Lousnik Pooper made a million in Seventy-three on a new line of sewage valves that responded to viscosity in waste line treatment. He rolled that million over and found another ten in hairpiece adhesive.
"From bottom to top!" he said, "Bottom to top!"
Lou had a shovel for a face and eleven pounds of neck to bury it in. He sat double-wide in those old navy-blue Dickies he never took off in the window of Ralph's Diner, facing a line of rundown nightspots on Bleeker Street.
"Rosa, doll," he hurled, "more gravy baby!"
"Lou hon, you got enough gravy, it's just poolin' down in your neck there."
The man knew how to laugh, and although his hands could barely reach the ravioli he used for a nose, he made for it out of habit.
In Eighty, Lousnik Pooper pushed a five-for-one gamble on drinking water. Bottled.
"Lou," Rosa said, "you got more money than a bank, why are you still in this greasy spoon breakfast lunch and dinner? Is it me baby?"
"It's the grease sweetheart, I love the way you do grease!"
That was Lousnik all over. If you met him in the street, you'd consider giving him a quarter, or at least a wide berth, depending on your disposition. It wasn't that Pooper was shy about his wealth, it just didn't come up, and if it did, he'd gladly discuss how he might be able to help you share some of it. When Lou started loosing his hair, he didn't go for the trip to Paris for that Le-Sclip scalp replacement you read about in People Magazine. No. Old Poop slathered his head with Upright Salve Adhesive and slapped a ratty looking rug in his dome.
Funny how some people are.
end part 1
