Don Winslow - A Long Walk Up the Waterslide

“Is the dog in yet?” he asked.

“He’s on his way.”

“I want pictures. Current ones, please.”

Overtime hung up and turned his concentration back to the photograph. He needed to achieve release. Sexual tension was a distraction. Not that he had much to do but wait. Let the dog catch up to the bird. The bird worries about the dog, and doesn’t think about the hunter.

Then bang.

One shot, just in, just out. Professional.

Release.

I think there are three trees,” Neal said for the fiftieth time that morning.

“Oi tink dere aaw tree trees,” Polly repeated for the fiftieth time.

“Three trees.”

“Tree trees,” Polly said. “The hell we talking about trees, anyway? Nobody’s gonna ask me about one tree, never mind tree trees. They’re going to ask me about doing ih.”

“Doing it,” Neal said. “There’s a t at the end of the word. Pronounce it. I’m begging you.”

“And we never did ih in a tree,” Polly said. “Ih, ih, IH!”

Neal dropped his head down on the kitchen table and moaned softly.

Six days. Count them, Lord, six days. Six days of “I think there are three trees,” and “Park the car and go the party with Barbara,” and “I like my bike.” Five days of trying to get her to respond to a simple question with a simple answer instead of a stream-of-consciousness soliloquy that would have made James Joyce reach for a nice drink of Drano. Israel won an entire war in six days, and I can’t get one woman to pronounce it.

Neal raised his eyes and looked up at her.

Today’s costume consisted of black toreador pants, a black tube top, and enough black jewelry to dress Scarsdale in mourning for a week.

She made a face at him, lifted her bare foot onto the table, and started to paint her toenails.

Neal watched her make careful, precise strokes until he realized he was being mesmerized by her almost Zen-like concentration.

“Say it,” he said.

“Take me to dinnuh,” she answered without taking her eyes off her task.

“I can’t take you to dinner,” he said, stressing the r. “You’d be seen.”

“I want to go out to dinnuh,” she whined. “Anyways, nobody in this dog-shit town is going to recanize me.”

“Recognize. Say it and I’ll get you a magazine.”

There was a slight hesitation in her stroke.

“What magazine?” she asked.

“McCall’s?”

“Cosmo.”

“If I can find one.”

She leaned forward to check out a possible flaw in the paint job, then slowly and distinctly said, “I think there are three trees.”

“You’ve been jerking my chain.”

“I’m the one on the chain,” she said. “When’s Karen coming home?”

“When she’s done shopping, I guess.”

“Karen’s my bud.”

That’s for sure, Neal thought. The two women were practically joined at the hip. They stayed up half the night watching junk TV and eating ice cream and corn chips. He would lie in bed listening to them giggling and whispering.

Polly put her other foot on the table.

“Time for the TV break,” she said.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Close.”

Neal straightened up in his chair. “Park the car and go to the party with Barbara.”

“Pawk de caw an go tuh de pawty wit Bawburuh.”

Neal whimpered.

“Once again,” she said, “yaw making me say stuff I am nevuh going tuh say adenny troil! What caw? What pawty? Bawburuh who? We nevuh went to no pawties; we just went tuh bed! He’d stick his ting in me; he’d take his ting out-dat was de pawty!”

“His ting?” Neal asked.

She looked up from her toenails.

“You know,” she said. “His ting.”

“You mean his thing?”

“What do you tink I mean?” she asked, frowning.

Neal stood up and walked over to the counter.

“I don’t know,” he said. “His organ? His male member? His penis?”

She sniffed. “I don’t say dose words.”

“Well, you’d better learn.”

“Be nice.”

“It’s not my job to be nice,” Neal said.

“And a good ting, too…”

“It’s my job to get you ready for the trial.”

She leaned way over, blew on her toenails, then said, “I’m telling Karen dose words what you said.”

Neal smiled. “What words?”

“You know, like ting.”

“You mean penis?”

“I mean ting.”

“Penis.”

“Ting!”

“Penis!”

“Ting!” Polly yelled as she stood up. “Ting! Ting! Ting!”

“Penis! Penis! Penis!” Neal yelled as Karen walked through the door with an armful of groceries.

“Diction lesson?” she asked.

“He wants me to talk dirty,” Polly accused.

“Don’t they always?” Karen asked. She set the grocery bags on the counter.

Neal took a deep breath and then said, slowly and distinctly, “When you give your deposition, as you will have to do… you cannot talk about his ting… or even his thing…”

“Why not?” Polly asked.

Karen put her hand on Neal’s arm and said, “Because they won’t take you seriously. Neither would a jury. They’d laugh, and that’s not the reaction you’re looking for, is it?”

“No,” Polly admitted.

Karen asked, “Then can you say, ‘He forced himself on me’? or even, ‘He forced himself into me’?”

Polly thought about this for a few seconds.

“I can say himself,” she decided.

Karen turned to Neal. “Professor?”

“That’s fine. Very dignified,” Neal answered. “Thank you.”

“Happy to be of service,” Karen said. “Isn’t it time for the TV break?”

Polly gave Neal a ‘See?’ look and stalked into the living room.

Karen put her arms around Neal and kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you,” she said.

“But?” Neal asked.

“But you could try telling her why you want her to do something,” Karen answered. “She’s not stupid.”

Neal made a noncommittal murmur.

“She didn’t go to Columbia, and she’s not pursuing a graduate degree in English literature,” Karen said, “but that doesn’t mean you should treat her like the slowest puppy in obedience school.”

“Are you saying I’m a snob?”

“Of course you are,” she answered. “But let me ask you something: You were a street kid, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get your blue-blazer accent?”

Neal blushed. “Friends sent me to a tutor.”

“Was he as mean to you as you are to Polly?”

Neal recalled the fussy retired Shakespearean actor in the musty old apartment on Broadway.

“Meaner, actually.”

“Then you know how she feels,” Karen said, “actually.”

She kissed him again.

Polly’s voice came shrieking from the living room, “Jack and Candy’re on!”

Karen took Neal’s arm.

“Come on,” she said, “maybe we can get a good recipe.”

Jack Landis smiled soulfully into the camera, a brave no-nonsense smile.

“I’m still here,” he said.

The studio audience went nuts.

“I’m still here!” Jack repeated, enjoying the reaction. “And my accuser has disappeared. What does that tell you?”

Applause, foot stomping, cheers.

Candy sat on the sofa, out of camera range. She smiled at the studio audience.

The camera dollied in for a close-up on Jack.

“Well,” he said, “the lawyers don’t want me to say much more than that, so I guess it’s a case of ‘enough said,’ huh?”

The audience chuckled appreciatively.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado…” Jack said, giving his trademark opening, “… the lady who shares my life with me and her life with you… Caaandy Laaandis!”