There were only two things to be settled. One was getting the book. If George wanted her to have a book, he could get it for her himself. Lana wasn’t about to buy a book, even a used one. The other was getting Darlene back on the stools now that the plainclothesmen were gone. Having someone like Darlene on commission was better than having her on salary. And what Lana had seen Darlene do on the stage with the bird told her that, for the moment, the Night of Joy might do better if it decided not to cater to the animal trade.

“Where’s Darlene?” Lana asked Jones. “I got a little message for her and that bird.”

“She telephone and say she be in sometime this afternoon to do some more rehearsin,” Jones said to the advertisement he was researching. “She say she takin her bird to the veternaria firs, she think it losin some of its feather.”

“Yeah?”

Lana started to plan the ensemble with the globe, the chalk, and the book. If the thing had commercial possibilities, it should be done with a certain finesse and quality. She envisioned several arrangements that would combine grace and obscenity. There was no need to be too raw. After all, she was appealing to kids.

“Here we come,” Darlene called happily from the door. She tripped into the bar in slacks and a pea jacket, carrying a covered birdcage.

“Well, don’t plan to stay too long,” Lana answered. “I got some news for you and your friend.”

Darlene put the cage on the bar and uncovered a huge, scrofulous rose cockatoo that looked, like a used car, as if it had passed through the hands of many owners. The bird’s crest dipped, and it cried horribly, “Awwk.”

“Okay, get it out, Darlene. You go back to your stool starting tonight.”

“Aw, Lana,” Darlene moaned. “Whatsa matter? We been doing good in rehearsal. Just wait’ll we iron out the kinks. This act is gonna be a boffo smash.”

“To tell you the truth, Darlene, I’m afraid of you and that bird.”

“Look, Lana.” Darlene took off her pea jacket and showed the manager the tiny rings attached to the side of her slacks and blouse with safety pins. “You see these things? That’s what’s gonna make the act smooth. I been practicing with it in my apartment. It’s a new angle. He grabs at those rings with his beak and rips my clothes off. I mean, these rings is just for rehearsal. When I get my costume made, the rings are gonna be sewed on top of a hook and eye so when he grabs, the costume pops open. I’m telling you, Lana. It’s gonna be a smash hit sensation.”

“Listen, Darlene, it was safer when you just had that goddam thing flying around your head or whatever it did.”

“But now it’s gonna be a real part of the turn. It’s gonna pull…”

“Yeah, and it might pull your tits off. All I need in this place is a goddam accident and a ambulance to drive away my customers and ruin my investment. Or maybe this bird gets it in his head to fly out in the audience and pull out somebody’s eyes. No, to be frank, I don’t trust you and a bird, Darlene. Safety first.”

“Aw, Lana.” Darlene was heartbroken. “Give us a chance. We just getting good.”

“No. Beat it. Take that thing off my bar before it takes a shit.” Lana threw the cover over the birdcage. “The you-know-whats are gone and you can go back to your stool.”

“I think maybe I’ll tell you-know-who about the you-know-whats and make you-know-who scared and quit.”

Jones looked up from an advertisement and said, “If you peoples be talkin all this double-talk, I cain read. Whoa. Who the ‘you-know-whats’ and who ‘you-know-who?’”

“Get off that stool, jailbait, and get on my floor.”

“That bird been travelin to Night of Joy practicin and tryin,” Jones said from his cloud, smiling. “Shit. You gotta give it a chance, cain treat it like it’s color peoples.”

“That’s right,” Darlene agreed sincerely.

“Since we cuttin off the orphan chariddy and we not extendin it to the porter help, maybe we oughta give a little to a po, strugglin gal gotta hustle on commission. Hey!” Jones had seen the bird flap around on the stage while Darlene tried to dance. He had never seen a worse performance; Darlene and the bird qualified as legitimate sabotage. “Maybe it need a little polishin here and there, a little twistin and rockin, some more slippin and slidin, but I think that ack very good. Ooo-wee.”

“You see that?” Darlene said to Lana. “Jones oughta know. Colored people got plenty rhythm.”

“Whoa!”

“I don’t wanna scare somebody with a story about some people.”

“Oh, shut up, Darlene,” Lana screamed.

Jones covered the two with some smoke and said, “I think Darlene and that there bird very unusual. Whoa! I think you be attractin plenny new peoples in this place. What other club got them a ball eagle on the stage?”

“You jerks think there’s really a bird trade we could tap?” Lana asked.

“Hey! I sure they a bird trade. White peoples always got parrakeets and canayries they smoochin. Wait till them peoples fin out what kinda bird the Night of Joy offerin. You be havin a doorman in front this place. You be gettin the society trade. Whoa!” Jones created a dangerous-looking nimbus that seemed ready to burst. “Darlene and that bird just gotta eye-rom out a few rough spot. Shit. The gal just startin in show biz. She need a break.”

“That’s right,” Darlene said. “I’m just startin out in show biz. I need a break.”

“Shut up, stupid. You think you can get that bird to strip you?”

“Yes, ma’m,” Darlene said enthusiastically. “Suddenly it come to me. I was sitting in my apartment watching it play on its rings, and I said to myself, ‘Darlene, how come you don’t stick some rings on your clothes?’”

“Shut your moron up,” Lana said. “Okay, let’s see what it can do.”

“Whoa! Now you talkin. All kinda mother be showin up to see this act.”

“Santa, I hadda call you, honey.”

“What’s wrong, Irene babe?” Mrs. Battaglia’s froggy baritone asked feelingly.

“It’s Ignatius.”

“What he’s done now, sweetheart? Tell Santa.”

“Wait a minute. Let me see if he’s still in that tub.” Mrs. Reilly listened apprehensively to the great liquid thrashings coming from the bathroom. One whalelike snort floated out into the hall through the peeling bathroom door. “It’s okay. He’s still in there. I can’t lie to you, Santa. My heart’s broke.”

“Aw.”

“Ignatius comes home about a hour ago dressed up like a butcher.”

“Good. He’s got him another job, that big fat bum.”

“But not in a butcher shop, honey,” Mrs. Reilly said, her voice heavy with grief. “He’s a hot dog vendor.”

“Aw, come on,” Santa croaked. “A hot dog vendor? You mean out on the streets?”

“Out on the streets, honey, like a bum.”

“Bum is right, girl. Even worst. Read the police notices in the paper sometimes. They all a bunch of vagrants.”

“Ain’t that awful!”

“Somebody oughta punch that boy in the nose.”

“When he first comes in, Santa, he makes me guess what kinda job he’s got. First, I guess, ‘butcher,’ you know?”

“Of course.”

“So he says, very insolent, ‘Guess again. You ain’t even close.’ I keep guessing for about five minutes until I can’t think of no more jobs where you’d be wearing one of them white uniforms. Then he finally says, ‘Wrong every time. I got me a job selling weenies.’ I almost passed out, Santa, right on the kitchen floor. Wouldn’t thata been fine, me with my head broke open on the linoleum?”

“He wouldn’t care, not that one.”

“Not him.”

“Never in a million years.”

“He don’t care about his poor momma,” Mrs. Reilly said. “With all his education, mind you. Selling weenies out on the street in the broad daylight.”

“So what you told him, girl?”

“I didn’t tell him nothing. By the time I got my mouth open, he runs off to the bathroom. He’s still locked up in there splashing water all over the floor.”