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Might Mr。 Sanjay have sampled a few Dixie beers as well?
The Calcutta native plans to continue his American travels in North Carolina; wherehe says he wants to try the barbecue。
Zach added the sequence of characters that meant an editor had approved his copy。 Then with a few more keystrokes he sent it on its merry way to the printing department; where it joined the other stories ready to be printed in next Sunday's edition。 It was easier to bury items in the Sunday paper…they were hungry for filler and didn't look twice at the shit that came in。
He knew Eddy would be watching the paper for hidden news of him。 The mention of Kali would catch her eye; and she might also notice that he had reversed the Indian surname and first name。 Calling the guy Mr。 Parvata Sanjay was something like calling an American Mr。 Rogers Fred。
Other friends and outlaws might see it and recognize his hand too。 Maybe some of Them would see it too; for that matter; but Zach didn't think They would connect it with a hacker on the run。
He logged out and broke the phone connection; turned off the puter; and carried it back out to his car。 A quick pee in the pink…tiled bathroom; room key left in the door; and Zach was gone。 After sleeping all day he was ready to drive all night; and anyway he couldn't stand the thought of lying there in that slick red heart…shaped bed; staring at his own lonely; horny body in the mirror overhead。
South of the Border disappeared behind him。 Soon it was only a faint fuchsia glow on the horizon。 As the night deepened and the traffic thinned to nothing; it seemed to Zach that the whole country lay over the next rise; around the next bend of the highway all lit up and wide awake; violent and strange and joyous; just waiting for him to e find it。
Chapter Eight
Trevor didn't know what he expected to see inside the Rambler as the driver's window wound down: a grinning skeleton dirt…crusted and worm…festooned; dry bone finger beckoning him in? His father's flesh restored; black shades balanced on his blade of a nose; intense eyes blazing through smoky lenses? Or Bobby as he had looked the last time Trevor saw him; dead eyes bulging; tongue jutting like a rotten melon; chin and bare scrawny chest slicked with drool; streaked with gore?
Whatever he expected; it wasn't the smiling face of Terry Buckett; the affable second…generation hippie who had introduced himself at the bar last night。 The owner of the record store; Trevor remembered。 Procurer of jazz sides; retailer of the magic that had made Bird so little money during his own lifetime。
〃Hey; Trevor Black。 It's pouring down rain; or didn't you notice? Catch a ride; man。〃
Terry cocked a thumb toward the passenger door。 Trevor made himself walk around the front of the car; heard wet gravel crunching under his feet though he could not feel it; heard the roar and thrum of the idling engine。 Perched high on its wheels; the Rambler looked like a child's sketch of an automobile; a small rectangle atop a larger one precariously balanced on two circles。 It was a boxy; plain; yet somehow rakish machine。 It was not the sort of car in which you expected to see a ghost; it was not the sort of car you expected to be a ghost。
Trevor raised his left hand and wrapped his fingers around the door handle。 It was cold to the touch; beaded with rain。 He pulled the heavy door open and slid in; across the dirty…white vinyl seat his butt had polished in cloth diapers and Osh…Kosh overalls; the seat that had stuck to the backs of his legs when it was hot; the seat that Didi had peed on a couple of times; though most of his accidents had been confined to the back。
Terry lounged fortably on the other side of the seat; curly hair pulled back in a faded blue bandanna; dark amused eyes looking Trevor up and down。 Terry's features were blunt; not quite handsome; his bushy eyebrows nearly met over the bridge of his nose; and he needed a shave。 But his face had a friendly; squared look; a face that wouldn't take any bullshit but wouldn't give you any either。 Make him a little seedier…looking and he could have been a character drawn by Crumb。
Terry put the car in gear; eased off the clutch; and started rolling down Burnt Church Road again。 He seemed to be in no great hurry to get anywhere。
〃Where did you get this car?〃 Trevor asked。
〃Aw; I've had it forever。 Kinsey used to help me fix it whenever it broke down; but I've learned to do most of the work myself。 I love these old engines。 No damn electronics to get fucked up; just a bunch of metal and grease。 You know these wipers still run on vacuum tubes?〃 Terry indicated the slushing windshield wipers as though pointing out an artifact of some forgotten civilization。 〃Something else Kinsey told me about this car。 It used to belong to a famous cartoonist who killed himself here in Missing Mile。 Pretty weird; huh?〃
Trevor sagged back in the seat and let out a long unsteady breath。 Terry glanced over。 〃You okay; man?〃
〃Yeah。〃 He sat up; swiped water out of his eyes。 His shirt was sticking to his skin; outlining his ribs。 His jeans were sodden; unpleasantly heavy。 〃Just wet。 And cold。〃
〃Well; look; I was going into town to do some errands; but my house is just back down the road。 You want to stop by there and towel off? I'll even give you a dry T…shirt; I've got a million of 'em。〃
〃No; I'm fine…〃
But Terry was already turning the car around。 〃I forgot to get stoned before I left anyway。 Consider it done。〃
A couple of minutes later the Rambler turned into a long gravel driveway and stopped in front of a small wooden house whose paint was not so much peeling as fraying at the edges。 A couple of rocking chairs were stationed on the porch among various whirligigs; wagon wheels; pirated street signs; and crates of empty beer bottles。 Country kitsch gone weird。
Terry led the way up the porch steps; through the towers of junk; and unlocked the front door。 〃Watch out for the hex sign。 It's supposed to be bad luck to step on it or something。〃
Trevor looked down as he crossed the threshold。 Someone had painted two interlocking triangles; one red and one blue; with a silver ankh at their juncture。 〃What's it for?〃
〃Don't ask me。 This house belongs to my friend Ghost; who's even spookier than you might guess from his name。 His grandmother was some kind of witch。〃
〃He isn't here; is he?〃 Trevor hoped he wasn't about to meet yet another of Missing Mile's friendly freaks。 He had only wanted a ride; not an impromptu afternoon party。
〃No; his band is on tour。 Extended tour。 I'm minding the farm; which means free rent and a lifetime supply of good karma。〃
〃How e?〃
〃Oh; I don't know。〃 Terry shrugged。 〃Miz Deliverance was a good witch。 What color shirt do you want?〃
〃Black。〃
〃But of course。〃
Terry tossed him a cotton T…shirt printed with the Whirling Disc logo…a little long…haired man who looked like a hippie version of the man on the Monopoly game; twirling a record on the end of his candy…striped cane… and pointed him down the hall to the bathroom。 Trevor placed his wet feet carefully on the mellow hardwood flo