Andrew Shaw - Sin Hellcat

“What do we do then, Harvey?”

I moved Rhett gently out of the way and gripped her by her warm shoulders. “We have passports,” I said. “Passports for Harvey Christopher and Jodi Christopher and Rhett Christopher, as fine a family group as I’ve ever imagined. We have a suitcase filled with money, and it will take us well nigh forever to spend all of it. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“You’ve got blood on your knuckles,” Jodi said.

“True.”

“My poor hero,” she said. “Harvey, are you in a terrible rush to get out of Brazil?”

“Well—”

“Rhett,” she cooed, “go sit in the bathroom for a while like a good little boy. Your father and I have something to do.”

“Is he my father?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m your father, and this beautiful woman is your mother.”

“Then who was the old bastard?”

“Just an old bastard,” I said. “Now go in the bathroom like a good boy.”

He went into the bathroom like a good boy, and I went into Jodi like a good man, and the world went into a tailspin, like the good little world it was.

That night we caught a plane to Buenos Aires, and we tried Argentina for size, but there were even more old Nazis around and they depressed me. So we went to Chile next, and we found a nice city in Chile, and we’re there now.

“Suppose they come looking for us,” Jodi asked once. “Suppose they want to take us back.”

“It’ll never happen.”

“No?”

“No. Bigamy isn’t something they extradite you for, and neither is desertion.”

“How about extortion and kidnapping?”

I told her the troll would never make much fuss on either count, and this pacified her. But just to make sure we’ve applied for Chilean citizenship. A nice country, Chile. Peaceful and quiet. You have to get used to the idea of snow in June and hot weather for Christmas but if the seasons are upside-down at least the rest of life is on more of an even keel than it ever was in New York.

So here we are, in Chile. We rented a cute little bungalooloo on the outskirts of town and I’ve been planting shrubbery around it and doing other things to make it a place to live in. Rhett’s at school now and speaks Spanish like a native of modern-day Manhattan, and he’s been teaching us. He scared one teacher a little, asking her how to say bastard in Spanish, but we weathered the crisis and all is well. Life is real and life is earnest, and it’s a pleasant switch.

I won’t tell you the name of the town, because you might be something of a troublemaker. I don’t think you could make much trouble even if I did, but we Ulcer Gulch boys are a rough breed and I take no chances. It’s a town, and we like it here. That’s all you have to know.

I’m happy, Jodi’s happy, and little Rhett is happy. A splendid little group. We watch 3½ hours of television every day, we use Breeno Toothpaste, and — regular as clockwork — our washing machine clogs up from too many suds.

You don’t believe it? In Chile? Chile’s the end of the world, fer Pete’s sakes, right? Never even heard a’ electricity, correct?

You better believe it, buddy, because if you don’t believe it, maybe the way you live isn’t so hotsy-totsereeny after all, right?

So keep your nose to the old grindstone, and run yourself up the flagpole and see who salutes you. I’d say it’s been fun, but it hasn’t, and it’s fun now, and I’m happy.

And that is why I never did get back to the office.

But on Mad Ave we always did take long lunch hours.