Going Bovine

  “You are freaking me out, gnome man!” Gonzo screeches.

  “Chill, both of you.” Another siren wails past us on its way to the fire. I take a deep breath, try to calm myself. “He’s called the Wizard of Reckoning, and those guys with him are the fire giants. They’re not from this world. They got here through the wormhole Dr. X opened up. They are the dark energy that’s going to destroy the world. I think they’re following us to Dr. X’s secret location, because he’s the only one who can close the portal. They take him out first, it’s game over for everybody.”

  Gonzo takes another puff on his inhaler.

  “That’s why we have to find Dr. X as soon as possible,” I explain.

  “This Dr. X will heal the rift and make it all better, as you say?” Balder asks.

  “Absolutely,” I promise.

  Gonzo reaches into his pack and comes up with a bottle of SPF-to-the-tenth-power lotion. He rubs a big dollop on his face; it leaves big white streaks under his eyes. “Hold up—how do you know all of this is true?”

  “Dulcie told me.”

  Gonzo laughs. “Oh sure, right. It must be true because you heard it from the hot angel who lives in your head! For all we know, she’s the one bringing the end of the world,” Gonzo says.

  “She’s not.”

  “Ha!” Gonzo starts throwing stuff into his pack. “You know what? Forget this, yo. I’m-a call my mom as soon as I can get to a working phone.”

  “She doesn’t live in my head. She’s real,” I say, but I don’t know if I’m trying to convince Gonzo or myself.

  “Yeah? So how come she doesn’t come around?” Gonzo puts his hands on either side of his mouth and calls out, “Paging all supernatural chicks with wings! Conference on the side of the road near the burning pancake palace!”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Whatever,” Gonzo snaps right back. “I’m just saying, it’s hard to believe in all this crazy without a little proof.”

  Proof. The MP7 player in my pocket.

  “You want proof? You got it.” I pull it out, find the link, and press Play. But where Dr. X used to be is just white noise, followed by the vacation footage of Disney World. Gonzo makes a disgusted laugh deep in his throat. Even Balder’s looking at me with a mix of wariness and pity.

  “It was here. I swear it.” I press Play again and again, but it’s gone.

  Gonzo’s gaze is steely. “I didn’t have to come, but I did. But you told me there was something in it for me, too, and so far, amigo, I got a lot of trouble and no payoff. Tell me why I should stick this out.”

  “Because Cameron is our brother, our friend, and we do not abandon our friends,” Balder chides.

  “Thanks, man,” I say.

  “No matter if he has lost his wits completely and speaks like one whom the dogs should tear asunder in a mercy killing,” Balder continues. “This is a quest. I pledged my loyalty to Cameron back on the cul-de-sac. I shall see it through till the end.”

  The way he says “end” makes me feel all wonky inside.

  Gonzo just stands there, staring at the burning diner in the distance. He has every right to call his mom and head back to Texas, but I hope he won’t. The truth is, I’ve kind of gotten used to his neurotic weirdness, and I’d miss it if he left. Maybe that’s what real friendship is—getting so used to people that you need to be annoyed by them.

  “I’ll tell you what, pendejo,” Gonzo says. “We better invest in some adult diapers, ’cause if those freaks show up again, I’m gonna need ’em.”

  I could almost hug him.

  “Yeah, so, you know, let’s kick some parallel-universe dark-energy ass and shit,” he adds, trying not to look scared.

  “A wise choice. But we must gain some protection against these travelers from Muspelheim and Niflheim. I shall cast the runes and seek their prophecy.” Balder reaches beneath his tunic and pulls out the leather pouch.

  Gonzo makes a face. “Dude, you weren’t, like, keeping those in your pants this whole time, were you? I mean, use a wipe or something first. Damn.”

  Balder shakes the pouch till it clacks. Eyes closed, he grabs a rune, places it on the patchy ground. It’s just a piece of rock etched with a symbol that reminds me of an “M” wearing a bra.

  “Hmmmm.” Balder strokes his beard. “Mannaz.”

  “What’s that?” Gonzo says, his inhaler hovering near his mouth again. “Is that some bad juju? Are we marked for death? Give it to me straight, Gnome-Man!”

