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“Like a bug in a rug,” I answer. This actually gets a laugh from the crowd.
“Okay. Last question. For all the money. We’re going to play a sound bite from a song. You have to tell me the song and the artist. Get it right, and you win six hundred bucks. Get it wrong, and it is down the flusher with the Cam-a-lama-ding-dong. You ready?”
I nod.
The speakers crackle to life. A song wafts out. A haunting melody on recorder and ukulele. And then that helium-high Portuguese vibrato floats over the crowd. It’s possible I have the biggest shit-eating grin in the history of television.
“Oh, Cam. Do I sense you’re in trouble?” Parker asks, moving toward the HIT ME button. “Time for your answer.”
“Oh, dude,” I say, shaking my head and sighing. They want some good television, I’m happy to oblige. “Gimme a minute.”
“Ten seconds on the clock, Big Cam.”
In the audience, people start counting down, “Ten, nine, eight, seven …” Gonzo’s eyes are huge, his lips barely moving as he counts with them. I let them get to “zero.” The buzzer goes off. The ruffing dog noise spreads through the crowd like a wave.
“Time’s up, Cameron. Have you got an answer?” Parker’s licking his lips. His palm hovers over the button, just itching to dunk me into a nasty pond of muck.
“Yes, Parker. I believe I do. That would be ‘Viver É Amar, Amar É Viver’ by the Great Tremolo.”
Parker’s smug smirk vanishes. He looks back down at his cards as if he can’t believe what’s written there. The crowd goes quiet. They want dunking action, and they don’t know why it’s taking Parker so long to satisfy them.
“Cameron, Cameron, Cameron,” Parker says, shaking his head. The crowd’s on edge. “You. Are.” He sighs, and his hand gets closer to the button before he pulls it away completely. “Absolutely right! Come on down, Cam-my-man.”
An assistant helps me down the ladder to the huge applause from the audience and a few jeers. “You’ve just won six hundred dollars and a case of Rad Mellow—keep it on the chill-low with Rad Mel-low.”
An assistant pulls out a wagon filled with Rad Mellow six-packs, and Parker counts off six hundred dollars, which I immediately stick in my pocket. We’re back in the black. Now all we have to do is find Balder.
When I get offstage, Gonzo welcomes me with double high-fives. “Dude, you rocked the house!”
“Thanks, Gonz. Have you seen the goons who stole Balder?” I ask. The hot sun and my nerves have gotten the best of me. I’m starting to cramp up again, and my vision’s a little blurry.
Gonzo shakes his head. “Not yet, man. Hey, you okay? You don’t look so good.”
I’m sweating freakin’ bullets. “I’m just overheated.”
We’re pushed along with the crowd down to the beach, where they’ve built a large, open-air platform designated STAGE THREE. It’s a Marisol event. In her bright pink sarong and half-shirt, she’s waving to the crowd and blowing kisses, her long black curls shining under the sun. If we’ve found Marisol, we’ll probably find the goons.
“Hey,” I ask a girl who’s on her way in. “What’s this show?”
“Some kind of auction for charity,” she says. “They let people come up onstage to auction off their most valuable or weird possessions. The more bizarre you are, the better chance you’ve got of getting on.”
We thank her and push through the crowd. On stage, this chubby guy’s standing there with an autograph he got from some movie star. A few bids are traded back and forth and the gavel comes down on a final price of $125. They usher the next idiot onstage. I can’t believe it. It’s Keith. And he’s holding Balder, who’s been outfitted in a frilly pink dress, pantaloons, and a white lace bonnet.
“Gonzo,” I say, pointing.
He starts to laugh but stops when he sees I’m not in a joking mood. “Dude, they put him in a dress.”
A security guard the size of a compact car steps in front of us. He puts out a hand to stop our progress. “You can’t go in unless you’re part of the auction.”
“That’s our gnome! They stole him from us!” Gonzo yells.
The guy pushes us back, away from the stage. “Fine. You have the winning bid, you can get him back.”
I stick my hand in my pocket, feeling the slickness of those six one-hundred-dollar bills. “Fine. We’re in,” I say.
The guy hands us paddles and we push our way up to the front. Keith is blabbing on and on about how he and his buddies kidnapped the gnome from the dean’s house in the dead of night, making up a bullshit story so he’ll sound hot. Marisol acts all enchanted. She flips her long, dark hair and gives Balder a kiss, then lifts his dress to show off his pantaloons.
Balder’s bearing up with his usual stoic grace, but I know under that Zen master expression is a seething cauldron of gnome rage.
