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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 fine 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.