  “Man is the augmentation of the dust,” Balder intones. “So says the rune.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Gonzo asks.

  “I cannot know, but I will invoke a prayer of protection for our journey. It is all I can do.”

  Balder chants something in a language I don’t understand. The wind changes direction, bringing the smell of scorched earth mixed with spring flowers. Ragged streaks of smoke cut across the blue sky like the claw marks of some great beast. I don’t see how we can possibly protect ourselves from something so totally random. There’s no plan for something like that. “Shit happens” is more than just a T-shirt slogan.

  “So … you think that’ll help us out?” I ask hopefully.

  Balder gathers his runes, hides the pouch again. “I believe as surely as I believe that Ringhorn is waiting for me and that I shall return to my home and the hall of the gods.”

  I sigh. “Your runes have any prophecy about how we get out of here?”

  “I can’t do another bus, dude. I’m nauseated just thinking about it,” Gonzo says.

  “Yeah, well, since we are currently wanted men, I think buses are a bad idea.” I take a look around, trying to get our bearings, but there’s not much help—highways, faceless industrial complexes, gas stations. A green and white road marker points the way to Bifrost Road under the overpass. “Gonzo, how much money do you have?”

  He pulls out wads of crumpled bills he collected from the patrons of the Konstant Kettle and adds them to what he’s got in his pocket. “Forty-eight dollars and … twenty-five”—he drops a penny—“twenty-four cents.”

  Adding that to my leftover two thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars of stolen drug money, we’ve got enough for plane tickets for sure. But Gonzo doesn’t have a driver’s license. No ID, no flying. And since Balder’s too bulky to fit in the overhead bin, we’d have to check him as luggage. Crap.

  High above the crisscross of highway, a murky rainbow shines under the wisps of smoke, staining the sky like an oil slick. It dead-ends in the distance near the rippling pennants of a car dealership. And then I remember the orange balloon in our room.

  “Come on,” I say, shouldering my backpack. “Screw mass transit. It’s time we got ourselves some wheels.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In Which We Buy a Car and the Gnome Gets a New Outfit

  We have to use fifteen dollars of our precious cash to cab it across those highways to Arthur Limbaud’s lot. The place is huge—acres of cars with prices shoe-polished across the windshields. Nothing as low as what we need, though. It’s looking grim. We make our way to the low concrete building in the center. It’s decorated with colorful plastic flags that flap in the breeze, going round and round like the blades of windmills. Inside the showroom, beautiful shining cars sit on raised, revolving platforms. These are the Don’t Even Look Because You Can’t Afford Us cars. A tall man in a Western-cut suit, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat strides over. His face is weathered as an old map, lines everywhere. He’s got a solid black mustache and a toothpick poking out of the side of his mouth, which he works with his tongue, rolling it back and forth. “Hi-dee,” he says, shaking my hand hard. “Arthur Limbaud—that’s an ‘O,’ not an ‘aw’ by the way. Welcome to Limbaud’s Resale Beauties: Every Car a Beauty. That’s our motto. What kin I do fer you, gen’lemen?”

  “Well,” I start.

  “You two boys going somewheres special? Let me guess, you just gradjeeated high school and now you wanna see this fin
e country of our’n? Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, copping my best Eagle Scout imitation. “You are right.”

  “Well, ain’t that grand. Where you headed first?”

  I say “Montana” at the same time that Gonzo says “Florida.”

  “It’s a long trip,” I say.

  “Well, that’s mighty fine, mighty fine.” Arthur smiles with the toothpick between his teeth, which are the color of nicotine stains. “What kind of beauty did you have in mind?”

  “We’re sort of on a budget,” I say, hoping he doesn’t laugh and throw us out when he hears what we’ve got to spend.

  “We work with all kinds here, son. No budget too small.”

  “We need something for under three thousand dollars …,” I say, watching Arthur’s smile fade. “Or so.”

  “Three thousand, huh?” he says, letting out a long whistle that vibrates the toothpick in his mouth.

  “Or so,” Gonzo adds.

  “That do put me in a bit of a pickle,” Arthur says, shaking his head sadly. “But seein’ as you boys got your hearts set on seein’ the country, and since I were a young man myself once, lemme see what I kin do fer ya. Hold on.”

