I hit the tuning scanner, found some old-time Muzak. It was the purest, truest thing I'd heard in a while. I pictured the viola section in loose-fitting Hawaiian shirts, listened to them ride the chordal swell. They were doing a rendition of something once regarded by rock magazine capsule reviewers as cruelly melodic and teeming with surplus malaise. These fiddle boys were bowing such sweetness back into it. I wept on past the Ohio state line.
The question of why William's credit card was still valid tender continued to gnaw when I heard the birdsounds in the glove box. Glad chirp of sparrow on a microchip. I dug around for the phone, found it, flipped it.
"Go," I said.
Goddamn, it was good to say that.
I got the buzz of bad frequency, a harried satellite.
"Hello?" I said. "William?"
"It's Bobby. Can you hear me?"
"In and out."
"Good. ."
"I missed that."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"How do you like Indiana?"
"Are you tracking me?"
"Drama queen."
"What happened to the freedom of the open road?"
"You're free to stop at any roadside concession. There's a Stuckey's coming up. I recommend the candied almond log."
"Is that my password?"
"No, it's just totally tasty."
The redemption van crapped black smoke in the Stuckey's parking lot. I pulled William's convertible up beside it, got out. The van door slid open and Dietz smiled down. His ponytail was tucked inside his derby. The loop hung down like a silky noose.
"Brother in fire," said Dietz, giggling. "Welcome to the whirligig."
"I've got a ride," I said. "But thanks."
"I don't think you're going to get too far," said a voice behind me. It was Old Gold. He was tearing up packets of diner sugar, pouring them into William's gas tank. Dietz grabbed me by the arms. His grip was tremendous. We had to wait for Old Gold to tear up all the packets, dig for more in his pants.
"I told you we should have gotten the fucking box," said Dietz. "Eighty-nine cents."
"That's a rip-off," said Old Gold.
"We expense it."
"Then we have to explain it."
"Just cut the tires."
"Radials," said Old Gold. "Bad for the knife."
Old Gold drove. Dietz sat in back with me. There was a shovel there, the bed of it shiny, the blade edge blacked with oil. Dietz picked it up, poked at some bright netting torn loose from clementine crates.
"My mother used to wear ones like these," he said. "Slut hose."
"No more boat," I said.
"There's always more boat."
"Shut up back there," said Old Gold. "Dietz, did you drop those tabs? That's all I need. I'm commander of this operation."
"What, nobody ever did a magic dance on your Navy SEAL Team?"
"I wasn't no SEAL," said Old Gold. "I was an intelligence."
Dietz fell back laughing, hugged the shovel blade.
"Good stuff, Dietz?" I said. "See anything special?"
"I don't have visions anymore, man. Too many golden fucking arches obstructing the view. Lookie there. Death burgers on both sides of the road. Motherfuckers get you coming and going."
"It's your peers that are responsible, Dietz," I said. "They made this world."
I pointed out the window to the world.
"My peers? My peers been dead since '73. Don't lay that trip on me, man. Those people you're talking about, they were pigs all along. Pigs with beards, pigs on skag, little sows with blond hair down to their asses and sweet little piggy tits. Must I give you a lesson in cultural. . cultural. . oh, shit. ."
Dietz began to wriggle, beetle-like, batted his arms in the air.
"Good morning, evening!" he said.
"Don't mock the rituals," snarled Old Gold. "It's bad karma."
"Karma?" said Dietz. "You moron. Hey, pull over. Let's get a burger. They make them with fetus meat now."
"Can it, Dietz," said Old Gold. "Or I'm going to do something evil."
"Evil?" said Dietz. "You don't have the sensitivity for evil. All you're capable of is mean. Man, if Heinrich was still Heinrich he'd show you a thing about-"
"I said can it," said Old Gold.
"Indiana," said Dietz, after a while, as though it might be a disputed philosophical supposition.
"This here is downstate Illinois," said Old Gold. "They have signs about it for people like you who can't tell the difference."
"Mind if I ask you guys a question?" I said.
"Mind," said Dietz. "How many times do you think I've said the word mind?"
"Where are you taking me?" I said.
"To your rightful place," said Old Gold.
We took a turnoff, sped up a ramp. Withered fields whipped by. I looked down at the shovel, up at Dietz. I wondered if I'd have to dig my own grave like some mob saga hood. I could storyboard the whole thing if they wanted.
"Turn here," said Dietz.
I peered out the window for a peek at my last location, but the only sights I saw were airport signs, a tinted tower by a pond.
We flew out on a cheapo line, Phaethon Air. Dietz flourished tickets and we charged through the gate. Old Gold drove off with the van. Phaethon security was a coke-shaky clubkid with a billy bat. He wanted to know if we'd left anything unattended in the terminal.
"Just my detonator," said Dietz.
The kid laughed, waved us through.
"Realm it up!" he called.
"I use Phaethon for most of my travel. They're fans."
We boarded, found our seats. We'd been assigned to something called urbane class. There was little in the way of leg room and no magazines, just old foreign affairs journals, some soft sculpture catalogues. The pipe racks fitted in the seatbacks were filled with posies and incense sticks. Stuffed in the pocket webbing, alongside some sick bags, were blank diaries with embossed covers that read: Reflections Aloft. The inflight movie, according to a typed index card, would be a series of experimental shorts produced at McGill University in the seventies.
"What I love about this airline," said Dietz, "is that they know their niche and they work it."
The pilot's voice came over the speaker to announce we'd be taking off shortly.
"I'm feeling good about the whole takeoff thing right now," he added. "I mean, why not? Pilot error is all in the head."
A steward came by with hot towels and vodka shots.
Dietz lit up an enormous spliff.
"I'm sorry, sir," said the steward, "you can't smoke that in here."
Dietz winked a bloodshot eye, gave the guy a hit.
I looked around for signs of censure but nobody seemed to notice. There were about a dozen people on board. Some were in leather and all were asleep.
"Kiwis," said Dietz. "Crazy motherfuckers."
"What's their niche?" I said.
"Okay," said Dietz. "I lied to you. This isn't really an airline. But you'll thank me when you taste the lemon chicken."
I spotted a few more passengers under blankets in the back of the plane, tiptoed past them to the bathrooms. The lock plate in one of the doors said Need. The other said Want. I went for Want. The door whacked up on a pair of knees.