My God, Ray thought, not introspection, too.
They stopped as they entered the terminal proper though the covered walkway. A big white banner with big block letters painted in red was strung up near their gate. “WELCOME MAGOG,” it proclaimed.
Underneath, before, and around the banner were scores of women. Women dressed in pantsuits. Women wearing sensible shoes and plain, long dresses. Women with teased hair. Women with bouffant hair. Women whose hair was like the girls’ hair at Ray’s senior prom back in Montana in the 1970’s. All had adhesive tags on their blouses that said: “Hi! My Name Is” in big letters above a white space that had names like Lurleen and Ellen Sue carefully filled in with felt-tip markers. They were all talking and embracing and standing in knots and groups and generally clogging the flow of foot traffic. Ray and Creighton stopped, stood, and stared.
“What the Hell is MAGOG?” Ray asked.
“He was like, a demon in the Bible, man,” a voice said behind them. “Or maybe a giant. I forget which.”
Ray and Creighton turned as one, stared, then looked at each other in wonderment.
“What the Hell are you doing here?” Creighton asked.
Mushroom Daddy smiled brightly. He was freshly bathed and smelled only very, very faintly of cannabis overlain by what must have been a gallon of Old Spice. He was probably wearing his best clothes, which, Ray thought, made him look like a Salvation Army reject only forty years out of date. He had on a purple silk shirt and a paisley tie and vest to match, and suede bell bottoms with vertical red and orange stripes. He made Ray’s eyes hurt.
“Well, man, I had to come to get my van, man. I called Jerry’s office and told them all about how that chick stole my van, and they told me what flight you were taking so I decided I’d better follow you guys and see about, like, getting my van back.” He looked a little hurt. “I couldn’t afford to sit up in first class, though.”
Ray closed his eyes. When he opened them there was a narrow, dangerous cast to them. “Creighton’s office told you what flight we were on?”
“That’s right, man.”
Ray shifted his gaze to the P.I. “Now, Ray—” Creighton protested.
“Hey, man,” Mushroom Daddy interrupted, “are you a P.I., too?” he asked Ray.
“No. I’m with the government,” Ray said.
Daddy pulled away. “Like, the CIA, man?”
Ray laughed. “CIA? Those pussies? They’re afraid of us, man.”
“Oh.” Daddy thought it over. “That’s okay, then.”
Ray and Creighton exchanged another glance, then shrugged.
“All right,” Creighton said. “Well, we’ll see you around... Daddy.”
Mushroom Daddy shook his head. “Uh-huh, man. I’m sticking with you guys until I get the van back.”
“I don’t think—” Creighton began, but Ray took his arm.
“Excuse us a moment,” he said to Daddy, and pulled Creighton away a few feet. “We can’t have this brain dead hippie stumbling along after us, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and probably getting it shot off. I wouldn’t mind that so much, but he’d probably get us shot to Hell and back, too.”
“What are we going to do with him then?” Creighton asked.
Ray stood still, thinking, his lips twitching in distaste. “Bring him along for now. We can always find some pretext to dump him later. Or maybe get his ass thrown in jail for awhile.”
“That wouldn’t be fair,” Creighton said.
“Who gives a shit about being fair?” Ray asked. “I’m talking about survival.”
Creighton looked him in the eye, then glanced away. “All right. I see your point. Anyway, maybe he’ll be useful. Somehow.”
“Yeah,” Ray said. “Like tits on a bull.”
An indeterminately aged woman whose frosted blonde hair was piled atop her head like a plate of onion rings glared at him like he’d farted in church or something. Creighton went off to talk to Daddy as Ray found himself under the woman’s suspicious scrutiny. He tipped an imaginary hat to her and walked away. She harrumphed to herself as he joined Creighton and Daddy, thereby confirming her worst suspicions.
I know, Ray thought, where she’s headed. Along with all the rest of the kooks.
He sighed to himself, realizing that it was his destination, too.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New York: Jokertown Clinic
“The Aces! hot line had thirty-seven calls concerning you last night,” Digger Downs told Fortunato excitedly. “Most reported that you’d come back from the dead, rising out of a manhole in front of the Jokertown Clinic to defend it against a crazed ace who was attacking it for unknown reasons. Most said that you were dressed in a white robe, had a glowing halo, and ascended back into Heaven after crushing this unknown ace with a single blow.”
“Did you bring the clothes?” Fortunato asked. His monk robes had long since gone into the hospital’s incinerator.
“Sure.” Digger paused and handed him a couple of shopping bags. “There were a hundred and seventeen calls this morning,” he went on. “You’ve been spotted all over the city, as far east as Massapequa on Long Island, north to the Catskills, and west to Binghamton.”
Fortunato stripped off his hospital robe unselfconsciously and dressed in the underwear, jeans, socks, and pullover short-sleeved shirt that Digger had bought him. “What have I been doing in all those places?” he asked the reporter.
Digger flopped on Fortunato’s unmade hospital bed and gusted a deep sigh, shaking his head. “You think of it, you did it. You stopped a mugging in Brooklyn. You made a car swerve in Monticello and miss a kitten that had wandered into the road. Your face was seen etched in the dirt of an elementary school window in the Bronx.”
Fortunato glanced at him. “What?”
Digger shrugged. “Like I said, you’ve been a busy guy.”
Fortunato sat down and put on the running shoes Digger had bought. It was the first time in ages he hadn’t worn simple woven-straw sandals. He stood and walked about in a small circle, testing them. They looked garish and bulky, but felt good on his feet.
“I did none of these things,” he said. “Well—I did kill that ace, but I didn’t mean to. Not really.” His eyes narrowed and he spoke half to himself. “There were a couple of questions I’d wanted to ask him.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Digger said. “Mean to, I mean. What we have here is a genuine phenomenon. People want to believe in something, and it looks like you may be it. You’re big news, Fortunato, and you’re only going to get bigger. Maybe the next big thing. Listen, let me interview you on Aces! Corner on Entertainment Tonight. That’ll only be the first step. Within the week, you’ll be on Larry King Live. I guarantee it.”
Fortunato shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have time for this now. Maybe later, when things have settled down.”
Digger looked disappointed, but after a moment of reflection, nodded. “You’re right. We should let the mystery deepen. The tension build. Let the rumors swirl for awhile. Maybe a few hints in the written media, then, wham! I see a special, maybe on the E! Network.”
“Will that pay for the damage done to the Clinic?” Finn asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway of Fortunato’s room.
Fortunato turned to him. “I’m sorry about that, doctor. I really am. Perhaps I can make it up to you some day, but right now I’m checking out. I have to get going.”
Finn grabbed his arm as he went by. “I should examine you first.”
Fortunato stopped. There was a time when he would have pulled away angrily if someone laid their hands on him like that. But that time had passed. “I’m fine, doctor. You know I am.”
“Well, maybe,” Finn said. “But the police have been asking about you. I’ve been telling them that you’re hurt, under sedation—”
“All the more reason I have to go, before I get tied up in red tape.” He put his own hand on the doctor’s arm, but his touch was friendly. “I know you’ve done a lot for me, Finn. I appreciate that. I’ll do what I can to make it up to you. But right now I have to go after my son. He’s not out of danger yet.”