Kruse as he grinned and worked his audience.
1 took a good look at the new department chairman. By now he had to be close to sixty, fighting entropy with chemistry and good posture. His hair was still long, a dubious shade of corn-yellow and cut new-wave surfer-style, with a flap over one eye. Once, he'd resembled a male model, with the kind of coarse handsomeness that photographs well but loses something in the translation to reality. And his good looks were still in evidence. But his features had fallen; the jawline seemed weaker, the ruggedness dissolved into something mushy and vaguely dissolute.
His tan was so deep he looked overbaked. It put him in sync with the moneyed crowd, as did his custom-tailored suit. The suit was featherweight but conspicuously tweedy and arm-patched—an almost snotty concession to academia. I watched him flash a mouthful of white caps, shake the Page 22
hands of men, kiss the ladies, and move on to the next set of well-wishers.
"Smooth, huh?" said a voice at my back.
I turned around, looked down on two hundred pounds of broken-nosed, bushy-mustached square meal packed into five feet five inches of round can, wrapped in a brown plaid suit, pink shirt, black knit tie, and scuffed brown penny loafers.
"Hello, Larry." I started to extend my hand, then saw that both of his were occupied: a glass of beer in the left, a plate of chicken wings, egg rolls, and partially gnawed rib bones in the right.
"I was over by the roses," said Daschoff, "trying to figure out how they get them to flower like that. Probably fertilize them with old dollar bills." He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the mansion. "Nice little cottage."
"Cozy."
He eyed the conductor. "That's Narahara, the wunder-kind. God knows what he cost."
He lifted the mug to his mouth and drank. A fringe of foam coated the bottom half of his mustache.
"Budweiser," he said. "I expected something more exotic. But at least it's full strength."
We sat down at an empty table. Larry crossed his legs with effort and took another, deeper swallow of beer. The movement inflated his chest and strained the buttons of his jacket. He unbuttoned it and sat back. A beeper was clipped to his belt.
Larry is almost as wide as he is tall and waddles; the reasonable assumption is obesity. But in swim trunks he's as firm as a frozen side of beef—a curious mixture of hypertrophied muscle marbled with suet, the only guy under six feet to have played defensive tackle for the University of Arizona. One time, back in grad school, I watched him bench-press twice his weight at the university gym without breathing hard, then top it off with one-handed push-ups.
He ran blunt fingers through steel-wool hair, wiped his mustache, and watched as Kruse charmed his way through the crowd. The new department head's route took him closer to our table—near enough to observe the mechanics of small talk but too far to hear what was being said. It was like watching a mime show. Something entitled Party Games.
"Your mentor's in fine form," I said.
Larry swallowed more beer and held out his hands. "I told you I was dead busied, D. Would have worked for the devil himself—a bargain-basement Faust."
"No need to explain, doctor."
"Why not? It still bugs me, being a party to bullshit." More beer. "Entire semester a waste.
Kruse and I had virtually nothing to do with each other—I doubt if we spoke ten sentences the entire time. I didn't like him because I thought he was shallow and a phony. And he resented me
'cause I was male—all his other assistants were women."
Page 23
"Then why'd he hire you?"
"Because his research subjects were males and they were unlikely to relax watching dirty movies with a bunch of women around taking notes. Not likely to answer the kinds of questions he was asking, either—how often they jerked off, their most frequent masturbation fantasies. Did they do it in public toilets? How often and who they fucked, how long it took
1 took a good look at the new department chairman. By now he had to be close to sixty, fighting entropy with chemistry and good posture. His hair was still long, a dubious shade of corn-yellow and cut new-wave surfer-style, with a flap over one eye. Once, he'd resembled a male model, with the kind of coarse handsomeness that photographs well but loses something in the translation to reality. And his good looks were still in evidence. But his features had fallen; the jawline seemed weaker, the ruggedness dissolved into something mushy and vaguely dissolute.
His tan was so deep he looked overbaked. It put him in sync with the moneyed crowd, as did his custom-tailored suit. The suit was featherweight but conspicuously tweedy and arm-patched—an almost snotty concession to academia. I watched him flash a mouthful of white caps, shake the Page 22
hands of men, kiss the ladies, and move on to the next set of well-wishers.
"Smooth, huh?" said a voice at my back.
I turned around, looked down on two hundred pounds of broken-nosed, bushy-mustached square meal packed into five feet five inches of round can, wrapped in a brown plaid suit, pink shirt, black knit tie, and scuffed brown penny loafers.
"Hello, Larry." I started to extend my hand, then saw that both of his were occupied: a glass of beer in the left, a plate of chicken wings, egg rolls, and partially gnawed rib bones in the right.
"I was over by the roses," said Daschoff, "trying to figure out how they get them to flower like that. Probably fertilize them with old dollar bills." He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the mansion. "Nice little cottage."
"Cozy."
He eyed the conductor. "That's Narahara, the wunder-kind. God knows what he cost."
He lifted the mug to his mouth and drank. A fringe of foam coated the bottom half of his mustache.
"Budweiser," he said. "I expected something more exotic. But at least it's full strength."
We sat down at an empty table. Larry crossed his legs with effort and took another, deeper swallow of beer. The movement inflated his chest and strained the buttons of his jacket. He unbuttoned it and sat back. A beeper was clipped to his belt.
Larry is almost as wide as he is tall and waddles; the reasonable assumption is obesity. But in swim trunks he's as firm as a frozen side of beef—a curious mixture of hypertrophied muscle marbled with suet, the only guy under six feet to have played defensive tackle for the University of Arizona. One time, back in grad school, I watched him bench-press twice his weight at the university gym without breathing hard, then top it off with one-handed push-ups.
He ran blunt fingers through steel-wool hair, wiped his mustache, and watched as Kruse charmed his way through the crowd. The new department head's route took him closer to our table—near enough to observe the mechanics of small talk but too far to hear what was being said. It was like watching a mime show. Something entitled Party Games.
"Your mentor's in fine form," I said.
Larry swallowed more beer and held out his hands. "I told you I was dead busied, D. Would have worked for the devil himself—a bargain-basement Faust."
"No need to explain, doctor."
"Why not? It still bugs me, being a party to bullshit." More beer. "Entire semester a waste.
Kruse and I had virtually nothing to do with each other—I doubt if we spoke ten sentences the entire time. I didn't like him because I thought he was shallow and a phony. And he resented me
'cause I was male—all his other assistants were women."
Page 23
"Then why'd he hire you?"
"Because his research subjects were males and they were unlikely to relax watching dirty movies with a bunch of women around taking notes. Not likely to answer the kinds of questions he was asking, either—how often they jerked off, their most frequent masturbation fantasies. Did they do it in public toilets? How often and who they fucked, how long it took
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