Free Still Life With Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

the bombing was premature, the sloop could have sailed Monday morning had Bernard desired.
    “I don’t get it. You stayed because of me?”
    “Because of you, babe. And because I have some blasting powder that I haven’t used yet.”
    “What?” She laughed in disbelief. “I can’t trust my ears. You— maniac!”
    “Mister maniac.”
    “You want to blow up something else?”
    “What I want is to buy you a drink.”
    “Buy me a drink?”
    “A piña tequila or a tequila tai. If you’re old enough, that is. We wouldn’t want to break the law.”
    “I’ll bet I’m as old as you are.”
    “I’m older than Sanskrit.”
    “Well, I was a waitress at the Last Supper.”
    “I’m so old I remember when McDonald’s had only sold a hundred burgers.”
    “You win.”
    “Then I can buy you a drink?”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Bernard.”
    “Bernard what?”
    “Bernard Maniac.”
    “Listen, Mr. Maniac—”
    “I’m listening to nothing unless I’m sitting across a table from you at the Lahaina Broiler. Your grandmother can come, too, although frankly I’m a bit shocked by the extent to which her bathing attire reveals her charms.”
    “Well,” she said. She paused. She thought it best to humor him. It’d be easier to raise help in town than out there on the beach. And she must admit that despite the dental neglect it disclosed, he had a wonderful smile. “Well, I do need to get out of the sun. Redheads burn easily.”
    “I know,” he said. “I know.”

30
    ON THE MAINLAND, a rain was falling. The famous Seattle rain. The thin, gray rain that toadstools love. The persistent rain that knows every hidden entrance into collar and shopping bag. The quiet rain that can rust a tin roof without the tin roof making a sound in protest. The shamanic rain that feeds the imagination. The rain that seems actually a secret language, whispering, like the ecstasy of primitives, of the essence of things.
    The rain enveloped the house—the house that King Max had come to call Fort Blackberry—like a hair spray for jellyfish. Inside, the King and his Queen struggled with an electric dishwasher. They couldn’t get it to function. Neither a sherry glass nor a teaspoon had been cleaned in the three days of Gulietta’s absence. Chuck might have come to the rescue, but as misfortune would have it, Chuck had been called into Seattle on Monday evening and had not returned. An ill sister was the reason given, but surely it was quite another matter. There was unrest in the Furstenberg-Barcalona homeland. Revolution was in the air. Convinced that the royal family was involved, Washington wanted to tighten security. Particularly close tabs on King Max was what the CIA had in mind. The CIA primed Chuck with a small bonus. (He would lose every cent when Max drew an inside straight to his two pairs.)
    As they fiddled with the dishwasher, Max and Tilli plotted and schemed.
    “She’ll be twenty in April,” said Max. “A year after that, she can marry. I say the sooner we get a suitor in the lineup the better our odds.”
    “Ja,” said Tilli. “Ja, da, si. Ve know thees already a hundred times. But dat doesn’t mean ve got to rush her into some flake.”
    “Into what?”
    “A flake. A flaky guy. Like zee president’s son. He ees loco gringo.”
    “If you’re insinuating that that kid has got two strikes and no balls, you’re probably correct. My point is, we can’t sit around here waiting for eligible Europeans to come out picking blackberries. Now, Idaj Fizel’s middle boy owns part interest in an NBA club. He’s in Seattle every time his team plays the Sonics. I think I can arrange a meeting.”
    “Oui, but he ees not royalty.”
    “No, he’s richer and more powerful than that.”
    “Arab,” moaned Tilli. “Ein Arab. Oh-Oh, spaghetti-o.”
    The dishwasher remained inactive. It might as well have gone along to Maui. The frog could have turned it into a condominium. The royal couple huffed and puffed over