The moment Jack dribbled maple syrup down his sleeve — he’d been wearing the SC outfit, without its mask, as pyjamas — he remembered to ask a question that’d been bugging him.
“Where do you lot get your costumes cleaned?”
The Brick groaned. “Didn’t yer mum ever tell you to wear nothin’ special at the brekky table?”
“Not lately.”
“Dollface, mebbe we should invest in a bib fer the kid.”
“It’d be difficult finding one to co-ordinate with the flag. Personally, I hand-wash my threads,” said PA more helpfully.
She delved into a cupboard beneath the sink, and then held aloft a box that had a cartoonish yellow face on it and purple stripes.
“I tend to find that Mr Sparkle brings out the colours. As for our Brick here, well he has a few pairs of undies he tosses into the washing machine, along with everything else. They don’t sparkle. We’re often picking off the lint for hours on end.”
“What’s it matter?” the Brick piped up from behind the pages of the Patriot, pretending to be otherwise occupied. “None of this is twenty-four-carat anyway. Back in reality you’re plugged into an idI machine, prob’ly napping in a pool o’ pee since yer ceroscopy bag’s broke.”
“Colostomy bag — and unbelievable. You know that tact is a lost art?”
“Just tellin’ it like it is.”
“Telling it like a crusty degenerate, you mean.”
“Say, lookee here,” the Brick ignored her, “there’s a special on athletic iron boots, only $6.95 a pair.”
Jack wasn’t listening to the old married couple.
A big electronic doohickey in the corner — all stainless steel, black plastic knobs and bulb diode lamps — had grabbed his attention. It had the letters ‘XZ-12’ in bold black on the top.
“So what exactly does this worrisome-looking contraption do?”
“It’s our coffee machine.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right then.”
#134
At eleven o’clock, Jack was summoned from his quarters. For the past two hours he’d been fighting a losing battle inside the pages of The Well of Loneliness, and gratefully made the descent to the boardroom.
There was a tall stranger next to Pretty Amazonia — not quite her height, but somewhere in the vicinity of six and a half feet. He had a pouter pigeon’s swollen chest and wore a costume rather like a nineteenth-century cavalry uniform.
This consisted of a pale blue short jacket with heavy horizontal white braid on the front and braided knots on the sleeves; a matching over-jacket slung on one shoulder, royal-blue-coloured trousers, and black riding boots. He also had a fur busby hat tucked under his arm. Topping all this off? Short, curly black hair, a waxed moustache, and sideburns that complimented a ruggedly handsome face.
“SC, this is Saint Y,” Pretty Amazonia said, by way of introduction.
If he didn’t know better, Jack would say she was smitten — she didn’t even offer him a chance to shake the tall man’s hand, since she was clutching onto his right elbow, fondling the busby beneath it.
“He’s here to do your picture,” she added in breathy fashion. “The man is handy with his inks. Do you have time? Say you have time.”
While she spoke, the woman’s eyes remained on their guest — making Jack wonder which man she was addressing.
“Well, sure,” Jack relented, deciding he was the recipient. “Nothing planned today, so no hurry. I’d hate him to whip out a $1.98 draw-any-person-in-one-minute Magic Art Reproducer.”
“Mmm,” PA agreed, obviously not listening.
“Pleased to make our acquaintance,” Saint Y finally drawled in an accent pushing eastern European, possibly Russian.
Jack frowned. “Yeah, ours too.”
“You are the dummy?”
“Eh?”
With a fabricated smile on her mush, PA leaned closer. “Mannequin, darling.”
“I guess.”
Saint Y broke free from his hostess’ grip, suddenly conjured up a set of pens from some unseen pocket in his uniform/costume, and then flourished them about like he’d rediscovered his missing sabre.
“Huzzah! Then we are ready to do the art.”
“I’ll leave you boys to it,” PA murmured, having trouble tearing her gaze from the Hussar with the pen set. “Don’t forget to come see me before you go, Saint. Upstairs.”
“Uvidimsya, pretty one.” Saint Y delivered up one of the more urbane, possibly most devastating grins Jack had witnessed — and then the man reversed course. “Now, my young friend, to do the art,” he commanded, serious. “Mask on, if you please.”