Ring Game by Pete Hautman Page B

for real.”
    “I am for real, Hy.”
    “I know, I know. Maybe we could meet in a church. I mean, we want you to marry us where we’re having the reception, wherever that is, but maybe if we have this meeting in a church it’d be, you know, more better.”
    So Buck had arranged to borrow Christ Free Lutheran for the meeting so that it would be “more better.” Hy hadn’t changed a bit. Big ideas, lots of weird details, but nothing in between. Buck gave this marriage six months, maximum.
    The church doors opened and Hyatt Hilton entered with his bride-to-be and an older couple, the bride’s parents, the people he was supposed to impress with his devoutness. The Reverend Buck swallowed the host and rose to greet them.

9
Cabanne: Do the letters “L.H.O.O.Q.” have a significance other than pure humor?
    Duchamp: No, the only meaning was to read them phonetically.
    C ROW SAT IN HIS CAR , listening to the engine pop and sigh as it cooled. The aging First Avenue duplex looked the same as always. It had not burned down or changed color or moved so much as an inch. The building squatted quietly on its lot, waiting for its occupants in the fading evening light. Milo, his hind legs on the passenger seat, front paws against the door, stared out through the window.
    Crow said, “We’re home, buddy.”
    Milo twitched his ears. Crow interpreted that to mean that Milo was still mad at him.
    He could have left the big black cat home alone for the weekend, but had instead decided to leave him at Zink’s. Zink Fitterman had recently acquired a Chihuahua, an ill-behaved creature he called Mr. Bean, who barked more-or-less constantly. Zink had a theory that a couple of days in the company of a cat three times its size might socialize Mr. Bean, and perhaps quiet the barking. To test his hypothesis, he had offered to board Crow’s cat for a few days. It hadn’t worked. According to Zink, Milo had divided his time between sleeping, eating, sulking, and hissing at Mr. Bean, who had followed Milo everywhere he went, barking at every ear twitch, paw lick, and angry tail swish.
    A lot like my weekend, Crow thought as he opened the car door.
    Laura Debrowski, who lived in the downstairs unit, had received her usual prodigious stack of junk mail. Crow’s mailbox contained an electric bill and a French postcard displaying a reproduction of the Mona Lisa. The sender had added a mustache and goatee to the smiling face and scrawled L.H.O.O.Q. across the bottom. Crow turned the card over and tried to read the back, but the evening light failed to bring Debrowski’s minute script into focus. He followed Milo up the stairs and stood outside the door to his apartment. As always, he felt a nugget of fear. He didn’t know why—it was not as if he expected some creature to lie waiting inside. Perhaps he was afraid of the opposite, that it would be devoid of all signs of life. Milo scratched impatiently at the door. Crow turned the key and pushed inside. The instant the door opened, the fear evaporated. Milo ran for his food bowl and began crunching stale kibble. Crow added Debrowski’s mail to her growing pile, turned on a lamp, and sat down on the sofa with the postcard.
Allo allo, Crow. You like my faux readymade, mek? Hey, on St. Germain this morning and saw a mek who looked like you. Later, I saw him again, but he didn’t look like you anymore. My new place has a huge bathtub with brass fixtures and a bidet. The music scene here is for shit. You’d think people who make such great bread would have great music too, but except for Les Hommes, the bands bite. Last night I saw a new group—3 Frenchmen with accordions. You think America is ready for polka punk, froggie-style? How’s Milo? How’s Sam? Don’t know when I’ll be back. Paris misses you.
    —L.D.
    No return address. No date. No clue as to the meaning of the letters on the front. He couldn’t tell whether the card had been sent before or after their last conversation. And what