said, "Necktie-fellows, you carry dead chuck-chuck. Wait-lady, she make foulupgoweewee."
The money, Ragle understood. The waitress shouldn't have accepted it. The boys had told her to, but they had known what the driver had known; it was no longer legal tender.
"So what?" Vic said, also following their broken jargon.
The boy with the jeweled lighter said, "Bigchiefs, they fixee. No? No? So." He held out his hand. "Bigchiefs fixee, necktiefellows fixee fat chuck-chuck."
"Give him some of the tokens," Vic said, under his breath. Ragle counted four of the six tokes into the boy's open hand. The boy bowed from the waist; his topknot grazed the sidewalk. Beside him his companion stood impassively upright, ignoring the transaction.
"You necktie-fellows, you got woojy?" the boy with the lighter said emotionlessly.
"Necktie-fellows eyeball on pavement," the boy with the lighter said. Both he and his companion nodded. Now they had taken on a somber air, as if something important had entered into the questioning. "Flop-flop," the boy with the cigar lighter said. "Right, necktie-fellows? Flop-flop." He clapped his hands, back to back, like a seal. Both Ragle and Vic watched in fascination.
"Sure," Vic said.
The two boys conferred. Then the first, puffing on his cigar and scowling, said, "Dead chuck-chuck for plenty woojy. You go joe no?"
"No," his companion put in quickly, striking him on the chest with the flat of his hand. "Baby go joe no chuck-chuck. Flop ma flop, ma flop-flop. Necktie-fellows flop-flop you-self." Wheeling, he started off, craning his neck and weaving his head from side to side.
"Wait a minute," Ragle said, as the other boy prepared to do the same. "Let's talk it over."
Both boys halted, turned and regarded him with amazement.
Then the boy with the cigar held out his hand. "Dead chuckchuck," he said.
Ragle got out his wallet. "One bill," he said. He handed the boy a dollar bill; the boy accepted it. "That's plenty.
After the boys had again conferred, the one with the cigar stuck up two fingers.
"Okay," Ragle said. "Do you have any more ones?" he asked Vic.
Digging into his pocket Vic said, "Be sure you want to go along with this."
The alternative, as he saw it, was to remain on the street corner, with no idea where they were or what to do. "Let's take a chance," he said, accepting the bills and passing them over to the boy. "Now," he said to the boys. "Let's have the plenty woojy."
The boys nodded, bowed from the waist, and stalked away. He and Vic, after hesitating, followed them.
The journey took them down damp-smelling, twisting alleys, across lawns and up driveways. At last the boys led them over a fence and up a flight of steps, to a door. One of the boys rapped on the door. It opened.
"Necktie-fellows quickly walkinachamber," the boy whispered, as he and his companion squeezed inside.
Unstable brown light filled the room. To Ragle, it appeared to be a commonplace, rather barren apartment. He saw, through an open door, a kitchen with sink, table, stove, refrigerator. Two other doors had been left shut. In the room sat several boys, all on the floor. The only furniture was a lamp, a table, a television set, and a pile of books. Some of the boys wore the robes, sandals, topknots, and bracelets. The others wore single-breasted suits, white shirts, argyle socks, oxfords. All gazed at Ragle and Vic.
"Here woojy," the boy with the cigar said. "You makum sitsit." He indicated the floor.
"What do you say?" Vic said.
Ragle said, "Can't we take the woojy with us?"
"No," one of the seated boys said. "Sniff sitinachamber."
The boy with the cigar opened a door and disappeared into the other room. After a time he returned with a bottle which he handed to Ragle. Everyone watched as Ragle accepted the bottle.
As soon as he had unscrewed the lid, he recognized it.
Vic, sniffing, said, "It's plain pure carbon tet."
"Yes," Ragle said. They've been sitting around sniffing carbon tet, he realized. This is woojy.