"And you've been using it ever since," Stu said.
"Oh, no, that's not the case at all, sir. I had every intention of calling the credit card company the next day to report it misplaced but I simply forgot."
Stu tapped his foot. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"
"I assure you, sir. I'm not prevaricating in the least."
"Prevaricating, huh?" This was starting to stink. Stu glared at Long-Hair and Fattie. "You two guys looks like townies—" Then he glared at White Shirt. "—and you look like a librarian. Something's not right here. You three guys know each other?"
"Actually, no, sir, not really," White Shirt stepped right up again. "I was walking home tonight and these gentlemen kindly offered me a ride, and in their generosity, I thought it only fair for me to buy them some gas."
"With a stolen credit card?"
"No, sir," he said, slightly weary now. "I intended to use my own card but I used this one by mistake." He raised the card in emphasis. "This card, that I found and intended to report lost."
"But forgot to?"
"Precisely."
Stu's eyes flicked back to the rednecks. "Is that true?"
"Aw, yeah, it shore is... sir," answered Long-Hair. "We'se just offered him a ride's all."
"Don't really know him," Fattie said. "We'se was just bein' neighborly."
Stu ruminated further. I don't have probable cause to bust the rednecks or do a search. "Mind telling me what's in the U-Haul?"
"Just some old furniture'n stuff we'se movin' to my Daddy's house down the way," Long-Hair said.
Hmm. Stu kept tapping his foot. Make the decision. "You," he said to White Shirt. "Turn around, hands behind your back."
He took the credit card, did a quick pat-down, and cuffed the guy. "Don't move," he ordered. He walked right up to Long-Hair till their faces were an inch apart.
"You look like a con," he said.
Long-Hair didn't bat an eye. "I don't know what'cha mean... sir. All I been doin' tonight is mindin' my own business... "
I don't know what's wrong here, Stu realized, but I don't have anything to take them in for. "You boys be on your way." He started back toward White Shirt but paused to take one last glance at the shining El Camino. "Nice car, by the way."
"Why-why—thank ya, sir!" Fattie enthused. "Just you have a good night!"
Stu walked White Shirt to the cruiser. "In the car, and—" He pulled a small, very old book out of the guy's back pocket. He looked at the title, bewildered.
"The Account of the Incubi of Vasr Monastery? London, 1787? What the hell is this?"
"It's a grimoire, Officer, since you asked. For your information, I'm a Harvard graduate, and one of my fields of study involves antiquarian literature. I'm also a nationally published novelist. Perhaps you've heard of me. My name is—"
"Just get in the car," Stu said, and pushed the guy in back.
He drove back to the station, disappointed. "I'm going to have to arrest you for the credit card. When we get to the station, I'll read you your rights and give you a piece of paper to sign stating that you understand your rights."
"That's fine with me, sir," the guy said, quite cheerily.
Stu lit a cigarette. Still. There's something funny. "So what have I got? A Harvard grad with a two-hundred-year-old book in his pocket hanging out with two redneck deadbeats in a hotrod at two in the morning?"
Oddly, White Shirt seemed relieved. "Well, since you're arresting me, I guess I'll have my day in court."
"Yeah, you will. And you know what else? You don't seem to care in the least that you're going to jail."
The guy smiled in the rearview. "Perhaps it's my predestination. All experience is life, Officer, and all of life is experience, and the truth of that experience is what I crave, to infuse into my novels. My books allegorically bid the question: How Powerful Is The Power Of Truth?"
Great. A wack-job...
The man rambled on. "I don't mind the experience of arrest, for I've never been arrested before. It's something I can later write about... in truth; and I'm certain I'll be exonerated once I have some discourse with the judge. As for the personages I was cavorting with previously?" The man paused, smiling meditatively. "Good or bad, all people are part of the truth of the world, sir. An unlikely trio indeed, I'll admit. But as a writer, I learn from everybody."
Stu was sick of the chatter. "I guess on that note I'll remind you that you have the right to remain silent."
"Of course, but one last thing, if I may, in response to your query. Isn't it possible that people, good or bad, can be symbols for something else, something much more esoteric, even daedalic? Almost like characters in a work of fiction, but fiction with a meaning extant between the lines. You can only hope that it's a worthy work, hmm? See, I'm a writer but in a much deeper sense, I'm a seer. What I long for more than all else is to see. And, alas, I've seen much tonight, and for that I give great thanks... to God."
"Are you on drugs? You don't look the type but if you are, things will be easier on you if you let me know in advance."
"The only drug I'm on, sir, is one that's quite legal."
"Yeah?"
"Irony... "
Stu smirked as he pulled into the station. "I think you're a weirdo, and you're getting on my nerves. I need you to be quiet."
White Shirt said nothing more, but that subtle smile never left his face, almost as though it were part of his spirit.
Courtney looked up, alarmed, when Stu gently shoved the guy into the booking room.
"Well what have we here?" the woman enthused. "You shore don't look like a bad guy."
"I'm a speculative novelist," the man said.
"Shut up," Stu ordered. "And sit down."
"What he do, Stu?"
"Ripped off a credit card and tried to buy gas with it."
White Shirt opened his mouth to object, but Stu pointed at him.
White Shirt closed his mouth.
"Oh," Courtney added, "and look. The chief's tickets to the Testicle Festival were in the mail."
"Good." Stu stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Now he'll be in a good mood tomorrow, and a better mood when he sees that I got a bust. Shit, I haven't had a solid arrest in a month."
"Good work, Stu... " But Courtney, now, seemed to be looking at White Shirt with some scrutiny. "Ain't I seen you before, on TV? Some show on one'a them weird cable channels?"
White Shirt beamed. "The Signatures show, on Ovation Channel, yes! I was interviewed last year about my most recent novel, The NEW American Tragedy."
Stu paused between puffs, looking cockeyed at the guy.
"This guy's a famous book writer, Stu—"