WATER WORKS: 27) ICE CREAM SUNDAE

Sunday Funnies: A Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

36.

Soup has already been laid out amid gold-plated cutlery. It is a yellowish with two French fries floating on top.

The two princes dig in.

I dunk my spoon, taste—and quietly gag.

Morton is sick just looking at it.

"Interesting soup," I say.

"You like it?" says Jeckle.

"It's, uh, different." I pause. "What is it?"

"Egg 'n' chip soup," says Jeckle. "Me own concoction."

Jeeves appears and removes four bowls; two empty, two full.

"What about Fog Mogens?" I ask to fill the silence. "Are you going to get rid of him, too?"

"Not old Foggy," says Heckle. "We're stuck wif 'im. And 'e's stuck in bloody Kyrgyzstan!" Heckle laughs.

"Bloody wog," says Jeckle. "Wogs and chipolatas. That's what I always say—eh, Tommy?"

The butler appears with the main course, which looks like little snakes in Jell-O.

"Ah, jellied eels in winkle and whelk sauce!" squeals Jeckle. "It must be my bloody birfday!"

Morton is green.

And I’m not far behind. I poke at a jellied eel with my gold-plated fork and watch it jiggle.

Morton was right, we should have skipped lunch.

Jeckle notices my reluctance to dig in. "'ere," he says, "what's this then—you don't fancy jellied eels?"

I nod glumly. In truth, I'd rather eat petrified sheep eyeballs.

"I woke up with a weak stomach," I say.

"Don't know what you're bloody missing, mate," Jeckle chomps away, regarding me and Morton as if we are the lunatics. "What's 'is excuse, then?"

"I'm not hungry," says Morton.

"Never mind, mate. Save your appetite for afters—another specialty of mine."

I can hardly wait.

Heckle seems lost in thought.

"How long have you been living here?" I ask Heckle.

He ignores me.

"'e can't bloody 'ear you, mate," says Jeckle. "'e can't 'ear when 'e's chewing. Can you, Tommy?"

Tommy doesn’t reply.

"See? Deaf as a bloody lamppost when 'e eats."

The butler reappears to clear four plates; two full, two empty.

"We're ready for afters, Jeeves," says Jeckle. "No point 'anging about, eh?"

"Yes, Prince Theodore."

We wait quietly while the butler pushes a dessert trolley to where the four of us are huddled at one end of the long banqueting table. He scoops two balls of vanilla ice cream into a silver goblet. Then, with a ladle, he tops them with hot sauce.

Tomato sauce—from the garlicky smell of it.

He sets the goblet in front of Heckle.

Alas, lunch at Scrogg Castle is not destined to earn a Michelin star.

And the sight—and thought—of a vanilla ice cream Sunday with hot tomato sauce is too much for Morton's stomach. He rises, repulses a retch, and asks directions to the men's room.

"I'll take you," says Jeeves.

"No, you bloody won't," protests Jeckle. "Not until you've served me afters. Bloody cheek."

"It's okay," Morton chokes the onset of a barf. "Just point."

The butler points. Morton races off.

Heckle dips into his sundae while the butler prepares one for Jeckle.

Then it’s my turn.

"I'll stick with ice cream by itself, hold the sauce.”

The butler rolls two scoops.

Jeckle squints at me.

Heckle is oblivious, slurping ice cream and tomato sauce, not hearing a word.

We are finished with afters when Morton returns.

"Cor, blimey," says Jeckle. "That was bloody marvelous, eh, Tommy?"

"Bloody marvelous." Heckle echoes, wiping his lips with white linen.

"We should open our own bloody restaurant," says Jeckle.

"Bloody right we should."

"No," counters Jeckle, "a bloody chain of restaurants." He considers this. "Except we don't like people, eh?"

"We bloody well don't. Why share it with the bloody masses?"

Morton never retook his seat, but hovers anxiously by the chair until the mynah birds finish their banter. "I've got to get back to New York," he says.

"'ow 'bout a quick pint down the pub?" suggests Heckle.

Morton checks his wristwatch. "I really..."

"You have a pub on the island?" This is me.

A stiff drink, maybe two, is one hell of an idea.

"It's our own bloody pub," confirms Heckle. "Eh, Ted?"

"Bloody right, Tommy," says Jeckle.

"You built a pub just for yourselves?" I ask.

"We built the bloody castle for ourselves," says Heckle. "The pub we brought—all the way from Befnal Green, brick by brick. The slanty-eyes reassembled it."

"Who?"

"Our Chinese laborers," says Heckle. "We shipped them over from bloody China to build this castle."

As the butler begins clearing dessert plates, Heckle and Jeckle rise and lead the charge through their Louis XVI drawing room, through the foyer, out the front door, down a gravel path.

Hidden behind a clump of trees sits a brick row house, all by itself, devoid of the other row houses to which it was once attached on either side. A pub sign identifies this structure as The Red Lion. Near the entrance stands an old red telephone booth.

I’d like to use it (if it actually works) to call the nearest mental hospital for a collection. But I fear we are already here. This is the mental hospital—with two permanent patients who had prudently committed themselves to an island.

Inside, the butler now stands behind the bar, wearing street garb.

"Hey," I whisper to Heckle. "How did he get here so fast—and change out of his uniform?"

"Ah, you think he's the bloody butler eh?" says Heckle.

"Isn't he?"

"No, mate—‘is twin brother."

Jeckle had wandered off. "Fancy darts?" he calls.

"Bloody right I do. A pint, Ted?"

The barman draws two pints of Carling.

"I'll have a gin and tonic," I say.

"You 'ear that, Tommy?" cackles Jeckle. "says 'e wants a gin and bloody tonic."

The publican smiles. "We serve only Carling draught beer in this establishment."

"Okay," I say, "I guess I'll have a beer." I turn to Morton. "You?"

Morton shakes his head and issues body language that conveys his desire to depart this establishment soonest.

The publican taps a beer and passes it across the bar.

Nearby, Heckle and Jeckle throw darts.

I put down my glass and approach this pair of mynah birds. "We have to take off now," I say.

The mynah birds exchange glances, but otherwise ignore the intrusion.

"Do you have the financial statements for me?" I press.

"Shh!" Heckle is poised to throw a dart. He throws. "Bulls eye!" he crows. Then he turns to deal with my request. "The butler 'as what you need, mate. Ta, then."

Ta, then.

I back out the pub, behind Morton, and start down the gravel path to the courtyard. Morton aims for the chopper, the rotors of which are already spinning. I head to the castle's front door, where the butler stands holding a plastic Marks & Spencer shopping bag. I grab it and rejoin Morton.

As we lift off and circle over the castle, I get a good long look at the mammoth construction underway: an army of Chinese men and women slaving laboriously beneath the hot afternoon sun.

Clearly, the Scrogg twins were utilizing China's cheapest commodity: people. Part of their arrangement, I deduce, with Yao Li and Johnny Wang.

On board Morton's jet, I offer Dulci Acqua's balance books to Morton.

"No,” he says, then falls into a nap.

Soon after, I fall into the flight attendant.