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“Poor lobsters. You should not be trapped in a glitter-water hell.”
“Definitely. A fake-snow-pellet hell is better,” I joke.
Dulcie ignores me. I’m used to being ignored. So why does it bother me when she does it? Why do I feel the need to try with her?
She turns away. “You should see if you can snag that paper.”
“All right,” I say, not sure what I did to piss her off. I go up to the counter and pretend to be very interested in the gum and mints selection. I put some Fruity Time Chews on the counter.
“Just this?” the lady asks. Her name is HELLO, MY NAME IS EMPLOYEE #3. In the corner, four rows of boxes marked UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS are stacked eight high. Man, people like their snow globes here.
“Yes. Thanks. And, ah, do you … think I could have your paper, you know, if you’re finished with it?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“No reason.” I swallow hard. “Just thought I’d catch the day’s news.”
“Papers are over by the cooler. They’re three dollars and fifty cents. Here’s your gum.” She’s still glaring.
Too late I notice the picture of Gonz and me. Apparently, it’s a slow news day for the tabloids—no faces of Jesus in guacamole dip or anything—and Gonz and I have finally moved to page one right next to a picture of the president golfing on an aircraft carrier and under a lurid headline—TEENAGE TERROR PLOT HATCHED IN HIGH SCHOOL BATHROOM!
“You know, actually, it’s cool. Never mind. Have a good day,” I say, walking away fast.
“Hey!” she calls after me. “You stay right there. Don’t you go nowhere!” Her voice goes over an intercom. “Bobby Joe, call Cyrus to come on up with the wagon. We’re gettin’ ourselves that fifteen large.”
There’s a sudden crash from aisle five. It diverts Cash Register Lady’s attention. “Hey! Hey now! You stop that nonsense right this minute!”
A familiar voice rings out: “Free the snow globes!”
I rush back to Dulcie, who is standing in a puddle of sparkly water and escaped lobster toys.
“What are you doing?” I plead.
“Freeing the snow globes. Wanna help?” There’s a wicked gleam in her eye that scares the crap out of me.
“No, I don’t!”
“Suit yourself.” With the flick of a wing, Dulcie wipes out a whole row and then another, until the dirty linoleum is awash in small plastic mermaids, floating towns, seashells, and tiny white pellets that stick to the floor like fake snow.
“I’m calling the police!” the lady screams. “I have a gun!”
She isn’t kidding. A shot sails past in the other aisle, breaking open a jar of yellow-green margarita mix that splatters onto my shirt. Holy shit! I duck down next to Dulcie, who’s grinning like it’s the first day of summer.
“Get out of here,” she says. “I’ll keep her busy.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about me. Just grab the paper on the way out.” Dulcie picks up a snow globe and hurls it toward the soda case. Another shot shatters the glass there. Cash Register Lady starts racing in that direction, and I am off and running toward the door. Gonzo’s right behind me, screaming bloody murder, Balder tucked under an arm. And the three frat guys are hot on his tail. On the way out, I grab the paper in my fist.
“Get in the car!” I scream. Everyone falls in, and I start the Rocinante up and peel out with a big screech of tread.
“I don’t have my door closed!” Gonzo yells.
In the rearview mirror, I can see the lady aiming the shotgun at us.
“Then you better hold on to something, man, because I am not stopping.”
“Sorry, Balder!” Gonzo yells, dropping him to the floor for safekeeping.
