boy scraping leftover food from the plates into a garbage can, other boys wiping the table or washing the cups and plates in the basin or drying them. I was drying with Pinto, who worked slowly and with great care, dabbing at the plate with the cloth wrapped around his finger, occasionally saying, “This one’s still icky,” and dropping it into the basin.
When this was done and the plates were stacked, the basin of gray water emptied and put away with the scrubber and the wet cloths, we sat at the table again. A red-faced fat man in khaki shorts shushed us.
“Welcome to Camp Echo,” he said. “I’m Camp Director Hempstone. Before I have my staff introduce themselves, I want to say one thing: Behave yourselves, do as you’re told, and you’ll have a great time. No bellyaching. No slacking. Get out of line and you will fail. Hygiene is very important, and so I say to you two words: Be clean.”
“That’s about ten things,” Pagazzo muttered.
“When you salute the flag, stand ramrod straight. I want snappy salutes and respect for the flag. My friend Arthur Schuck is chief scout executive, and I want to quote him now,” Hempstone said, glancing at a small piece of paper in his hand. “What is the main thrust of the Boy Scouts? Arthur Schuck tells us, ‘To give to America a new generation of men of character, with ingrained qualities that make for good citizenship.’” He gestured with the piece of paper, saying, “Be glad you live in a free country where everyone is treated equally. Communists live in fear. If you waver”—here he paused and poked a fat finger at us—“the Communists are gonna cook your goose.”
Hempstone then called upon the counselors, who introduced themselves, taking turns, strolling among the tables: the swimming instructor, the rowing coach, the volleyball coach, and Butch the rifle range director. An old, bald, bearded man in a neckerchief, named Beavers, announced himself as the craft shop manager and twirled a length of plastic twine, saying, “Anyone know what this is?”
Pagazzo called out, “Gimp!”
“Raise your hand next time,” Beavers said sternly.
But as soon as the man turned his back, Pagazzo faced us and briefly crossed his eyes.
“I can teach you to make lanyards and key chains and boondoggles,” said Beavers. He tugged at the slide on his neckerchief. “This here’s a boondoggle.”
As Pagazzo worked his lips in lunatic nibbling, mouthing the word boondoggle, Butch Rankin stepped behind him and twisted his ear, saying, “You again. That’s enough of that.”
A counselor had taken the floor in front of the tables. He said, “Let’s have a song.”
We listened with embarrassment while he sang, full-throated and gesturing. When he’d finished, he said, “Okay, we’ll take it one verse at a time.”
Up in the air, junior birdman,
Up in the air, upside down.
Up in the air, junior birdman,
Keep your noses off the ground …
Walking back to the cabin, the six of us in the shadows, Pagazzo said, “Hey, how about Arthur Schuck? What a pisser.”
Paretsky said, “Know this one?” And he began to sing.
John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
His name is my name, too …
Pagazzo interrupted, saying, “Quit it, Skipper. I know a better one,” and snapped his fingers and sang,
Baby let me bang your box,
Baby let me bang your box …
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
