never once discussed police work all through dinner, and was not now discussing it as he and Patricia glided nimbly across the floor to a spirited version of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” another of the tunes in The River Rats’ repertoire.
To watch Ollie prance around the dance floor was tantamount to watching the hippos in
For a fat man…
Ollie knew that there were some people in this city who called him “Fat Ollie,” but never to his face, which he considered a measure of respect. Besides, he would break their heads. He himself never thought of himself as being “fat,” per se. Large, yes. Big, yes.
For a big large man, then, especially one who was gamboling about the dance floor the way he was, Ollie sweated very little. He figured this had something to do with glands. Everything in life had something to do with glands.
He twirled and whirled Patricia.
The number was reaching a climax.
Ollie pulled Patricia in as close as his belly would allow.
“A HIT VIDEOis all about screwing,” Todd Jefferson was telling Loomis. “The guys out there want to whack they castles on Britney’s bellybutton, the teenybopper girls want to wrap they little boobs around Usher’s dick. It’s as simple as that.”
Loomis tended to agree with him, but he wished he was talking about Tamar Valparaiso instead of Britney Spears. As for Usher, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about him
“Hit videos are all about guys and girls in they underwears,” Jefferson said. “White guys like to see leggy black girls in they sheer panties. Black dudes like to see titty white girls in they skimpy bras. All this black-white shit really grabs ’em.”
Todd Jefferson was a black man himself, with a black wife, but he was purported to have a white mistress. Loomis figured he knew whereof he spoke.
“Take J. Lo,” Jefferson said. “She worked both sides of the street. In the movies, she was screwing white guys, in real life she was screwing ole P. Diddy. Your little girl could take a few lessons from her.”
Loomis knew he was talking about Tamar.
Little girl.
34-C cup.
Some little girl.
“Her being Hispanic and all.”
Loomis knew this was only half-correct. Tamar’s father was Mexican, hence the soulful brown eyes, but her mother was of Russian descent, hence the blond hair with a little help from Miss Clairol. Her South-of-the-Border heritage pretty much guaranteed the loyalty of the Hispanic market. It was the crossover crowd they were going for with
“Not too many singers can do what J. Lo did, you know,” Jefferson said. “Only other artists done it before her was Boyz II Men.”
Loomis didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Did he mean screwing white men in movies? Screwing a black man in real life?
“Three number-one hits in the Billboard Hot 100 for five weeks or more,” Jefferson said, nodding. “J. Lo did it with ‘Ain’t It Funny.’ She’s the lady your little girl has to beat, man.”
“We’re hoping for a number-one single with the title song on
“By the way,” Jefferson asked, “is that related to her pussy in some way? The title of the album?”
“No,” Loomis said. “What makes you think…?”
“Cause it sounds somewhat pornographic, you know? Bandersnatch? Sounds like the girl has a whole rock group going down on her pussy.
“No, it’s not intended that way.”
“That’s not necessarily
It dismayed Loomis to learn that Jefferson hadn’t even
“Yes,” Loomis said, “she screws the frumious Bandersnatch.”
“Uh-huh,” Jefferson said.
“This big black dude wearing a monster mask,” Loomis said.
“Is that what Bandersnatch means? Big black dude? Cause
“No, it has nothing to do with being black.”
“Then what
“Actually, it’s a word Lewis Carroll invented.”
“Who’s that? Bison’s Artistic Director?”
Bison was the name of Loomis’ label. His Artistic Director was a man named Carl Galloway, whom Loomis had hired away from Universal/Motown, where he’d been Manager of Artist-Development. Jefferson should have known that. CEO of WU2, Loomis thought again, doesn’t know Lewis Carroll was an English writer and not Bison’s fuckin
“Lewis Carroll wrote
“Ah. Nice. I liked that movie,” Jefferson said. “Disney, right?”
“Not the movie,” Loomis said. “The book. The one that had ‘The Jabberwock’ in it.”
Jefferson looked at him blankly.
Loomis began quoting.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
“The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
“Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
“The frumious Bandersnatch!”
“Frumious, huh?” Jefferson said. “
“THERE IS SOMETHINGtotally obscene about chocolate,” Patricia was telling him.
She was dipping into the double chocolate souffle she had ordered. Ollie was on his second wedge of strawberry short cake. The band was playing a tune Patricia recognized from Christina Aguilera’s first album. It was called “When You Put Your Hands On Me,” and it was all about this girl who gets all oozy when this guy touches her. It was a very hot song that sounded as if Christina had written it herself from her own personal experience, but she probably hadn’t. There was a time—before Patricia joined the force—when she wished she could be a rock singer like Christina Aguilera. Every young Hispanic girl in the city wished she could be a rock