“They are. But let me ask Fred and Shorty.”
Shortly Finchley reported: “There are a dozen places that would do. But we think The Twenty-First Century Stud has the fastest stock.”
“Roz. Let’s giddyap and get there.”
“That is, if you don’t mind their prices. ‘Twigs and leaves.’
“I don’t mind; I’ve met thieves before. Tom—all of you. I came out of this operation with more money than I had last year . . . and it’s a nuisance. I’ve played the money game and I’m bored with it. Any time any of you can think of a good way to help me get rid of some—a good way, I said; I won’t be played for a sucker—you’d be doing me a favor to tell me. Hugo, are there any poor people in your church?”
His answer was slow. “Lots of them, Eunice. But not hurtin’ poor, just Welfare poor. I’d like to think about it… because it don’t do a man no good to plain give him what he ought to root for. So the Book says, in different words.”
“That’s the trouble, Hugo. I’ve given away money many times, and usually did harm when I meant to do good. But the Book also says something about the eye of the needle. All right, think about it. Now let’s go see those thieves. I’ll need a man to help me. Which one of you dresses the most far-out when you aren’t in uniform?”
She heard Fred laugh. “Eunice, it’s no race. You should see the getups Tom wears. A Christmas tree. A light show.”
Finchley growled, then said, “Don’t listen to him, Eunice.”
“He’s probably jealous, Tom. All right, if there is parking inside or near this shop, you come help me.”
As they passed through the second gate Finchley said, “Crash belts, Eunice?”
“I’m wearing the Swedish—and it’s comfortable now that Hugo has adjusted it. Could we get along with just it and the collision net if we didn’t go so fast? Or does that make me ‘Joan Eunice’ again?”
“Uh—Will you wear the forehead strap?”
“All right. It’s just that I don’t like to be tied down all over. It reminds me—well, it reminds me of the way the doctors kept me strapped down after the operation. Necessary, but I hated it.” She did not mention that a forehead strap was what she disliked the most.
“We heard about that—musta been horrid. But you need the forehead strap. Say I’m doing only a hundred, a slam stop could break your neck. If you don’t wear it.”
“So I wear it.”
“I don’t see the light on the board.”
“Because I haven’t put it on yet. There. Did the light go on?”
“Yes. Thank you. . . Eunice.”
“Thank you, Tom. For taking care of me. Let’s mush. I wasn’t pulling on the leash, truly I wasn’t.” (Says you. Boss, you’re mendacious, untruthful, and a fibber.) (Where did I learn it, dearie? They’re sweet boys, Eunice—but we’ve got to work out a way to live so that we don’t have to clear everything with forty other people. Good servants are priceless—but you work for them as much as they work for you. Life should be simpler. Honey, how would you like to go to India and be a guru and sit on a mountain top and never have any plans? Just sit and wait for your grateful chelas to gather around?)
(Might be a long wait. Why not sit at the bottom of the mountain and wait for the boys to gather around?) (One track mind!) (Yes. Yours, you dirty old man.) (Conceded. But I try to act like a lady.) (Not too hard, you don’t). (As hard as you ever did, little trollop. I was called ‘Joan Eunice’ once. . . and the issue had nothing to do with sex.) (You’d be surprised how much sex had to do with it, Joan.) (Well…from that point of view, yes. But as long as they call me ‘Eunice’ I’ll go on believing that I’ve ‘done just perfect.’ Honestly though, good servants can be smothering. Take Winnie. She’s a darling—but she’s underfoot every minute. Eunice, how the devil can we manage that ‘actively female’ life you want—sorry, we want—with so much chaperonage?)