Free Vineland by Thomas Pynchon Page B

on, “even with a 1% penetration we’re oll gonna be rich forever off of this, man!”
    â€œAbout this ‘we,’” Zoyd was wondering, “have you brought Cap’n Vond on board this project yet, you and this Ernie?”
    Hector was looking down at his shoes. “We didt’n finalize it.”
    â€œY’haven’t been in touch with him at all, right?”
    â€œWell I don’t know who is,
ése
—nobody’s returnín calls.”
    â€œI don’t believe this, you wantin’ to be in the world of entertainment, when all along I had you pegged as a real terrorist workin’ for the State? When you said cuttin’ and shootin’ I didt’n know you were talkin’ about film. I thought th’ only kind of options you cared about were semi- and full automatic. Why, I’m lookin’ at Steven Spielberg, here.”
    â€œRisking a lifelong career in law enforcement,” put in the saintly night manager, who called himself Baba Havabananda, “in the service of the ever-dwindling attention span of an ever more infantilized population. A sorry spectacle.”
    â€œYah, well you sound like Howard Cosell.”
    â€œSo Brock Vond taking over my place, Hector, that’s got nothin’ to do with your movie scheme, that correct?”
    â€œUnless . . . ,” Hector looking almost bashful.
    Zoyd saw it coming. “Unless he’s out looking for her too?”
    â€œFor,” in a low suave croak, “let us say, motives of his own.”
    At which point, finally, in through the doors front and rear of Bodhi Dharma Pizza came the NATO-camouflaged guys and gals of the Tubaldetox goon squad, to bring Hector gently “back to where we can help you,” cajoling him through the crowd, who’d begun to chant again. Doc Deeply, grooming his beard, strode over, high-fiving Baba Havabananda on the way.
    â€œCan’t thank you enough, anything we can do—”
    â€œLong as he’ll be out of my face for a while.”
    â€œDon’t count on it, we’re only minimum-security down there. We can keep him under observation, but if he wants to, he can be back on the street inside of a week.”
    â€œI got a contract!” Hector was screaming as they loaded him into the Tubaldetox paddy wagon, which went screeching off just as Isaiah Two Four and his friends came screeching in.
    The boy loomed over them, frowning, unfrowning, frowning again as Zoyd and Prairie filled him in and the other Vomitones made dangerous sounds. Finally, “This wedding gig down in the City . . . what if Prairie came with us for a while? Get her out of the area?”
    â€œThese are like armed forces, Isaiah, you want that responsibility?”
    â€œI’ll protect her,” he whispered, looking around to see who was listening.
    Prairie was, and getting annoyed. “What is this? Typical males, you’re handin’ me back and forth like a side of beef?”
    â€œHow about
pork?
” Isaiah, slightly to Zoyd’s relief, at least this unwise, now actually trying to poke her playfully in the ribs while she smacked his hand away. Good luck, young fella.
    â€œYou already know how to live on the road,” Zoyd said. “Do you think you might be safer if you kept movin’?”
    She came into his arms. “Dad, our house. . . .” She wasn’t crying, fucked if she’d cry. . . .
    â€œWill you stay over with me tonight? Can Isaiah come get you in the morning?”
    Hector was right, she admitted later, she had been ready to go with him and find Frenesi. “I love you, Dad. But it’s incomplete.” They were lying in bunk beds in the back of Trent’s eccentric camper, listening to the foghorns down the river.
    â€œYou’re Tubed out worse ’n Hector if you think your mom and me’ll ever get back together.”
    â€œYou keep saying.