The Crash of Hennington. Patrick Ness
15. An Offer.
—Good veal. Your room service has performed well, Eugene. —First I’ve ever had.
—First room service?
—First veal. I’m Rumour. We don’t normally go for veal.
—Oh, that’s right. It’s seafood or nothing, isn’t it?
—The Official Entrée of the Rumour Nation.
—And what nation would that be?
—A hypothetical one, so far.
—So far? There are ambitions afoot to make it not hypothetical?
—If you believe my father.
—Do you?
—Do I what?
—Believe your father.
—Before or after he died?
—Either.
—Then no and no.
—Ah, the bitterness of youth. We’re ignoring the, what is this?, crumb cake would be my best guess. —Blueberry-cinnamon bundt.
—How very exact.
—I work here. I’ve seen the menu.
Jon cut his way into the bundt with a knife. A quivering blueberry goo slumped out of the middle of the slice.
—I think that’s as far as I’m willing to go.
—You’re not going to eat it?
—Look at it.
—It looks good.
Eugene cut himself an enormous piece. He seemed so pleased while eating it that Jon could have sworn he heard him humming. He was humming. A tune, even.
—What are you humming?
—What?
—That song. What are you humming?
—I’m not humming.
—Yes, you were. Just now.
—No, I wasn’t.
Said with an unusual sternness that Jon took as a dismissal of the subject. So be it.
—All right then. You weren’t.
—It’s almost eight. I should be going.
—There’s no need for that just yet.
—I thought you had somewhere to go, too.
—Not tonight.
—Why would you spend the first night of your vacation in a hotel room?
—It’s not a vacation. I told you, I’m visiting an old friend.
—Well, still. Why stay here? Why not visit your friend?
—I have found out she’s occupied this evening.
—She?
—She. Old passion from my past, I’m afraid.
—And she doesn’t know you’re coming so that’s why she’s occupied.
—How very observant from one who has seemed heretofore so opaque. I mean that as a friend.
—No, I know fuck all about most things. My girlfriend just dumped me.
—?-ha. So you’re currently attuned to the caprice that is occasionally named ‘woman'.
—What?
—Women can sometimes ruin you.
—Goddamn right.
He angrily speared another quivering bite of bundt.
—What do you want to be, Eugene?
Eugene smiled sourly, blueberries in his teeth.
—You mean when I grow up?
—How old are you?
—Twenty.
—Then, yes, definitely, when you grow up.
—I don’t know.
—Surely there must be something.
—Nope.
—At all?
—At all. I wanted to be a musician. I’m a bass player.
—If you are a bass player, then why the past tense? Sounds like you’re already a musician.
—Fuck it, I don’t want to talk about it.
—Surely you don’t want to work here the rest of your life?
Eugene said nothing, shoving more bundt into his mouth.
—How would you like to come and work for me?
—You just met me.
—I’m an excellent judge of people.
—Not if you’re offering me a job.
—Self-deprecation is more destructive than you can possibly imagine, Eugene.
—A job doing what?
—Being my assistant.
—I’m flattered, but like I said—
—Look, I don’t want to bed you or your single-tracked mind.
He turned his full gaze on Eugene. Apple-green eyes resting in a lined, deeply tanned face. Cropped salt-and-pepper hair pulling back from strong temples. A small nose resting above a generously lipped mouth. A chin that only seemed on the weaker side until you heard the voice pouring from above it. Eugene began to sweat. He felt his skin pulling into goosebumps. He was entranced, trapped.
—I am not an average man, Eugene, and I don’t mean that in a boastful way. In fact, it has often worked to my detriment, but I do know a few things. My destiny is here in Hennington. I’m not prepared to share that destiny just yet but know this, I am not mistaken, misled, or delusional. I’m not just offering you a job, Eugene, I’m offering you a chance. A chance to be there.
And then it was gone, vanishing like steam off an athlete. Jon leaned back and smiled with a casualness that seemed to emerge from nowhere. Eugene could only cough for a moment before he spoke.
—Why me?
—Why not you?
—Why would you want me to work for you?
—I’m not sure. Doesn’t it seem right, though?
—You just met me.
—So you’ve said. I told you. I’m a good judge of people.
—I just met you.
Jon shrugged.
—You’ve got blueberry dribbling down your chin, Eugene.
It was a full moment before Eugene took his napkin and wiped the blue conflagration from his face, but by then he was already a former employee of the Solari Hotel.
16. Why Archie Banyon Feels the Way He Does About Women.
—Maybe I can talk her out of it. It’s not too late. Ballot’s not for another four months. She could get a waiver on registration. Tell the people she’s reconsidered because of their support. She’d be re-elected by fucking acclamation if it came to that. She’s fifty-eight years old. She’s got at least two more terms in her. Three, even.
Archie Banyon’s limo was caught in traffic, which meant that Jules was going to have to listen to