"Now that's a job with a future!" Edna said. "People will always need doughnuts, you know!"
Ed could easily see him as the subject of one of those homey Rockwell Kent covers on The Saturday Evening Post.
And because one of his novels had the word "horses" in the title, he was usually put to work writing scenarios for westerns.
Hugh remembered that the boys had been invited to a party at Betty and Harry's a couple of nights before and wondered how it had gone.
"Well now!" Hugh said. "This sounds promising!"
"And that Rhonda Fleming!" Ed said. "Mother of mercy! For a minute there I thought she was going to sit in my lap!"
"Oh, I don't know if they need to worry too much," Horace said with a little smile.
Ed was still chortling as they strolled back to their own bungalow.
Jeroboam Clapp was the leader of the Church of the Blazing Spotlight of God, which conducted its services in a car wash on Pico Boulevard that lay frozen half-completed by some city mix-up about water supplies.
Ed had been sixteen at the time. In fact, that had been his father’s sixteenth birthday present to him. A job at the slaughterhouse.
“My dad says we might not’ve lost the farm if I’d kept my head where it was supposed to be.”
He so closely resembled his brother that Ed
and Johnny were afraid he’d whip out a gat and ventilate them if he
didn’t like Horace’s idea.
“Shell shock,” Johnny said. “You see it all the time with these hero types.”
“He’s not going to be happy to hear about this.”
“Not at first, he won’t. But if I don’t miss my guess, he’ll love it when I’ve spelled it all out."
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