Moose hollered, “Boo!” jolting Lockington from his thoughts, reminding him of an incident when he’d been a youngster in the fourth grade. There’d been a big kid on the block, Howard Mayberry, four or five years Lockington’s senior. When you’re in the fourth grade, four or five years is a whole bunch. Lockington had always spoken respectfully to Howard Mayberry, but Howard had never responded. One morning Lockington had met Howard’s mother at the corner grocery store and he’d said, “Mrs. Mayberry, how come Howard never says boo to me?” Mrs. Mayberry had patted Lockington on the head. She’d said, “Howard never says boo to you? Well, don’t you worry, Lacey, I’ll take care of that!” The next evening Lockington had been coming home at dusk and his route had taken him past the Mayberry residence and the big lilac bush in its front yard. As Lockington had gone by, Howard Mayberry had jumped from behind the lilac bush, roaring, “Boo!” and he’d frightened Lockington out of seven years’ growth. The Mayberrys had been a strange family.
Moose was saying, “Jesus Christ, Lacey, I been talking to you for ten minutes!”
Lockington stretched in the swivel chair, wishing he were in bed. Alone, of course. He said, “Yeah? What have you been talking about?”
“I been trying to find out who goes to lunch first—it’s eleven forty-five.”
“You go first.”
Moose said, “You coulda told me that ten minutes ago.”
Lockington yawned. “On your way back, see if Information Brown’s at the newsstand.”
Moose nodded and went out in a bit of a huff. Lockington hadn’t responded because his thoughts had been elsewhere. So had Howard Mayberry’s, obviously. At the age of twenty-four, Howard Mayberry had invented a timed lubricator for conveyor lines and he’d become a millionaire. Lacey Lockington had spent his twenty-fourth birthday drunk in a Saigon whorehouse.
It’d been a matter of priorities.