What did they do, pee on the grass on the grave? And don't chomp your gum. The apartment's a mess. My phone rings and the caller tells me to come see her in the Spitfire mock-up. I scrubbed and scrubbed our Holy Mother, and soon she was as good as new.
I get with Sonny Vance and he tells me how to do it. After closing we sit on the floor for Debriefing. Inside the hole is the Amber Mist, with the top missing. But what am I supposed to do, go out and say, Please ladies, my aunt just died, plus her body's missing? He hardly ever does that? Her hands and feet are shaking and she's grinding her teeth and one falls out. You can't name a single president. So that was that. It ain't the end of the world. Tonight however the cow is elsewhere. This month he's asking divorced women how often they backslide and sleep with their exes. One night Angela and I were making out on the couch late when Ed came in soused and started peeing in the dishwasher. A pretty girl, no thumbprint. Once when he was a young priest someone broke in and drew a mustache on the Virgin Mary with a permanent marker, and for weeks he was tortured by visions of bending back the finger of the vandal until he or she burst into tears of apology. I am so sorry. There are thirteen women at the MediBen table and they all vote me Stinker. At least I think it's a shot. Maybe there's angry dead all over, hiding in rooms, covered with blankets, bossing around their scared, embarrassed relatives. He might have torn the dress right off the girl if George hadn't intervened. The afternoon flies by. He's got long muscles and bright-blue eyes. But at this rate you ain't even gonna make it to the somewhat less dangerous craphole. She looks at me. She herself of course is always good as new. I throw in a shovel. Freddie proposes a toast. If it was wrong for her to come back, forgive her, she never got beans in this life, plus she was trying to help us.
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