"Don't worry about me," she says, yet seems pleased.
"I just wonder," he goes on, "about the ability of our mutual friend to support you in the style to which you are accustomed."
The Negress brings their drinks and Harrison, as if flashing a badge, shows her the lizard—skin Ronson in his hand. "Real skin," he says.
"Mmm," the waitress says, with lots of throat. "Your own?"
Rabbit laughs. He loves that black chick.
When she goes, Harrison leans forward with the sweet smile you use on children. "Did you know," he asks Harry, "that Ruth and I once went to Atlantic City together?"
"There was another couple," she hastily tells Harry.
"A disgusting pair," Harrison says, "who preferred the shabby privacy of their own bungalow to the golden sunshine outdoors. The male of this twosome later confided to me, with ill—concealed pride, that he had enjoyed the orgasmatic climax eleven times in the all—too—short period of thirty—six hours."
Margaret laughs. "Honestly, Ronnie, to hear you talk sometimes you'd think you went to Harvard."
"Princeton," he corrects. "Princeton is the effect I want to give. Harvard is suspect around here."
Rabbit looks toward Ruth and sees that the second Daiquiri is on its way and the first has been delivered. She titters. "The awful thing about them," she says, "was that they did it in the car. Here was poor Ronnie, trying to drive through all this Sunday—night traffic, and I looked back at a stoplight and Betsy's dress was up around her neck."
"I didn't drive all the way," Harrison tells her. "Remember we finally got him to drive." His head tips toward her for confirmation and his pink scalp glints.
"Yeah." Ruth looks into her glass and titters again, maybe at the image of Betsy naked.
Harrison watches narrowly the effect of this on Rabbit. "This guy," he says, in the pushy—quiet voice of offering a deal, "had an interesting theory. He thought" – Harrison's hands grip air – "that right at the crucial, how shall I say? – development, you should slap your partner, as hard as you can, right in the face. If you're in a position to. Otherwise slap what you can."
Rabbit blinks; he really doesn't know what to do about this awful guy. And just there, in the space of blinking, with the alcohol vaporizing under his ribs, he feels himself pass over. He laughs, really laughs. They can all go to Hell. "Well what did he think about biting?"
Harrison's I've—got—your—number—buddy grin grows fixed; his reflexes aren't quick enough to take this sudden turn. "Biting? I don't know."
"Well he couldn't have given it much thought. A good big bloody bite: nothing better. Of course I can see how you're handicapped, with those two false teeth."
"Do you have false teeth, Ronnie?" Margaret cries. "How exciting! You've never told."
"Of course he does," Rabbit tells her. "You didn't think those two piano keys were his, did you? They don't even come close to matching."
Harrison presses his lips together but he can't afford to give up that forced grin and it sharply strains his face. His talking is hampered too.
"Now there was this place we used to go to in Texas," Rabbit says, "where there was this girl whose backside had been bitten so often it looked like a piece of old cardboard. You know, after it's been out in the rain. It's all she did. She was a virgin otherwise." He looks around at his audience and Ruth shakes her head minutely, one brief shake, as if to say, No, Rabbit, and it seems extremely sad, so sad a film of grit descends on his spirit and muffles him.
Hamson says, "It's like that story about this whore that had the biggest – ah —you don't want to hear it, do you?"
"Sure. Go ahead," Ruth says. "I might learn something."
"Well, this guy, see, was making out and he loses his, ahem, device." Harrison's face bobbles in the unsteady light. His hands start explaining. Rabbit thinks the poor guy must have to make a pitch five times a day or so. He wonders what he sells; some sort of deal it must be, nothing as definite as the MagiPeel Peeler. . . . up to his elbow, up to his shoulder, then he gets his whole head in, and his chest, and starts crawling along this tunnel . . ." Good old MagiPeel, Rabbit thinks: he can almost feel one in his hand. Its handle came in three colors, which the company called turquoise, scarlet, and gold. The funny thing about it, it really did what they said, really took the skin off turnips, carrots, potatoes, radishes, neat, quick; it had a long sort of slot with razor—sharp edges. ". . . sees this other guy and says, `Hey, have you seen . . ."' Ruth sits there resigned and with horror he believes it's all the same to her in her mind, there's no difference between Harrison and him, and for that matter is there a difference? The whole interior of the place muddles and runs together red like the inside of a stomach in which they're all being digested. ". . . and the other guy says, `Stripper, hell. I've been in here three weeks looking for my motorcycle!' "
Harrison, waiting to join the laughter, looks up in silence. He's failed to sell it. "That's too fantastic," Margaret says.
Rabbit's skin is clammy under his clothes; this makes the draft from the door opening behind him sharp. Harrison says, "Hey, isn't that your sister?"
Ruth looks up from her drink. "Is it?" He makes no sign and she says, "They have the same horsy look."
One glance told Rabbit. Miriam and her escort luckily walk a little into the place, past their table, and wait there to spot an empty booth. The place is shaped like a wedge and widens out from the entrance. The bar is in the center, and on either side there is an aisle ofbooths. The young couple heads for the opposite aisle. Mim wears bright white shoes with very high heels. The boy with her has woolly blond hair cut just long enough to comb and one of those smooth caramel tans people who play but don't work outdoors in summer get.
"Is that your sister?" Margaret says. "She's attractive. You and her must take after different parents."
"How do you know her?" Rabbit asks Harrison.
"Oh-" His hand flicks diffidently, as if his fingertips slide across a streak of grease in the air. "You see her around."
Rabbit's instinct was to freeze at first but this suggestion of Harrison's that she's a tramp makes him get up and walk across the orange tile floor and around the bar.
"Mim."
"Well, hi."
"What are you doing here?"
She tells the boy with her, "This is my brother. He's back from the dead."
"Hi, big brother." Rabbit doesn't like the boy's saying this and he doesn't like the way the kid is sitting on the inside of the booth with Mim on the outside in the man's place. He doesn't like the whole feel of the thing, that Mim is showing him around. The kid is wearing a blue blazer and a narrow tie and looks, in a smirched prep—school way, too young and too old. His lips are too thick. Mim doesn't give his name.
"Harry, Pop and Mom fight all the time about you."
"Well if they knew you were in a dump like this they'd have something else to talk about."
"It's not so bad, for this section of town."
"It stinks. Why don't you and Junior get out?"
"Say. Who's in charge here?" the kid asks, drawing his shoulders up and making his lips thicker.
Harry reaches over, hooks his finger around the kid's striped necktie, and snaps it out. It flies up and hits his thick mouth and makes his manicured face go slightly fuzzy. He starts to rise and Rabbit puts his hand on top of his tidy haircut and pushes him down again and walks away, with the hardness of the kid's brushcut head still tingling in his fingertips. At his back his sister halfcalls, "Harry!"
His ears are so good he hears, as he rounds the bar, junior explain to her, in a voice husky with cowardice, "He's in love with you."
To his own table he says, "Come on, Ruth. Get on your motorcycle."
She protests, "I'm happy."
"Come on."
She moves to collect her things and Harrison, after looking around in doubt, gets out of the booth to let her up. He stands there beside Rabbit and Rabbit on an impulse puts his hand on Ronnie's unpadded would—be—Princeton shoulder. In comparison with Mim's kid he likes him. "You're right, Ronnie," he tells him, "you were a real play—maker." It comes out nasty but he meant it well, for the sake of the old team.
Harrison, too slow to feel that he means it, knocks his hand away and says, "When are you gonna grow up?" It's telling that lousy story that has rattled him.