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“Great. Thanks for that,” Gonzo mutters.
“When’s the next bus?” I ask.
“Not till seven-o-five tomorrow mornin’. But y’all cain’t stay here. Ten minutes till closin’. Won’t open up again till six a.m.”
“Okay, thanks.” I leave the window and sink onto a bench.
“I told you this was wack.” Gonzo sucks down a mouthful of asthma medicine.
Signs, signs. Dulcie said to look for the “seemingly random.” How do you look for the random? Doesn’t the random generally find you and that’s what makes it random?
A hollowed-out, gray-skinned dude who smells like pee sits next to us. It’s the same guy I saw in the parking lot the night we went to Luigi’s. He’s still wearing his tinfoil hat. “What are you boys doing?”
“Saving the world,” Gonzo says, scooting away.
“Ah. Good. It’s going to end, you know. It’s all going to shit. That’s why I got me one of these.” He points to his wrinkled silvery cap.
“Hank, you need to let these boys be, now.” The guy with the mop has reached us.
“Piss off,” the old guy snaps. He takes out a bag and inspects the things inside.
“’Scuse me,” the janitor says. “Could you lift yer feet, please? I need to get that spot.”
Dutifully, Gonz and I raise our legs, drawbridge style, and he mops underneath.
“Dude, there’s no bus tonight,” Gonzo says. “Give it up.”
The old homeless guy stops rummaging through his bag. “Yes there is. There is one! It’s downstairs waiting.”
I look to Mop Guy for confirmation. He stops long enough to wipe his sweaty brow with his arm. “Well, there is one tonight, but it ain’t on the regular schedule. It’s private. The Fleur-de-Lys.”
“That sounds like a p**n thing,” Gonzo whispers nervously. “Does that sound p**n y to you?”
I ignore him. “Where’s it go?”
“Where you think it goes?” the homeless guy says. “New Orleans. That there’s the Mardi Gras bus, son. It’s Mardi Gras time.”
“Thanks.”
“You welcome,” he says. “Might as well have fun before it all ends.”
“Gonz,” I say, digging in my pocket for cash. “How do you feel about New Orleans?”
“What? You don’t know for sure that’s the right bus.”
“No. I don’t. But it’s the only bus. Look, I know this seems a little half-assed …”
“No, dude. I’d be thrilled if this plan were half-assed. This is, like, no-assed.”
“You’re right. It’s the most no-assed thing I’ve ever done in my life. So am I getting two tickets or one?”
Gonzo rubs his inhaler pump like a talisman. “All right. I’m in. But if we don’t find this Dr. X in New Orleans and see what he’s got for me, I’m on the first bus back.”
“Fair enough.”
I open up my wallet. My credit card, the one my dad gave me to teach me fiscal responsibility, is still there. I’ve got a whopping credit limit of five hundred and fifty dollars.
I run to the window and rap on the bulletproof glass. The clerk barely looks up. “Yup?”
