“I work for that governing body,” Diesel said. “I’m commissioned to pull the plug on Unmentionables who abuse their power.”
I saw this as registering high on my bull-crap-o-meter, but I was curious all the same.
“How do you pull the plug?” I asked.
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Diesel said.
I’d heard that line before and always knew it was a line. This time I wasn’t sure.
“Why do you need my help?” I asked him.
“You’re one of us. You’re an Unmentionable, and you have a skill I lack. I can find people. You can find empowered objects.”
I was speechless. He actually looked serious. “That’s ridiculous,” I finally said.
Diesel turned off Lafayette Street. “Yeah, and I’m stuck with it. Nothing personal, but you’re not my first choice for a partner. This is a monster assignment, and I could use a professional working with me.”
“An Unmentionable professional? What does that even mean?”
“It means I need someone who understands and respects their gift and the responsibilities that come with the gift.”
“What about me?” Glo wanted to know. “Am I an Unmentionable?”
“Not that I can see,” Diesel said. “You’re more of a Questionable.”
My honest opinion was that I was in the presence of a genuine whacko. If I counted Glo, it would be two whackos. Although I had to give Diesel something for being a whacko with a work ethic.
CHAPTER FOUR
r /> We were riding in a shiny new black Porsche Cayenne. A brown leather backpack that looked like it had gotten kicked halfway across the country was on the seat beside Glo. A couple empty water bottles rolled around on the floor. Diesel stopped for a light, and I debated leaping from the car and running as fast as my feet could carry me. Unfortunately, that would leave Glo with the crazy man.
“I don’t want to agitate you or anything,” I said to Diesel, “but I’m having a hard time with the whole Unmentionable gift thing. It sort of dropped out of nowhere on me.”
“Yeah, well until you’re comfortable with it, maybe you should think of it like a movie. Pretend you’re Julia Roberts and I’m . . .”
“Brad Pitt,” I said.
“I always thought I was more Hugh Jackman.”
“He played Wolverine, right? No way. You’re definitely Brad Pitt.”
“Okay, screw it, I’m Brad Pitt. Can you go with that?”
“Maybe.” I cut my eyes to Diesel. “So you’re taking me somewhere to help you search for something. This search isn’t illegal, is it?”
“Not by my standards.”
“Oh great. What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means the ends justifies the means.”
We were within walking distance of the bakery, but unlike the area around the bakery, this part of Salem was mostly newer brick buildings built for commercial use. The street was wide. The sidewalk was unadorned by trees. It was a patch of Salem that felt almost normal, untouched by ads for Frankenstein’s Laboratory, the 40 Whacks Museum, The Witches Cottage, The Nightmare Factory.
Salem was founded in the early 1600s and at one time was the sixth-largest city in the country and a thriving seaport. The Salem witch trials took place in 1692, and when Salem lost its prominence as a shipping and manufacturing center centuries later, it remained famous for one of the more bizarre episodes in American history. American ingenuity and the New England spirit of use-what-you-have-on-hand have turned Salem’s infamous history into a thriving tourist business. The resulting prosperity has also brought traffic, hordes of sidewalk-clogging pedestrians, and the largest collection of weirdos living in a small-town environment east of the Mississippi.
The light went green, Diesel motored down one block and parked across the street from a three-story brick apartment building. We left Glo in the car, and Diesel and I entered the building. We took the elevator to the second floor, and I followed Diesel down the hall to apartment 2C. Hard to tell why I was going along with this. Probably, it was in the vicinity of morbid curiosity, like stopping to see a train wreck.
Diesel put his hand to the doorknob and the door opened.