Trouble in Rooster Paradise Read Online Free Page B

had.
Those were good times. Good times.”
    We were still chewing our Nightmare Drops when
we reached the top of the stairs.
    “ I’m afraid Nora’s cookies deserve
their sobriquet. I’ll make us some coffee to wash them down, old
top,” Walter said in a whisper. “We’ll chat. Plus, the first of the
Napoleonics arrived. You’ll have to see them.”
    I was easily persuaded. I needed more than
burnt sweet bread to neutralize the images of a dead
Christine.
    Along one wall of Walter’s room was his
workbench—a wooden table, bar-high, three feet deep and ten feet
wide. As a whole, the counter was unstained, but the area where he
worked was peppered with dry paint droppings of every color. In the
center crowding the wall were paint pots and worn brushes bunched
in jars like mutant nosegays in small vases. In the far right
corner sat a hot plate, an electric percolator, a can of Hills
Brothers Coffee, a receptacle of Lipton’s Tea bags, and a box of
Ry-Krisp.
    “ Roughage is a must, Gunnar,” Walter
liked to say. “It’s the key to the body’s survival.”
    The man didn’t know how right he was. His
Remington typewriter was next to the Ry-Krisp, nestled up against a
stack of paper anchored with an old railroad spike. That stack was
Walter’s labor of love. He was helping the unlearned Mrs. Berger
write a play she called The Making of a Fan Dancer. Walter
struggled mightily to give it a philosophic twist. He wanted to
rename it The Gymnosophist , but Mrs. Berger wasn’t buying
it.
    Near his work stool, probably fifty lead
soldiers on horseback stood on the bench in military columns. Each
horseman’s torso had been painted crimson, and a few of the horses
were already white, black, or brown.
    “ British Heavy Dragoons,” he said
happily, handing me one. “This allotment came special delivery this
afternoon.”
    I hefted it and studied the detail of the
dragoon’s drawn saber, pointed forward as if in a charge. After
Walter got done with them you’d see the whites of their
eyes.
    “ What’s their destination?” I
asked.
    “ A wealthy collector in Rhode
Island. He’s putting together a Waterloo diorama. It’s the kind of
order Perry salivates over. He intends for me to paint the whole
lot for him. Consistency of style. That kind of thing.”
    Raymond Perry headed a family-run
soldier-making business out of his home in Springfield,
Massachusetts. He home-cast with lead, pewter, and rubber. Walter
had worked on Civil War figurines the month previous, and had told
me he was looking forward to his next assignment—toy soldiers from
the Napoleonic era. I’d forgotten all about it.
    “ But Gunnar, here you stand all weak
and weary, indulging an old friend’s passion. Let me get that
coffee going.” Only the left side of his mouth lifted when he
grinned. He pointed me to his channel-backed fireside chair, sans
fireplace. He pulled the stool up closer for himself.
    As Walter busied himself, he explained more
about his latest assignment—the new paints he’d need, the research
on the uniforms he’d be doing, the completion date he’d be shooting
for.
    “ It’s a classic testimony to vanity,
Gunnar, that the whims and idiosyncrasies of a regimental colonel
often dictated the colors and patterns worn by an entire
regiment—”
    Walter had probably been quiet and reclusive
long before his disfigurement. He futilely insisted he was of the
bourgeoisie, but I pictured him in some upper-class Philadelphia
playground, contentedly playing chess with his governess but
graciously admitting anyone else who cared to play. The continuous
gleam in his eyes went with a gift of making you feel his serenity.
Likely it was due to the real interest he showed in people—their
loves, hates, wants, needs, fears, and bugaboos. He rarely ventured
out in daytime. But I joined him on nocturnal excursions and many
times saw him console a lovelorn waitress, buck up a burly barge
worker, and play shrink to a barkeep.
    “…