Ed Mcbain: The Frumious Bandersnatch

To watch Ollie prance around the dance floor was tantamount to watching the hippos in Fantasia performing to “Dance of the Hours,” except that Ollie wasn’t wearing a tutu. He was wearing instead a dark blue tropical-weight suit he had purchased at L&G, which was short for Lewis and Gregory, two brothers—literally and figuratively—whose shop Ollie frequented on Chase Street in the Eight-Eight Precinct, where both he and Patricia worked. Ollie suspected that half the clothing at L&G had fallen off the back of a truck, which meant it had been stolen. But “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was a very good policy to follow when you were looking for designer-label garments at discount prices. The suit made Ollie look a lot thinner than he actually was, which meant he looked like an armored weapons carrier instead of a tank, not to mix metaphors with hippos, oh no, m’little chickadees. Ollie was also wearing a white shirt and a red tie, which made him look patriotic in the blue suit, and which also picked up Patricia’s dominant color scheme, the tie, that is.

For a fat man…

Ollie knew that there were some people in this city who called him “Fat Ollie,” but never to his face, which he considered a measure of respect. Besides, he would break their heads. He himself never thought of himself as being “fat,” per se. Large, yes. Big, yes.

For a big large man, then, especially one who was gamboling about the dance floor the way he was, Ollie sweated very little. He figured this had something to do with glands. Everything in life had something to do with glands.

He twirled and whirled Patricia.

The number was reaching a climax.

Ollie pulled Patricia in as close as his belly would allow.

“A HIT VIDEOis all about screwing,” Todd Jefferson was telling Loomis. “The guys out there want to whack they castles on Britney’s bellybutton, the teenybopper girls want to wrap they little boobs around Usher’s dick. It’s as simple as that.”

Loomis tended to agree with him, but he wished he was talking about Tamar Valparaiso instead of Britney Spears. As for Usher, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about him or his dick.

“Hit videos are all about guys and girls in they underwears,” Jefferson said. “White guys like to see leggy black girls in they sheer panties. Black dudes like to see titty white girls in they skimpy bras. All this black-white shit really grabs ’em.”

Todd Jefferson was a black man himself, with a black wife, but he was purported to have a white mistress. Loomis figured he knew whereof he spoke.

“Take J. Lo,” Jefferson said. “She worked both sides of the street. In the movies, she was screwing white guys, in real life she was screwing ole P. Diddy. Your little girl could take a few lessons from her.”

Loomis knew he was talking about Tamar.

Little girl.

34-C cup.

Some little girl.

“Her being Hispanic and all.”

Loomis knew this was only half-correct. Tamar’s father was Mexican, hence the soulful brown eyes, but her mother was of Russian descent, hence the blond hair with a little help from Miss Clairol. Her South-of-the-Border heritage pretty much guaranteed the loyalty of the Hispanic market. It was the crossover crowd they were going for with Bandersnatch. Bring in all those little Anglos who belonged heart and soul to Britney. If they failed to do that…

“Not too many singers can do what J. Lo did, you know,” Jefferson said. “Only other artists done it before her was Boyz II Men.”

Loomis didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Did he mean screwing white men in movies? Screwing a black man in real life?

“Three number-one hits in the Billboard Hot 100 for five weeks or more,” Jefferson said, nodding. “J. Lo did it with ‘Ain’t It Funny.’ She’s the lady your little girl has to beat, man.”

“We’re hoping for a number-one single with the title song on Snatch, ” Loomis said.

“By the way,” Jefferson asked, “is that related to her pussy in some way? The title of the album?”

“No,” Loomis said. “What makes you think…?”

“Cause it sounds somewhat pornographic, you know? Bandersnatch? Sounds like the girl has a whole rock group going down on her pussy. Band, you know? Snatch, you know? Bandersnatch. You know whut I’m saying?”

“No, it’s not intended that way.”

“That’s not necessarily bad, mind you,” Jefferson said. “That kind of association. It relates back to what I was saying before. About videos being all about screwing. Does your little girl screw somebody on this video?”

It dismayed Loomis to learn that Jefferson hadn’t even looked at the fucking thing yet. CEO of WU2, the fourth-largest video TV station in the country, he hadn’t even glanced at the new video.

“Yes,” Loomis said, “she screws the frumious Bandersnatch.”

“Uh-huh,” Jefferson said.

“This big black dude wearing a monster mask,” Loomis said.

“Is that what Bandersnatch means? Big black dude? Cause I’m a big black dude, man, and nobody ever called me no Bandersnatch before. Nor any other kind of snatch.”

“No, it has nothing to do with being black.”

“Then what does it have to do with?” Jefferson asked. “Cause I have to tell you, man, the word ‘Bandersnatch’ is bewildering to me.”

“Actually, it’s a word Lewis Carroll invented.”

“Who’s that? Bison’s Artistic Director?”

Bison was the name of Loomis’ label. His Artistic Director was a man named Carl Galloway, whom Loomis had hired away from Universal/Motown, where he’d been Manager of Artist-Development. Jefferson should have known that. CEO of WU2, Loomis thought again, doesn’t know Lewis Carroll was an English writer and not Bison’s fuckin Artistic Director. Shit, man!

“Lewis Carroll wrote Alice in Wonderland, ” Loomis said.

“Ah. Nice. I liked that movie,” Jefferson said. “Disney, right?”

“Not the movie,” Loomis said. “The book. The one that had ‘The Jabberwock’ in it.”

Jefferson looked at him blankly.

Loomis began quoting.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

“The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

“Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

“The frumious Bandersnatch!”

“Frumious, huh?” Jefferson said. “ Still sounds pornographic to me.”

“THERE IS SOMETHINGtotally obscene about chocolate,” Patricia was telling him.

She was dipping into the double chocolate soufflé she had ordered. Ollie was on his second wedge of strawberry short cake. The band was playing a tune Patricia recognized from Christina Aguilera’s first album. It was called “When You Put Your Hands On Me,” and it was all about this girl who gets all oozy when this guy touches her. It was a very hot song that sounded as if Christina had written it herself from her own personal experience, but she probably hadn’t. There was a time—before Patricia joined the force—when she wished she could be a rock singer like Christina Aguilera. Every young Hispanic girl in the city wished she could be a rock singer like either Jennifer Lopez or Christina Aguilera. There was only one trouble; Patricia had a lousy voice. Even her mother said she had a lousy voice.

“My sister went to Australia last year on one of these tours,” Patricia said. “And…I forget which town it was…”

“You have a sister?” Ollie said.

“I have two sisters, actually. And a brother, too. My older sister went to Australia with her husband, and I think it was Adelaide where…”

“Is that your sister’s name?”

“No, that’s the name of the town. At least, I think that was the name of the town. Where she had this great chocolate dessert. They have this shop sells chocolate desserts there, you know? And it’s called ‘The Chocolate Slut.’ Isn’t that a terrific name?”