  “Why don’t you just fax our itinerary to the police?” I say to Gonzo as Arthur disappears into the office.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “Could you get me one of those free Danish?” Balder asks. He’s propped up on the hood of a shiny pick-up truck like a bizarre cross between a hood ornament and a traffic-accident victim. I bring him a Danish and some strong black coffee with nondairy creamer that freckles the surface with little white marks. It looks diseased, but Balder drinks it anyway.

  “I hope you can hold your coffee, yard gnome, because we’re not stopping,” Gonzo says.

  “I’m the one who’s clever enough to eat the free food before we get on the road.”

  “You don’t know how long those things have been sitting there,” Gonzo says with a shudder. “Or who’s been touching them. They’re like little pastries of salmonella.”

  Balder licks a big dollop of cream cheese out of the middle. “Ummm.”

  Gonzo pales. “You’re one sick dude.”

  Arthur returns. I grab Balder and shove the rest of the Danish in my own mouth. I feel him sigh under my arm.

  “Weeeell now, boys, never let it be said that Arthur Limbaud wouldn’t work for his money. I looked at my records and it jes’ so happens that I got a car might work out, a very special ve-hicle. It’s a rehabbed Caddy called the Cadillac Rocinante. Boys, they do not make cars like this anymore. I mean that—they stopped production on ’em back in ’sixty-eight. She’s a special car, yessir. And she can be all yourn for … what’d you say you had? Four thousand dollars?”

  “Three thousand,” I remind him.

  Arthur points his toothpick at me. “A smart bidnessman. I like that. Three thousand dollars it is.” Arthur M. Limbaud’s dry, cracked face spreads into a grin that makes the short black hairs of his mustache stand at attention. “Son, you have got yourself a deal.”

  This means for sure we are buying a piece of shit that no one else would touch. I don’t care if it’s held together by spit and rubber bands. I just need something that costs less than three thousand dollars and can get us to Florida in one piece.

  “Sounds great,” I say. “Uh, can we see it?”

  “Getting there, buckaroo. It’s a process.” Arthur puts his arm around me. “See, son, when I sell somebody a car, I feel like I’m sellin’ ’em a little piece of me. I’m like their daddy. So, seein’ as that’s how I feel, I’m gonna take the liberty of givin’ you some father-son advice. You ready for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arthur lets his tongue twirl the toothpick in his mouth for a full ten seconds. With tobacco-stained fingers, he pulls it out and pokes it at me. “A car is a lot like a woman. If you treat her right, give her what she needs when she needs it, she’ll get you where you’re going and not give you a peep of trouble. But if you treat her bad, she’ll cut out on ya. You unnerstand me?”

  That’s it? That’s his father-son advice? Christ.

  “Yes, sir. Got it.”

  “Fine, fine.” He claps, then rubs his hands together. “All-rightythen. Let’s go see your beauty.”

  He leads us out through rows of gleaming cars with their orange advertising balloons tied to the windshield wipers. Gonzo looks hopefully at each car, expecting the next one to be it. I’ve got Balder in my arms.

  “What’s that there, yer mascot?” Arthur asks, pointing to Balder.

  “Sort of,” I say.

  “Cute little feller.”

  Arthur turns a corner and we’re on a second lot tucked away behind a service garage. The cars here are like the kids who never get adopted on those TV news programs, the ones who’ve been shut away in Romanian orphanages their whole lives. Arthur takes us to the very end of the lot, where a big boat of a car sits. It’s a sort of gold color sprayed over a light blue, with dents in the passenger side door. On the front hood where an ornament should be sits a pair of large cattle horns. They’ve been rigged to the front with wire. It makes it seem like the car has a mustache.

  “Gen’lemen—the Caddy Rocinante!” Arthur pries open the passenger door with a loud creak. “Slide on in. Feel ’er out, boys.”

  We crawl in and settle back against the cracked vinyl seats. The foam padding’s coming out in spots. This car has the vehicular equivalent of mange. And an oversized boom box has been affixed to the dashboard by the previous owners. But the giant steering wheel’s solid in my hands, and I love looking out past the cattle horns at the sun sparkling in bursts off the hoods of other cars.

