“What?” Howard snapped.
“Radiator’s fine. Just watch the temperature, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
Howard fired up the engine and pulled out in reverse as the man broke into laughter. Then, on second thought, he shifted and barreled back into the station, directly at him. The grease monkey threw up his palms, as if he could stop the car. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey!” Howard screeched to a stop with the bumper so close that the man involuntarily slumped forward onto the hood. Before the man could recover, Howard spun the wheel sharply and pulled out, leaving him to tumble onto the black dirt. He heard the cursing behind him as he crossed the street and parked outside the café.
LOVECRAFT SAT AT a window booth, fastidiously sipping from his glass of water while carefully observing everyone on the street outside. He had not failed to notice the redhead at the bus stop, nor Howard’s obvious interest in her. When Howard, still angry, joined him at the table, Lovecraft set his glass down and resumed scribbling in his open journal.
“Have you ordered yet?” asked Howard.
“Yes, I have.’ To my satisfaction.”
Howard snorted and took a quick glance at the tattered menu lying before him. He flipped it over, examined the other side just as quickly’ and craned his neck toward the kitchen door, looking for the waitress.
She appeared from the other end of the cafe, obviously annoyed. The place was otherwise empty perhaps she wanted to keep it that way, Howard thought as she approached the table. “Afternoon, mister. Today’s special is the meat loaf sandwich”-she glanced at Lovecraft with a gleam of contempt in her eye-“or are you having what your friend here is having?”
“I don’t know. What’d you get, HP?”
Lovecraft did not immediately respond, but in his pause, the waitress reached into the pocket of her soiled apron and pulled out a can opener, which she placed deliberately and somewhat loudly on the table between them. Lovecraft winced more at her displeasure than at the sound. Howard frowned in confusion for a second, then his face grew red with embarrassment as Lovecraft sheepishly lifted his can of pork and beans up from his seat onto the table.
Howard tried to give the waitress his friendliest smile, but she would have none of it. “Uh, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll have the special and a Dr Pepper, thanks. Oh, an some Tabasco sauce.”
“Coming up.”
“Where’s your can opener?” Howard asked when she had gone.
“In my haste to enter this fine establishment, I left it in my suitcase. And since you were preoccupied with your own automotive antics…”
“Damn it, HP. A man can’t live on nothing but pork and beans.” Howard tapped the top of the can with three fingers, looking somewhat preoccupied.
“Actually,” said Lovecraft, “I once spent ten days traveling through Virginia and ate nothing but—”
“Look, I’ll spring for your damn meals from now on if for nothin’ but to save me the embarrassment,” said Howard.
Lovecraft picked up the rusty can opener and wiped it on his napkin. He eyed the can in front of him and then looked sullenly at Howard, who seemed to be waiting for an answer. Howard gave in. “For Christ’s sake, go ahead and eat your damn beans. But this is the last time in public.”
“Since you insist.” Lovecraft jabbed the blade of the can opener into the top of the can and began cutting with expert jerks of his wrist, being careful not to go more than seven-eighths of the way around, as was his habit. When he was done he peeled the lid back and involuntarily wet his lips.
“I got an important question,” said Howard. “So, what is it exactly makes you think Smith’s gonna be able to help us figure out that Kachina and that hunk of metal?”
Lovecraft spooned some beans into his mouth and chewed slowly, almost as if to annoy Howard before he answered. “Two months ago, I received a missive from him.” He wiped his lips with the other side of his napkin. “He described in it a trip to San Francisco from which he had just returned. Whilst browsing in his favorite antiquarian book shop on Powell Street, he had come across a tattered volume, which he guessed to be at least two centuries old.” He spooned more beans into his mouth.
“So what’s an old book gotta do with us?”
“The book was in a Latin cipher, of which he could read precious little, but he did not need to be a philologist or a cryptographer to read the strange occult symbols of which it was full.”
Howard shrugged indifferently and drummed his fingers on the table. “Let me guess-it reminded him of that black book he uses in his stories.”
Lovecraft put his spoon down and leaned forward as if he were afraid of being overheard. “Not exactly. Not his book. Until recently, it is a tome which I believed to be a fiction born of my fevered dreams.” There was a moment of silence as the two men searched each other’s faces for their next words.
Howard grinned, breaking the tension. “Oh, come on, HP. You don’t really think Smith found the Necronomicon.”
“No, not precisely. The original is long lost, as you know. But this is surely a translation of the mad Arab’s text. I am absolutely convinced of it after the events I’ve experienced over the past several days.”
“Okay,” said Howard. “So let’s suppose it is the Necronomicon or some other book for castin’ spells and raisin’ demons from Hell. How’s that goin’ to help us?”
Lovecraft reopened his journal and pulled a folded slip of paper out from the inside back cover. He slid it across the table to Howard, as if it were some secret bid.
Unfolding it, Howard saw dozens of small, crude reproductions of various occult symbols spaced out in rows of three. Some of them he recognized as Hermetic symbols, astrological symbols, and Masonic symbols. Others seemed to be Teutonic runes and Egyptian hieroglyphs, and some looked like a distorted Chinese script to him. , “What’s this?”
“Klarkash-Ton copied these from the tome and posted them to me along with his letter. Examine the symbol on the far left, second from the bottom, if you will.”
As Howard oriented his eye on the paper and picked out the now familiar symbol.
Lovecraft took the Artifact out of his watch pocket and placed it next to the symbol on the paper, juxtaposing the two to show that they were the same. In fact, when the Artifact had taken on the color and texture of the paper, it seemed to have been penned there all along.
“Holy Christ!” said Howard.
“I can assure you, Bob, the Christian savior has nothing to do with what lies before us.”
Seeing the waitress approaching with Howard’s order, Lovecraft quickly replaced the Artifact in his pocket and slipped the sheet of paper back into the pages of his journal.
The waitress placed Howard’s sandwich and soda in front of him. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered, glancing with barely reserved contempt at Lovecraft and his can of beans.
Lovecraft, oblivious to her attitude, stopped her just as she began to leave. “Pardon me, good woman, but I believe you failed to bring my companion the Tabasco sauce he requested with his meal.”
The waitress stepped back to the table and looked down at Howard’s plate, her hands on her hips in mock drama. “Why, sir, I do believe you are right,” she said in a bad imitation of Lovecraft’s accent. “I most humbly apologize.” From where she stood, she turned, leaned over to the counter, and grabbed a bottle of Tabasco sauce. She placed it squarely on the table in front of Lovecraft. Howard looked on, uncomfortable with the tension, but Lovecraft remained unflappable.
“Anything else, my good man?” said the waitress.
Lovecraft looked at her, somewhat puzzled, as he had not yet gotten her joke. The Waitress picked up the can opener. “If you are quite through with the can-opening apparatus, I will return it to the chef. I believe it is time to feed the stray cat out back.”