Thrush chuckled throatily, a good-natured sound, even amplified by sound systems all across the nation. "I'll be back, after this message from our sponsor, Tipple."
Limburger popped a cassette into the rack, and as his deep orator's voice extolled the virtues of his favorite soft drink, his haberdasher, and the very loud ties he wore, he hit the intercom button and asked his assistant, "Where are we, Custer?"
"Approaching Ukiah, Thrush."
"Hot damn. You call that coroner?"
"He says he'll see you. But not on the air."
"Why not? Doesn't he know Thrush Limburger is on three-hundred-thirty stations here and in Canada, one for every blessed pound in his generously proportioned body?"
"Maybe he doesn't like the press."
"Press? I'm not the press. I'm the antipress. I'm the truth. "
"He won't budge, Thrush."
"Okay, I'm a reasonable man. We'll do it his way. What we'll do is a bunch of packaged stuff. Feminasty Report. Furry Friends Update. Liberal Valhalla. The whole works. That should give me time to talk to him, and the audience won't even miss me-because I won't ever have stopped talking."
"You got it, Thrush."
When the RV pulled up before the Esterquest and Son funeral parlor, the rear door popped open and Thrush Limburger lumbered out, the sound of his own canned voice following him in.
He was inside not ten minutes. He came out like a rogue elephant, jumping to the driver's side window and bouncing happily. The entire van rocked on its heavy-duty shocks.
"I got it!" he chortled. "I figured it out! This is perfect. This is amazing. Only Thrush Limburger could just roll into a town and crack open something that has stumped official Washington."
"You always say official Washington is made up of lukewarm chowderheads," said his assistant, behind the wheel.
"I was right then and I'm right now, Custer. Let's get on to Nirvana West, pronto. I want to bust this thing wide open from the environmentalist whackjob ground zero. Damn, am I good."
The red, white, and blue RV roared out of Ukiah trailing a long coil of carbon monoxide.
And all across American, the voice of Thrush Limburger proclaimed, "My faithful listeners, you are about to be rewarded for your loyalty to this show. In the months to come, you people are going to be able to boast that you were among the discerning multitudes who heard Thrush Limburger debunk the HELP crisis for all time. That's right, while you were listening to my Democratic Hall of Shame via the magic of audiotape, your tireless servant was lifting up rocks and digging up the unpleasant muck under them. And guess what I found? What I always find. What you expect me to find. Dramatic pause here." Thrush cleared his throat with a sound like a steamroller grumbling and lowered his voice, knowing that millions of Americans, already on the edge of their seats, would lean closer to their radios. "I found . . . the truth. And it shall set you free!"
With that, Thrush Limburger popped in an ad cassette and leaned back in his chair, his pudgy hands folding over his ample belly. A self-satisfied smile crossed his broad, open features.
Cody Custer was Thrush Limburger's chief of staff, gofer, and when necessity arose, his personal driver. Thrush Limburger did not drive. He liked to say that he had been too busy to stop and learn how. But the truth was, at three-hundred-thirty pounds, getting behind the wheel of even a Lincoln Continental was an effort for Thrush Limburger. Besides, the steering wheel always left a red crease in the rolls of fat surrounding his navel.
So he didn't drive. Cody Custer drove for him.
Two minutes out of Ukiah, a tape cassette came through a slot that connected the driver's cab with the RV body, and Thrush Limburger's voice said, "When we get there, put this out over the PA speaker. That ought to atttact a huge crowd."
"Right, Thrush."
As he piloted the TTT Network RV to Nirvana West, Cody Custer wondered how even his brilliant boss could pierce the veil of media fog that surrounded Human Environmental Liability Paradox. Sure, Thrush was a genius in his way, part philosopher, part showman. And his book had been number one on the bestseller list for three months, except for that black period when Madonna's overhyped nonbook had knocked it to the number two slot. But Thrush hadn't been inside that funeral parlor for more than ten minutes. Less.
Cody Custer's musings were interrupted when, coming around a sharp bend in the road, he was confronted with a set of California Highway Patrol saw horses.
He started compressing the brake pedal. The big RV began to slow. Rubber smoked and squealed.
There was a CHP black-and-white unit and a motorcycle, he saw, parked off on the shoulder of the highway.
Three CHP officers in suntan khaki and calf-high black boots approached. They looked grim behind their mirror shades.
Cody Custer returned their grimness with a polite tone. "Hi. This is the Thrush Limburger mobile broadcast van. Is there a problem?"
"Going to Nirvana West, sir?" one officer asked.
"That's right."
"We're warning all traffic going into the area that there is a chance this HELP plague is getting contagious."
"My boss will laugh at that. He says there's no such virus."
"It's our duty to warn you of the dangers of proceeding, sir. This is the only roadblock between here and Nirvana West."
"We'll go ahead."
"I'm sorry. I have to apprise every motorist individually of the risks involved. Health Department regs."
Now they are taking this too far, Custer thought. Aloud, he said, "My boss is in back, but he's broadcasting."
"We won't take but a minute of his time."
"Okay, go ahead and knock. But don't be surprised if you wind up explaining yourself on the air. Thrush loves this kind of weak-kneed stuff."
The California Highway Patrol officer touched the bill of his uniform cap, and two of them went around to the rear of the RV.
Custer watched them in his rearview mirror while the third officer watched him with unreadable eyes. Those eyes kept Custer from grinning noticeably. One of the cops had a ponytail tucked up under his cap. Only in California, he thought.
The two officers were not gone long. But they did get in. Custer could tell by the creaking of the RV springs, caused by the shifting of weight in back. Every time Thrush moved around, the springs complained.
Only one of the troopers came back. "You're all set."
"Did he give you a hard time?"
"No, sir. He was very cooperative."
"Guess he is in a good mood."
The sawhorses were set aside and Custer drove on.
The Tell the Truth mobile broadcast RV lumbered into Nirvana West like a red, white, and blue amphibious vehicle. The loudspeaker was blaring Fed Leppar, known to be Thrush Limburger's favorite rock band.
That was enough to get the attention of the swarm of press people who were jostling one another for the rapidly dwindling supply of lobster salad sandwiches being handed out at the food service truck. They were eating them as if it were the last food on earth.
The music stopped when the RV did. Behind the wheel, the driver popped the music cassette and inserted another.
Fanfare blared. Minicams were rushed to the site. A white limousine arrived and out squeezed Senator Ned J. Clancy, looking worried and working his asthma inhaler often. His aides, seeing this, pressed close in case he started to list.
And from the loudspeaker, came a hearty baritone.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. This is Thrush Limburger. I have promised that I would come and now I have. You have been yanked. That is, you have been deceived. I have brought you the truth, and it shall set you free."
The fanfare returned. It was brassy, triumphal, attention-getting.
And everyone who could, got around to the back of the RV where they expected Thrush Limburger to emerge. Those who had sandwiches brought them.