  Arthur hands me the keys. “Start ’er up.”

  The Rocinante grumbles, wheezes, shakes, and finally purrs into service. I’ve never had my own car.

  “How’s she feel?” Arthur shouts over the engine.

  “Awesome,” I say, enjoying the vibrations under my fingers.

  “Dandy,” Arthur says. “We’re all set for the paperwork.”

  Reluctantly, I cut the engine and slide out. Arthur takes the keys again. “I just need your license and a parent to cosign.”

  “Y-you do?” I stammer. “My parents are dead.”

  Arthur’s mustache twitches. The toothpick rolls from one side of his mouth to the other. “We-eee-lll, son, we got ourselves a sitchooashun. You ain’t a legal adult, and I can only sell to legal parties.”

  Without the Caddy, we’re stuck hitching or trying to get on a bus or train, where we are sitting ducks for every cop with a scanner. We need this car.

  Balder waves his arm over Mr. Limbaud. “These Star Fighters are not worth the trouble,” he says in a weird, artsy-fartsy voice. “You will help them escape.”

  Arthur’s toothpick falls out of his mouth. “Did that thing just talk?”

  “I … he … um,” I sputter.

  Balder closes his eyes and lifts a hand. “Let them go.”

  “Holy moley! How’dyoo get him to do that?”

  “He’s a … toy,” I improvise. “A prototype.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Arthur says. “What else does he say?”

  “Uh, here,” I say, pushing an imaginary button in Balder’s back.

  “Who’s your Caddy!” he says, bright and chirpy.

  Arthur’s eyes grow to the size of quarters. He laughs, slapping his knees. “Who’s your Caddy! Now don’t that beat all!”

  “Every Jeep’s cheap!” Balder chirps.

  “Amazing,” Arthur says. That sharky mind of his is circling something.

  “Oh yeah,” Gonzo adds. “You can get ’em programmed to say all kinds of things.”

  “No kidding? Say, listen. I might be able to forget you’re not eighteen if you could leave me this guy. Somethin’ like ’is would bring in all sorts of customers. We could do commercials!”

  “This one’s not quite right yet,” I say. “Few bugs in the syst
em.”

  Arthur’s face goes mean. “Well, that’s a gall-darn shame. You boys sure woulda looked fine in that Caddy.”

  “You can get another! You can get another!” Balder says in his adopted parrot voice.

  “Right! I can send you a brand-new one as soon as I get to Montana. To my dad’s workshop. My dead dad’s workshop. His workers are still there. Working. Then you can program it to say things in your voice.”

  “Well now. That is a fine idea. Gen’lemen, you got yourselves a car.”

  Ten minutes later, with the papers signed and the money in his yellowed fingers, Arthur shows us back out to the lot and the Caddy’s brought round. A secretary wiggles out of the front seat. She’s all in pink, like somebody who got stuck in a cotton-candy machine for a night.

  “Here you go, now,” she says, dropping the keys in my hand. “Y’all be careful.”

  Arthur takes hold of her arm. “Carol, hold on a minute. You have got to see this. These fellas have a toy—well, you just have to see it.”

  He pushes on Balder, hard, in the stomach. I can see that our gnomy friend is pissed. He’s not going to talk. No way. But Arthur keeps pushing. “Come on, now. Say somethin’, dammit!”

  “Yeah, see, the bugs—” I start to explain.

  “He was talkin’ fine a minute ago. I’ll get the sumbitch working.”

  Arthur picks him up and shakes so hard Balder’s whole face flushes bright red. I can see from the set of Arthur’s thin lips that he’s determined. He’s not letting our gnome down till he dances for Daddy. “Come on, now,” he says, giving Balder one last, hard shake. “Do somethin’ else, dangit!”

  And that’s when Balder pees on him.

  * * *

  We pull the Caddy into the parking lot of a Toys Mahal and duck inside. I stand guard while Gonzo rips open a Life-Sized Surfer Sammy box, switching out Balder’s pee-wet pants for Sammy’s black, neoprene surfer leggings complete with dragon etchings up the side. Some kid is in for a bad birthday.

  “We’re gonna get caught,” Gonzo says, looking around like a man hunted.

  “Not if you stay cool,” I say.