“Where is the rest of the cab?” asked Sprockett.
“Who knows? Either vaporized or embedded somewhere in the unread backwaters of Thriller. Here’s the deal: You’re going to call the TransGenre Taxi offices and find out about any missing cabs, and I’m going to find out more about The Murders on the Hareng Rouge and Adrian Dorset.”
“But where, ma’am? If Captain Phantastic doesn’t know, it’s unknowable.”
“In the RealWorld, Sprockett. Cheers.”
I tried the Scorcher. It wasn’t too bad. A bit loamy for my taste, but otherwise good.
I went upstairs and packed a small tote bag. A few clothes and some spare underwear—I’d heard all the scare stories—then worried about taking my pistol or not, but eventually I did. After that I dithered over taking ammunition and decided to, but only one cartridge and of the armor-piercing variety. I argued to myself that I would be too scared to use it, so I wouldn’t. I gave Carmine some last-minute instructions in case of emergencies, ignored her protestations about “having to face more readers than she was happy with” and then ordered a cab. “If I have to press the Snooze Button,” said Mrs. Malaprop as I waited, “it’s on your conch séance, not mine.”
“Agreed.”
“Where to?” asked the cabbie when he pulled up ten minutes later.
“Norland Park,” I said, “Sense and Sensibility. Any route you like.”
But at that moment someone else got into the cab by way of the opposite door. He was wearing a large floppy hat that partially obscured his features.
“Sorry,” I said, “cab taken.”
The other passenger lifted the brim of the hat so I could see his face. It was Whitby.
“It’s okay,” I said to the cabbie, and we moved off.
“Holy cow!” I said, turning to Whitby, “you’ve got a nerve. When were you going to tell me about setting fire to that busload of nuns? Two years I spent building myself up to a date, and then I find that you’re a homicidal maniac.”
“Lots of people are homicidal maniacs,” he replied. “Throw a stick into Crime and you’ll hit six of them.”
“But we’re not in Crime, are we?”
He stared at me for a moment. “I’ve done lots of good in my life, Thursday—helped people to narrative independence, coached Generics through entrance exams, was EZ-Read’s Employee of the Month three months running, and I even helped little old ladies across the road—some when they actually wanted to go. Do I get credit for that? No. All you want to think about is the nuns.”
“Orphaned nuns,” I reminded him.
“Actually, it was the puppies who were orphaned,” he said petulantly. “Let’s stick to the facts here.”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. But I don’t think that one teensy-weensy incident with a small busload of nuns and puppies should taint a man’s life.”
“I think it does, Whitby. You might have told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “You remember Dermot McGruber? EZ-Read’s rep over in HumDram?”
“Yes.”
“He wanted to impress a girl. But he’d done some seriously bad shit when he was a character in Crime.”
“The nuns?”
“Right. With a backstory like that hanging around his neck and guilt consuming his every moment, he couldn’t even begin to get a date. So I said I’d look after his backstory for the weekend so he could ask her out, guilt-free and with an easy heart.”
“That was generous of you.”