“Who’s got grass?” piped Harold Bloomguard.
“Better knock off that talk about grass, Harold,” Father Willie advised as he tried in vain to slap Spermwhale Whalen alive so he could scare Roscoe Rules and make him quit throwing his weight around.
“I told you about smokin grass, Harold!” the paralyzed Spermwhale growled. “I got nineteen and a half years on the job and that don’t ring the bell. You bring any pot here and get me fired and lose my pension with only six months to go and I’ll buy a whole kilo a grass. And I’ll pound it right up your ass and bury your head in the dirt and let the fuckin ducks get loaded by eatin the seeds outta your shit! YOU GOT ME?”
“I was just kidding, Spermwhale,” Harold gulped.
“Well I know Slate and Niles smoke grass, the fucking degenerates,” said Roscoe Rules.
Actually Roscoe was partly right. Baxter and Sam did go down by the duck pond occasionally for an illicit drug. But it wasn’t marijuana. Baxter had been dating a nurse who lived in his apartment building who was an inveterate pill popper and kept Baxter supplied with sedatives and hypnotics. So it was red capsules and yellow ones which Baxter and Sam swallowed with their booze down by the duck pond, both knowing the risks involved when they mixed the drugs with heavy drinking. In fact, Baxter Slate only seemed to want the barbiturates when he had been drinking excessively.
Roscoe walked over to Father Willie Wright who was telling Ora Lee Tingle how cute she was as the fat girl’s head started to drop on her shoulder.
Roscoe sniffed and said, “Padre, fucking that pig without a rubber is like playing the Rams without a helmet. Hope you got protection.”
“Well I like her!” shouted Father Willie, lurching to his feet combatively. “She’s better’n Frank Buck any old day. She really brings em back alive!”
“Siddown, you drunken little prick,” Roscoe Rules said, shoving the chaplain to the ground, making Father Willie yell, “Darn you, Roscoe! Gosh darn you, you bully!”
“Hey, Tanaguchi!” the jealous Roscoe yelled as he saw Francis stroking Carolina’s quaking buttocks. “I hear when Carolina was living with that Greek bartender he used to butt-fuck her all the time.”
“Never on Sunday!” Carolina answered and Francis’ giggles made Roscoe angrier.
“Her box is so big she wouldn’t even feel your hand unless you wore a wristwatch,” Roscoe grumbled.
“You can bet you ain’t gonna know, Roscoe!” said Carolina, throwing Francis off her as she sat up and rearranged her clothing. “Cause Father Willie told me you got clap!”
“I didn’t say that!” Father Willie protested. “I just told how when we were at Daniel Freeman Hospital that time you talked to the doctor about the strain you were having down there. And he said, ‘Do you have a discharge, Officer?’ and you said, ‘Yes, Honorable.’ And then you turned red when the doc and me cracked up. Oh God, that was funny!”
The chaplain rolled up in a little ball and cackled hilariously until Roscoe Rules was standing over him saying dangerously, “Padre, I thought I warned you not to tell anyone that story.”
Then Father Willie sobered up and said, “Gosh I forgot, Roscoe. I’m sorry.”
“I oughtta punch your lights out,” Roscoe said, eyes like a cobra.
“I’m sorry, Roscoe.”
“I oughtta kneedrop you right now.”
“What a cunt!” Spermwhale Whalen said to Roscoe, stirring around against the tree, trying to get control of his legs so he could come over and throw Roscoe Rules in the duck pond.
Father Willie started sniveling and said, “I’m really sorry, Roscoe.”
Spermwhale Whalen got disgusted with the chaplain and glared at him, saying, “What a cunt!”
And Carolina Moon squatted by the liquor case and found the Scotch all gone and thought Roscoe Rules was ruining the choir practice. She started to cry great drunken tears.
Spermwhale Whalen looked at her and said, “What a cunt!”
Carolina sniffed and said, “Thank you, Spermy. At least somebody appreciates me.”
Whaddayamean Dean suddenly said, “What’s it all about, Roscoe? What’s it all about?”
“Oh the hell with all a you,” said Roscoe Rules. “You’re all a bunch a scrotes!”
The meanest choirboy took a full bottle of bourbon, the last in fact, and stalked off into the darkness to think about what he’d like to do to all of them and drink bourbon and absently pull on his whang while he fantasized.
“Gimme Scotch,” said Ora Lee Tingle suddenly as her head stopped lolling.
“Ain’t none,” said Carolina who stopped crying and got happy again now that Roscoe was gone.
“Gimme beer,” said Ora Lee Tingle as Francis Tanaguchi lurched toward the duck pond to soak his head so that he wouldn’t miss the rest of the choir practice by passing out like his partner Calvin Potts who dozed next to one of Ora Lee Tingle’s big legs.
“I wish we had a stereo,” said Spencer Van Moot, mummified on the grass, his blanket wrapped tightly around him until only his face was exposed. “I’m older than you kids. I’d like some old music.”
“I’m older than Christ Almighty,” groaned Spermwhale Whalen, at last able to wiggle his fingers and toes.
“I’m old,” Spencer continued, “so I remember things you kids only saw in movies. Like the big bands. They were still around when I was young. Great times. Christ, I graduated high school in 1952. Imagine that.”
“I was killing gooks in 1952,” Spermwhale muttered. “No offense, Francis. And that was my second war.”
“If we had a stereo we could dance on the grass,” said Spencer nostalgically.
“God, you can get sweet sometimes, Spencer,” croaked Ora Lee Tingle as she crawled over and lay on top of the blanket-wrapped choirboy making him gasp for air.
“I’ve got a portable stereo,” offered Harold Bloomguard. “But my tweeter and woofer aren’t very big.”
“Get some hormone shots,” offered Father Willie Wright, scrounging desperately through the debris of boxes and packages for some more beer.
“Oh, that’s funny!” Carolina Moon screamed suddenly “Francis just says he told this waitress he wanted to be a counterspy and so he leans over the counter and spies up her dress. Oh, you horny little Nip!” and she honked him so clumsily he fell to his knees groaning in pain.
“Boooo!” cried Father Willie. “Booooo! Mexican my rear end!”
“Knock it off, Padre!” said Calvin Potts. “You jist woke me up.”
“Well he oughtta be able to take a little pain, he’s Pancho Villa or somebody,” said the choirboy chaplain, belching up some beer on his bare chest and making them all boo him.
The weight of Ora Lee Tingle on the blanketed Spencer Van Moot caused the choirboy to gag violently and the fat girl leaped off him surprisingly fast.
“My cop runneth over!” whooped Ora Lee Tingle, causing Harold Bloomguard to collapse in hysterical laughter in her great pink arms.
Just then Roscoe Rules, still holding his bourbon bottle which was only two thirds full, came staggering back among them. “Yeah? I’ll tell you what you are, you big titted scrote. You’re just a camp follower! A station house groupie! A cop sucker!”
Then Roscoe wheeled and headed back toward the duck pond where Spencer Van Moot was already washing his vomity blanket. Roscoe paused only for an instant by Baxter Slate’s blanket and quickly grabbed a set of car keys and when he was sure no one was watching, threw them into the middle of the pond.
Then Carolina Moon started showing off. The big girl quickly overpowered Francis Tanaguchi and got him in a wrist-lock Spermwhale had taught her, which came in handy with rowdy customers at the cocktail lounge where she worked. As the other choirboys cheered, Carolina played rough by forcing the groaning choirboy forward until his head was on the ground and his LAPD basketball jersey was falling down over his face. Then she picked him up by the belled bottoms of his faded white jeans and started bouncing him off the grass.