Good Behavior Read Free Page A

right wrist— God , her hand was bony!—and gave it a yank. “Holy shit!” Dortmunder said, and she stared at him in wide-eyed disapproval. “I mean,” he said, “I mean, uh, what I meant—”
    An eyes-closed brisk headshake: Oh, forget that . Another tug on his wrist: Let’s move it, fella .
    â€œWell, okay,” Dortmunder said. “I hope you know what we’re doing.”
    She did. She treated him like a collie bringing home a particularly stupid sheep at the end of the day, as limb by limb she transferred him off the beam and onto the ladder, where he clung a moment, half-relieved and half-terrified, covered with sweat. More vibration meant that his short-tempered benefactress was hurrying back down the ladder, so it was time to follow, which he did.
    Awkwardly. His left ankle absolutely refused to support any weight at all, so Dortmunder hopped his way to the ground, holding on to the sides of the aluminum ladder with fingers so tense they left creases. Left leg stuck out and back at an awkward angle that made him look as though he were imitating some obscure wading bird from the Everglades, he went bounce-bounce-bounce all the way down on his right foot, and when he finally got to the bottom a whole lot of nuns reached over one another’s shoulders to push him backwards into a wheelchair they’d just brought in for the purpose.
    Dortmunder’s fierce friend from the top of the ladder stood in front of him, gazing severely down at him, while all the other nuns hovered around, watching with a great deal of interest. This one must be the Chief Sister or Mother Superior or whatever they called it. She pointed at Dortmunder, then pointed at herself, then pointed to her mouth. Dortmunder nodded: “I get it. You’re all of you, uh, whatever. You can’t talk.”
    Headshake. Hand waggled negatively back and forth. Disapproving scowl. Dortmunder said, “You can talk?”
    Nods, lots of nods, all around. Dortmunder nodded back, but he didn’t get it. “You can talk, but you won’t talk. If you say so.”
    The wiry little boss nun clutched her earlobe, then suddenly did a vicious right-hand punch in midair, a really solid right hook. She looked at Dortmunder, who looked back. She sighed in exasperation, shook her head, and went through it all over again: tug on right earlobe and punch the air, this punch even stronger than the first; Dortmunder believed he could feel its breeze on his face. As he sat there in the metal-armed wheelchair, frowning, wondering what in hell this old vulture was up to, she glowered at him and tugged her earlobe so hard it looked as though she’d pull it right off.
    Parties. Dortmunder’s head lifted as a memory came to him. Party games, he’d seen people do—He said, “Cha -rades? ”
    A great heaving relieved nod flooded the room; the nuns all smiled at him. The head nun did one last earlobe tug and punched the air one more time, and then stood there with her hands on her hips, staring at him, waiting.
    â€œSounds,” Dortmunder said, the rules of the game vaguely floating in his head. “Sounds like. Sounds like punch? Like lunch, you mean.”
    They all shook their heads.
    â€œNot lunch? Munch, maybe.” (The lost caviar was influencing him.)
    Everybody vehemently shook their heads. The boss did the charade all over again, more irritably and violently than ever, this time punching her right fist smack into her left palm with all her might. Then she stood there, shaking her left hand, and waited.
    â€œNot punch at all,” Dortmunder decided. “Sock?” No. Well, that was just as well. “Hit? Bang? Crash? Pow? Thud?”
    No, no , they all semaphored, waving their arms. Go back one .
    â€œPow?”
    Many many nods. Several of the nuns did quick charades with one another and silently laughed; talking about him.
    â€œSounds like pow.” Dortmunder