Pig groaned momentarily nostalgic for Hanky and Panky. 'Fine,' he said, 'That is Benny and I am - hyeugh, hyeugh - Pig.'
'Obviously,' said Flop. But the girl/boy ratio in Washington has been estimated as high as 8 to 1. She grabbed Pig's arm, looking around the room as if those other spectral sisters were lurking somewhere among the statuary.
Their place was near P Street, and they had amassed every Pat Boone record in existence. Before Pig had even set down the large paper bag containing the fruits of their afternoon's sortie among the booze outlets of the nation's capital - legal and otherwise - 25 watts of that worthy, singing Be Bop A Lula, burst on them unaware.
After this overture, the weekend proceeded in flashes: Pig going to sleep halfway up the Washington Monument and falling half a flight into a considerate troop of Boy Scouts; the four of them in Flip's Mercury, riding round and round Dupont Circle at three in the morning and being joined eventually by six Negroes in an Oldsmobile who wanted to race; the two cars then proceeding to an apartment on New York Avenue occupied only by one inanimate audio system, fifty jazz enthusiasts and God knows how many bottles of circulating and communal wine; being awakened, wrapped with Flip in a Hudson Bay blanket on the steps of a Masonic Temple somewhere in Northwest Washington, by an insurance executive named Iago Saperstein, who wanted them to come to another party.
'Where is Pig,' Profane wondered.
'He stole my Mercury and he and Flop are on the way to Miami,' said Flip.
'Oh.'
'To get married!'
'It's a hobby of mine,' continued Iago Saperstein, 'to find young people like this, who would be interesting to bring along to a party.'
'Benny is a schlemiel,' said Flip.
'Schlemiels are very interesting,' said Iago.
The party was out near the Maryland line; in attendance Profane found an escapee from Devil's Island, who was on route to Vassar under the alias of Maynard Basilisk to teach beekeeping; an inventor celebrating his seventy-second rejection by the U. S. Patent Office, this time on a coin-operated whorehouse for bus and railway stations, which he was explaining with blueprints and gestures to a small group of Tyrosemiophiles (collectors of labels on French cheese boxes) kidnaped by Iago from their annual convention; a gentle lady plant pathologist, originally from the Isle of Man, who had the distinction of being the only Manx monoglot in the world and consequently spoke to no one; an unemployed musicologist named Petard who had dedicated his life to finding the lost Vivaldi Kazoo Concerto, first brought to his attention by one Squasimodeo, formerly a civil servant under Mussolini and now lying drunk under the piano, who had heard not only of its theft from a monastery by certain Fascist music-lovers, but also about twenty bars from the slow movement, which Petard would from time to time wander round the party blowing on a plastic kazoo; and other 'interesting' people. Profane, who only wanted to sleep, talked to none of them. He woke up in Iago's bathtub around dawn to the gigglings of a blonde clad only in an enlisted man's white hat, who was pouring bourbon on Profane out of a gallon coffee pot. Profane was about to open his mouth and try to put it in the way of the descending stream when who should come in but Pig Bodine.
'Give me back my white hat,' said Pig.
'I thought you were in Florida,' said Profane.
'Ha, ha,' said the blonde, 'you will have to catch me.' And away they went, satyr and nymph.
The next Profane knew they were all back in Flip and Flop's apartment, his head in Flip's lap and Pat Boone on the turntable. 'You have the same initials,' Flop cooed from across the room. 'Pat Boone, Pig Bodine.' Profane arose, stumbled to the kitchen and vomited in the sink.
'Out,' screamed Flip.
'Indeed,' said Profane. At the bottom of the stairs were two bicycles which the girls rode to work to save bus fare. Profane grabbed one and carried it down the stoop to the street. A mess - fly unzipped, crew cut matted down both sides of his head, beard let go for two days, holed skivvy shirt pushed by his beer belly through a few open buttons on his shirt - he pedaled away wobbly for the flophouse.
He hadn't gone two blocks when there were yells behind him. It was Pig on the other bike, chasing him with Flop on the handlebars. Far behind was Flip, on foot.
'Oh-oh,' said Profane. He fiddled with the gears, and promptly dropped into low.
'Thief,' yelled Pig, laughing his obscene laugh. 'Thief.' A prowl car materialized out of nowhere and moved in to intercept Profane. Profane finally got the bike in high and whizzed round a corner. Thus they chased about the city, in fall's cold in a Sunday street deserted except for them. The cops and Pig finally caught up.
'It's all right officer,' said Pig. 'He's a friend, I won't press charges.'
'Fine,' said the cop. 'I will.' They were hauled down to the precinct and put in the drunk tank. Pig fell asleep and two of the occupants of the tank set to work removing his shoes. Profane was too tired to interrupt.
'Hey,' said a cheerful wino from across the room, 'you want to play hits and cuts?'
Under the blue stamp on a pack of Camels is either an H or a C, followed by a number. You take turns guessing which it is. If you guess wrong the other gets to Hit (with the fist) or Cut (with the edge of the hand) you across the bicep, for the number of times indicated by the number. The wino's hands looked like small boulders. 'I don't smoke,' said Profane.
'Oh,' said the wino. 'What about rock, scissors and paper?'
Just about then a detail of Shore Patrolmen and civilian police entered, dragging a boatswain's mate about seven feet tall who had run amok, under the impression he was King Kong, the well-known ape.
'Aiyee!' he screamed. 'Me King Kong. Don't screw with me.'
