Lawrence Block - Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

Hi, Uncle Larry!

This is secret agent Barbara speaking. Say hey, next time you give the Dolly Sisters an assignment, make it a tough one. We were all excited and couldn’t wait for your better half (hardly!) to get here. We kept hatching one outrageous plot after another and secret agent Mary would whisper something to me and we would both burst into a fit of hysterical laughter and before long they were all giving us funny looks. Even the horses thought we were crazy.

And they were right !

All seriousness aside, Uncle-Poo, we checked the registrations and saw she was really coming and really started in hatching schemes, figuring that this would be a real test of our Notorious Powers of Seduction.

And then there was nothing to it.

Larry, that woman is a lesbian. That woman managed to live twenty-nine years of her life without ever suspecting the truth, and it evidently took a cock up her ass to give her the idea, or at least that was what she kept talking about, how men give you sweet talk and pretend to be in love and all they want to do is bugger you and split your asshole open. Of course she found a more genteel way to say it, but that was what it added up to.

Merry Cat made the original pitch. She started off telling Fran how she didn’t like the way all the cowboys bothered her (which they don’t, the schmucks are all either faggots or else they just want to marry rich divorcees, or both) and Fran came right back with a line about how men are all beasts, and from then on it was almost a question of who was going to seduce whom.

Merry Cat wants to tell you the rest of it, so I’ll say au revoir. “Au revoir.” There, I said it. Your turn now, Mary Katherine.

This is Mary Katherine O’Shea speaking. Talk about insatiable dykes! She was here for a week and wouldn’t leave us alone. She ate all her meals between our legs. I’m not kidding, Larry. It’s the truth.

Do you remember the other letter you wrote us? Telling us not to worry that we were lesbians? I think we may have been ready to do a wee bit of worrying in spite of what you said, but the week with your spouse really set us straight. Ooops! Sorry about that.

But it did. That woman is a dyke and she’s as different from us as, oh, night and day, since I can’t think of anything more original just at the moment. She has this hangup where all she can talk about is how rotten men are. By the time she was ready to leave, it really got to me. I felt like going out and fucking one of the horses.

I’ll bet she never fucks a man again as long as she lives.

She talked about Steve quite a bit, and also about you, and it was slightly weird pretending we never heard of any of you people before, but she never caught on, even when B.J. slipped and told her what school we were from. It didn’t even register. She didn’t say much that was interesting, except one time she said, “Larry knew about me all along. He used to pester me to find out if I ever made it with a girl. I guess it was always obvious to him.”

Oh, one other thing. She’s going to divorce you, but she’s into this Women’s Lib thing to such a degree that she won’t accept alimony because it destroys a woman’s dignity. I don’t suppose that will make you shed tears!

Send us more assignments from time to time. We love our work, and we love you.

Mr. Laurence Clarke

c/o Gumbino

311½ West 20 thStreet

New York, New York

Lorenzo, mi amigo—

You’re not going to believe this. Damn it all, you are simply not going to believe this.

I’m getting married in the morning. Here, in glorious Cuernavaca. Me. Steve. Your old buddy, the permanent bachelor.

And it’s all your fault, you sweet old sonofabitch.

That’s not the part you’re not going to believe, although God knows it’s unbelievable enough. The capper is that I’m getting married to Lisa. Your ex-wife. That Lisa.

Well, in this case you can’t be pissed, can you? I mean, I waited until you were done with her before I picked up on her. You can’t be pissed this time.

As far as I’m concerned, you’re Thomas Edison and Marconi and all those cats rolled into one. Because I took your advice again, Larry, and this time I made it work. Turned her on but good, flipped her over, rammed it halfway to her small intestine, and pinned her steady while I pumped it to her.

Screamed her head off. I thought we would have Mex cops all over the bed. But I kept it up just the way you said, and lo and goddam behold, Larry, if it didn’t work like a charm.

Fantastic. She’s got big tits and a rich father and she worships the fucking ground I walk on. Keeps telling me I’m the only genuine man in a world full of faggots. All I have to do is look at her and she melts.

Now I know how God feels.

Dear old Larry,

I’ll bet when you got a letter with all these flashy Mexican stamps on it, the last thing you expected was a letter from your ex. But that’s what this is.

And that’s not the greatest surprise, either.

Lover, you’re not going to believe this. You’re just not going to believe it. But every word of it is true.

I’m not just your ex-wife anymore. I’m also the wife of your best friend. Just five hours ago as I write this, I was married to Steve Adel in a tacky little church a few blocks from where we’re staying.

It’s your fault, of course. That letter you sent me put a bee in little Lisa’s bonnet. I had to find out if Steve was everything you said he was. Kiddo, you didn’t half do him justice! I suppose it’s the height of something or other to praise your husband to your ex-husband, but I have trouble restraining myself, I’m just all bubbly inside.

If I were the type to write obscene letters, like a certain former husband of mine, I could write a scene that would burn out your retinae. But that’s a memory I want to keep to myself. I won’t share it with you or anyone else.

Consider yourself richer to the tune of $850 a month. And consider yourself thanked — without even meaning to, you did me the greatest favor of my life.

Mr. Roland Davis Caulder, Esq.

Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale

437 Piper Blvd.

Richmond, Va.

Dear Mr. Caulder:

Permit me to congratulate you on having one less bloodhound in your kennel!

I refer, in my usual chatty way, to the marriage of your daughter Lisa Beth Caulder Clarke to the estimable Stephen Joel Adel of Centre Street, New York. I can honestly say that the news came as no surprise to me, for it seems to me that the union of these two fortunate lovers is not a mere happenstance but the manifestation of some Master Plan.

I’m happy, of course, and my happiness goes beyond the cessation of my obligation to keep your little bloodhound bitch in Alpo. And I trust you too are happy to see the Davis and Caulder lines enriched by that of the famous name of Adel. Surely you, as a breeder of fine dogs, can appreciate the need to introduce an outside bloodline from time to time, and God knows the Davises and Caulders have inbred of late to the point of idiocy.

Look at the bright side, sir. You haven’t gained a son-in-law, you’ve unloaded a daughter.

Unfortunately, this means the end of our personal correspondence. I’m sure this grieves you as much as it grieves me. I trust, though, that we will be able to renew our acquaintance at blessed occasions. For my part, I look forward to seeing you at your grandson’s birth, and, God willing, at his bar mitzvah.