“An alter ego. Before I forget, I got some squid. How do I cook them?”

“If they’re not fresh throw them at passing Negroes.” Ralph tended to be cavalier about blacks claiming that a group of them had raped his sister. With minor detective work Warlock had found out that the sister was mythical.

“There’re no Negroes up here, Ralph, you know that. And no fresh squid.”

“Oh god. Bring them to room temperature so they’ll feel like pussies, then you stick in your finger and push out the guts.”

“That plastic thing and white stuff?”

“Right. Cut them in rings. Make a basic marinara out of fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic, thyme, red pepper.”

“Nothing fresh up here in June, Ralph.”

“I don’t care. Why don’t you send Diana out?”

“Shut up, Ralph. We’ve been through this before.”

“Sticking to your chintzy jealousy, huh? You’ll suffocate the poor girl.”

“Saw something you’d like for your work. It’s called the Jaws of Life….”

“You’re late, bub. Already commissioned. I’m using a replica to pull three stuffed penguins out of a burning Pinto. It’s a one time thing for an art celebration at Shea Stadium. Should I send tickets?”

Chapter 7

The dinner had gone rather brilliantly, though Diana had quipped that squid were nature’s rubber bands. But she had cleaned her plate! That was the important thing, even if she hadn’t returned for seconds or thirds, the cook’s ultimate compliment.

Now from the kitchen he could hear her merry laugh, and the laughter of her two close friends, Gretchen and Louise. Frankly, he was in a bit of a huff. It was well past midnight and the girls were eating popcorn and watching Tom Snyder’s eagerly awaited discussion with Nancy Friday on the subject of masturbation. Not so long ago, he thought, you’d be horsewhipped talking about your privates on television. “What was the world coming to?” he had asked the girls when they arrived. He was roundly teased for not being in the swing of things. Gretchen weighed two hundred and Louise one hundred. Maybe they did it to each other, for all he knew. He had let his anger run away with him, particularly with that spindly shrike Louise. What a delight it would be to parachute her into darkest Africa where a thousand jigaboos would throw her the pork.

“Admit it, Johnny, you jack off?” she had queried.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Of course it’s my business when you belittle our plans.”

“No, I don’t. It’s adolescent.”

“Bullshit. Diana, admit you’ve caught him at it?”

“Not really.”

“Sure, he’s too sneaky to be caught. And he’s got a sneaky little pile of dirty magazines ….”

“Bet you a grand I don’t.”

“Johnny, you do too.” Diana said.

“Both of you put your money where your mouth is.”