'Jesus, no, I don't want no spelling lessons, Prof Bur…_the_ Bursar, sir. Twenty million in Bogota Best. You know. Street value twenty million, you know.'
'No,' said the Bursar. 'You tell me, Kudzuvine Tell me about Bogota Best.'
'Cocaine, man, coke, snow, ice, Colombian marching powder. That's what the consignment was. We got cover. Transworld Television Productions. Go anywhere filming and making movies about God for little children. That's how we started. Old E.H. says "What do people want? Like God and a buzz." Necessities of fucking life is what he says. Got it from the Good Book too. He's reading it in prison some place and it says there guys don't live on bread alone they gotta have spirit and this sets old E.H. thinking because he's short on the bread side and he'd sure as hell like some Beluga caviar and a plank steak but what's with the spirit? Shit, he don't want no moonshine gutrot or whatever they drink wherever he comes from like slivovitz and schnapps I don't know. Got to be some other kind of spirit the Good Book's got in mind. So he sits there thinking but most of the time he's thinking about bread and not just the ordinary crusty kind or pumpernickel but the other sort and he gets the answer to all his problems. Old E.H. gets religion and starts making religious movies and it don't matter what fucking religion so long as people buy it. Jesus, Prof…_the_ Bursar, sir, you know how much money there is giving people certainty they ain't never going to die, just go along to heaven no questions asked? Shit, man, billions and do I mean billions of dollars, D-marks, pounds sterling, rupees, yen, whatever. I mean it. But old E.H. has some buddies down Lima, Peru or maybe Rio someplace and they're helping him pump out some more of this religious kiddie crap and putting up money provided he runs some Bogota Best for them. How's he going to refuse in the jungle some place with guys like Dos Passos with guns all round and maybe the meat-hook and the piranhas waiting for a snack? No way. So he runs the stuff out once twice and he thinks this is great. Got cover with the Jesus Loves You or Mahatma Gandhi's Got a Place for You in His Heart, we made a movie about this God Gandhi one time and the turtles and rain forests and whales and the baby…OK I'll level with you, _the_ Bursar sir, they weren't baby octopuses. Didn't have no legs at all. Flippers. Baby seals. Yes sir, baby seals.'
'So why did you say octopuses?' demanded the Bursar.
Kudzuvine tried to remember. 'Had to do with legs. Like they're beating these baby seals to death for the movie and there's blood everywhere and I think "Shit, if they had legs they wouldn't just sit there and let this happen" and I thought one time about octopuses like the fucking monsters they got Alaska, Canada some place and they don't need eight fucking legs. Four or five would do just as well hug something to death and those baby seals could do with two or three Like they wouldn't just sit there. I got muddled is all.'
'Get unmuddled, Kudzuvine,' said the Bursar. 'So how come Hartang is running Bogota Best and wants to give Porterhouse money? You tell me that.'
'Hell shit, Pro…the Bursar, sir, he ain't running dope no more. Daren't and don't any place. He's lost Dos Passos twenty million bucks and that's like death. No, sir, the cartels and the Sicilians and guys out of Russia you don't want to mess with, you name them, is all running the stuff. What they can't handle is the greenbacks coming in in truckloads. Now if old E.H. understands anything it's bread. He don't think words, he thinks dollars, D-marks, francs, pesetas, pounds and yen. You've heard him. You understand him? I don't, except when he wants somebody dead. But figures and numbers is something else. Shoot, like he's got a computer instead of a brain and I mean a real fast number-cruncher. So he washes the stuff for the cartels and the Sicilians and the runners. Got satellites and TV stations all over the world and the You're Going to Live Forever business is spreading and, man, are they ever moving God along with contributions pouring in so who's to know the snow cash from the dollars or D-marks or rupees buying you into heaven? No way. And old E.H. can bounce cash off satellites from one bank in Bombay, India to Santiago, Argentina and back to some bank Stateside by way of London, England, like it's been washed and dried and pressed and it came down with Moses from the mountain only it's easier to handle. Hell, he's even bouncing stuff into Moscow, Russia and out again like it's Yo-Yo Festival time down Santa Fe and he's buying half of the old USS of R.'
'I understand all that,' said the Bursar, whose morale-booster was beginning to wear off. 'But why give Porterhouse money?'
Kudzuvine looked at him incredulously. All this talking had improved his morale no end. 'Giving he ain't. He's buying the place. That old turtle needs another shell. Like I told you, he covers his ass. No time he doesn't. He's got too many guys like Dos Passos want him dead. So he buys protection. Gives a bit first like it's bait and before you know it you're all wrapped up webwise and he's got some new place he can hide. Like…'
'He's not hiding here,' said the Bursar. 'You'd better believe that, Kudzuvine, you better had.'
'Shoot, Prof…the Bursar, sir, I'll tell him. I'll tell him time I see him, "Mr Hartang, no way you going to Porterhouse College, Cambridge, unless you're fucking crazy. You got your figure to think about and, man, those babies eat. They don't even fucking eat, they devour like…like Sumo wrestler vultures been on hunger strike or Lent or some fucking thing. Meat? You think a Texas tenderloin's big you ain't seen nothing. Know what they give me for breakfast this morning? Blood. Said it was pudding, blood pudding. You think I'm going to get AIDS eating a fucking sausage looks like it's tar in a condom or a blacktop turd with lumps of lard in it? No way, Bursar baby, no way.'
He stopped. The Bursar was standing over him and looking livid. 'You call me "Bursar baby" one more time, Kudzufucking-vine, I'm going to wash your mouth out with Harpic. You know what Harpic is, Kudzuvine? It's toilet cleanser. You want to keep your fucking tonsils and your uvula and a tongue that doesn't look like it's been barbecued, you don't call me "Bursar baby" ever again. Right?'
'Yes sir, yes sir, _the_ Bursar sir. I ain't thinking clear. I just got carried away. I don't want no wash-out. That douche bag done for me I'm telling you. I don't want to see one of those things ever again. No sir, I'm just a good old American boy don't know nothing I swear.'
But the Bursar was still standing. American you may be but good old boy you ain't. You're just poor white trash and don't you forget it.'
'No sir, I'm just poor white trash and I ain't never going to forget it I promise you, _the_ Bursar sir.'
The Bursar sat down again. 'Now you're going to tell me exactly how Hartang works and what his telephone number is and you're going to start remembering names and places and bank account numbers and…'
Outside on the landing the Senior Tutor and the Praelector looked at one another in amazement. Even Dr MacKendly was astonished. Dr Buscott put a fresh reel on the tape recorder.
'I wouldn't have believed it possible,' said the Senior Tutor. 'I'm not even sure I believe it now.'
'Believe what?' asked the Praelector, who had found the whole episode incredible himself.
'Believed the Bursar had it in him. I've always thought him such a weedy little runt and what's all this about the douche bag? I don't understand.'
But the Praelector didn't reply. He was wondering what exactly was in the Bursar and how they were going to use the evidence Kudzuvine was providing. Even Skullion, sitting behind them, listened with interest. He'd particularly admired the way the Bursar had insisted that Kudzuvine call him _'the_ Master, emphasis _the',_ and not a Quasimodo update, whatever that was.
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