Good, good, said Seymour as he walked through the garden of money and collected forty-two dollars. Now, what I need, he said, what I need is somebody to run with me.
Where are you going? asked one of the cooks, a man who brought his own favorite spatula to work and carried it back home at the end of every shift.
Arizona, said Seymour, and the crowd oohed and aahed. He knew that everybody loves Arizona because Arizona is potentially dangerous. A man could strap a pistol to his hip and walk unmolested through the streets of Phoenix.
But I need somebody to go with me, said Seymour. He said, I aim to go on a nonviolent killing spree and I need somebody who will fall in love with me along the way.
From the floor, a fat Indian man raised his hand. He wore black sweatpants and a white T-shirt embossed with a photograph of Geronimo.
I’ll go with you, said the fat Indian.
Are you gay? asked Seymour. I’m not gay. Are you gay?
No, sir, I am not homosexual, said the fat Indian, but I do believe in love.
Seymour thought about that for five seconds. And then he asked, You’re an Indian, ain’t you?
Yes, I am, yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?
Only if you’re one of those buffalo hunters. I can’t have a nomad in my car. You just can’t trust a nomad.
I come from a salmon tribe, said the fat Indian, and therefore I am a dependable man.
Well, then, you’re going with me.
Seymour jumped down from the table and helped the fat Indian to his feet. They stood together in the half-light of the International House of Pancakes.
This place smells like smoke, said the fat Indian.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour, giving the fat Indian a brand-new name, in this cruel world, we’re always going to smell like smoke.
Listen, said Seymour to the patrons still lying on the floor. He said, thank you for your kindness, tell them the Gentleman Bandit was here. Tell them it was the Man Who Was Looking For Love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy raced out of the restaurant and drove off in Seymour’s car, a 1965 Chevrolet Malibu that carried more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer.
You ever been to Arizona? Seymour asked Salmon Boy.
Once, when I was a boy. I went to a powwow in Flagstaff and lost my moccasins in the river there. My auntie spanked me until I cried like ten Indians.
I am sorry for your pain, said Seymour.
They drove the speed limit down Third Avenue, past four hamburger joints and a liquor store. They stopped at a red light.
Do you think the police are following us? asked Salmon Boy.
If they’re not now, said Seymour, they soon will be.
Well, then, said Salmon Boy. He asked, Do you think we should kiss now?
It seems like the right time, don’t it? asked Seymour. He licked his lips.
Yes, it does, said Salmon Boy. He wished he had a mint.
They kissed, keeping their tongues far away from each other, and then told each other secrets.
Seymour said, When I was eleven years old, I made a dog lick my balls.
Did you like it? asked Salmon Boy.
No, I threw up all over that mutt, said Seymour, and then it ran away.
That’s what happens when you get too far into love.
That’s what happens.
When I was fifteen, said Salmon Boy, I stole eighty dollars from my grandma. My mom and dad never knew. But my grandma must have, she had to have, because she never talked to me again.
And then she died, said Salmon Boy.
Then the light was green and Seymour and Salmon Boy found themselves traveling south along a back road near Enterprise, Oregon. They had not slept in twenty-two hours.
They stopped when they saw a dead coyote nailed to a fence post.
That’s a bad sign, ain’t it? asked Seymour.
Yes, it is, said Salmon Boy.
What does it mean? asked the white man.
I have no idea, said the Indian.
They climbed out of the car and walked through the knee-deep snow to get to them: the fence post and the coyote.
They stared at the coyote the way the last two disciples stared at the resurrected Jesus.
The coyote had been there a long time, maybe for weeks, frozen stiff now, but certainly it had been freezing and unthawing, freezing and unthawing, during that unpredictable winter.
Seymour remembered the time, in the winter of 1966 or ’67, when he walked into his parents’ bedroom and caught them making love. Still naked, his father had jumped out of bed, taken Seymour by the hand, and led him down the hall. The hardwood floor was cold against Seymour’s bare feet. Back in his own little bedroom, Seymour listened as his naked father explained why he was naked and why he’d been doing that strange and wonderful thing to his wife, to Seymour’s mother.
See-See, his father had said to him, I’m doing it the best I can, so that your mother, your beautiful mother, will love me forever.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour as they studied the dead coyote, as they noticed one of his paws was missing, cut off and tucked into somebody’s hatband maybe, or rolling around in some wild dog’s belly perhaps.
Seymour said, My father had ambitions.
Salmon Boy smiled.
Like a good Indian, he knew when to talk and when to remain silent. Like a good Indian, he knew there was never a good time to talk.
We need to find a farmhouse, said Seymour, and we need to terrorize an old man and his wife. That is, he added, if we’re going to do this nonviolent killing spree thing the right way.
Salmon Boy pointed out over the dead coyote’s head. He pointed at the horizon where a red farmhouse sat like an apple on the white snow.
There it is, said Seymour, and Salmon Boy agreed.
Are we supposed to kiss now? asked Seymour, and Salmon Boy shrugged his shoulders.
I’m not sure I want to kiss you again, said Seymour. He said, But I will kiss you if you want it, because I don’t want to hurt your feelings.
My feelings are my feelings, said Salmon Boy, they belong to me, and you don’t have to worry about them at all.
All right then, we won’t kiss no more. At least, not until we’re sure about it.
Salmon Boy said, I believe in love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy climbed back into the car and drove down the plowed road toward the farmhouse. On both sides of them, the snowbanks rose high into the blue sky until it felt like they were driving down a tunnel.
Salmon Boy remembered the time his father won a free trip to Disneyland. They got half of the prize money and the whole family jumped into their blue van and headed for California. They were supposed to get the other half once they got to Disneyland, but something went wrong. There was nobody there to greet them and nobody answered the telephone back home. Salmon Boy and his whole family walked up to the gates of the Magic Kingdom and peered through the bars.
Inside, white people were having more fun than any Indians had ever had.
Salmon Boy remembered how all his family members counted up all the money in their pockets and discovered they carried enough coins for one loaf of bread and a package of cheese, and maybe, just maybe, enough gas to get them back home.
For twenty-six straight hours, Salmon Boy’s father drove through the night and day, drove through a tunnel of sun, drove through a tunnel of stars, and laughed like crazy when he drove over that bridge that marked the entrance to the reservation.
My father loved me, Salmon Boy said to Seymour.
Well, then, said Seymour, that’s a good thing to tell the police when they finally catch us. It will explain everything.
You think they’re still after us? asked Salmon Boy.
The police are always, always minutes behind us.
They knocked on the front door of the farmhouse. Seymour held his unloaded pistol in his front pocket. He felt like somebody might know how to save him.