Chapter Thirty-Five
Senhor La Paiva’s interview was followed, after a short break for Pluck, Enid and Bartoff to enjoy a plate of biscuits and milk, by that of that gentleman’s adolescent son, Phil. Given his age, Pluck dispensed with the “senhor” and simply addressed him as “boy”.
For example: “Sit down, boy,” as the character entered, but the lad did not sit.
“Are you the one who thrashed my father?” he demanded.
Pluck shrugged. “And what if I am?”
The boy strode toward him—Pluck jumped behind Bartoff.
“Then I’d like to shake your hand.”
Phil La Paiva stood, mad-eyed, shiver-chinned, the flames from the fireplace behind him massaging his head, giving the impression that his hair was on fire.
“Your hair’s on fire,” Pluck suddenly said, neatly echoing the narrative impression.
“What did you say?”
Pluck realised that it was all—at the very least, this man’s fiery hair; at most, all existence—in his mind. “Nothing. What were you saying? Something about shaking hands?”
They shook, and became instant friends. After chatting for some time about Grecian ruins which Phil had seen on one of his tours of Europe, he extended his apologies for not being able to stay any longer, and rose to leave. As he was half out the door, Pluck called to him one last question:
“Oh, Phil, friend. . .”
“Yes, Curtis?”
“You—ah, this is a little awkward, really!”
“What is?” Phil smiled. “You know I’m at your service.”
“Just, you know, having to ask you this. . .something this trivial, and rather sordid.”
“Go on. I promise I won’t be offended in the slightest.”
“Well—you didn’t have anything to do with the murder of Charlie Spats Williams, did you?”
Phil chuckled. “Of course not. Anything else?”
“No, just—I hope you’ll enjoy your lunch.”