Page 55 of The Bad Weather Friend

“Of course,” she said, “my type, assuming that certain small alterations can be made.” She leaned sideways and kissed his cheek.

The gunman with the spiky orange hair and green lipstick and damaged hand had gotten to his feet and was staggering around in a widening gyre, frantically searching the pavement for something.

Meanwhile, the spidery dude, whose machete had been slung away into the night, had evidently not seen the tire iron pierce Spike’s hand without drawing blood or inspiring a cry of pain. He was sure to regret his inattention, because he had the temerity to extract a knife from a belt sheath and shout, “Gonna gut you like a pig,” a threat he followed with a vicious obscenity that accused Spike of having copulated with his nearest relative, an insult the giant was not likely to take lightly even though he had no relatives.

As Harper watched the lopsided but entertaining battle unfold further, she wondered why the giant hadn’t just bespelled these men, sidelined them as he had Bob Jericho and others, leaving them to emerge from the bewitchment five minutes later andpuzzle over the sudden inexplicable disappearance of the Explorer and everyone in it. He had claimed craggles didn’t kill people; to be fair, none of the would-be carjackers appeared to have suffered mortal injuries. Nevertheless, the current melee seemed to exceed even the most liberal definition ofintimidation, which he had implied—or even claimed—was his sole technique.

Distracted by the consideration of that issue, Harper hadn’t registered the maneuvers by which Spike relieved the meth freak of his knife and brought him to a collision with the driver’s side of the SUV. She startled when the drug-wasted collection of bony limbs slammed against the back door, his face pressing to the window hard enough to distort his features, gazing in at them as if he were an ugly and exotic fish peering out of an aquarium. He opened his mouth to allow half a dozen black, rotten teeth to dribble across his lips, and then he slid out of sight.

Benny said, “‘There is no reason to be afraid, though there may seem to be. There may very much seem to be. But there is not.’”

Harper squeezed his hand. “You okay, sweetie?”

“That was something my great-uncle Talmadge said on the video card, when he informed me that he was sending my inheritance by airfreight. Uncle Talmadge claimed I could trust him. I believe I can. I think I can. I sure hope so.”

The gunman who had come on as if he were a droog out ofA Clockwork Orangenow hobbled around in widening circles like a broken windup doll, searching the pavement. Spike called to him, “Hey, my friend. Is this what you’re looking for?” In his right hand, he held up the key to the hoodlums’ junky old car, stolen wheels that could be abandoned when they jacked something better. With his left hand, Spike made a come-to-me gesture. “Yougive me a hug, and I’ll give you the key. We can meet here every year on the anniversary of our evening together and reminisce.”

No longer a confident droog in pursuit of ultraviolence, the gunman didn’t run away into the night, but instead fled toward the convenience store associated with the service station. On another occasion, he might have been inclined to point a pistol at the head of the cashier and demand the contents of the cash register, but now he evidently perceived value in citizens standing strong together in a shared spirit of community.

Machete man, perhaps spitting out more teeth, appeared on his hands and knees, crawling after the gunman.

Harper supposed Tire-iron guy was lying by the starboard side of the Explorer, waiting to regain consciousness or playing dead.

Spike got behind the wheel and pulled the driver’s door shut and said, “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Benny said.

“We’re great,” Harper amended. “Fabulous.”

“I’m hungry,” Spike said and started the engine.

DINNER

Crossing the parking lot from the Explorer to the restaurant, and again when they entered the restaurant, Benny felt his heart quicken in expectation of he knew not what. Life now seemed to consist of an endless series of unexpected dramas accelerating toward a hard wall of fate.

Those who dine out in Southern California tend to eat early, and restaurant traffic diminishes significantly after eight or nine o’clock. Even as little as half a decade ago, this dining habit was a consequence of the fact that Golden State culture was so rich with options that most people chose to get on with their favorite forms of fun rather than linger over dinner. In recent years, however, safe streets had become but a bittersweet memory, and those with a true sense of the tenor of the times preferred to get home early and lock the doors.

In the establishment to which the destiny buddies took their appetites, three-quarters of the tables were untenanted, but a noisy crowd still populated the adjacent bar. The role of excess alcohol in personal ruination, destruction of families, deadly arguments, and traffic deaths had long been understood. Less attention was given to the fact that, in depressing and perilous times, legions relied on communal consumption of alcohol to provide a sense of well-being and confidence in the future that, false as it was, made them easier targets when they ventured homeward through a world in which the predators were either sober or, worse, wired on drugs that made them hyperalert to which were the most vulnerable animals in the herd.

“I’d like some wine,” Benny said after the hostess led them to a booth, where he’d settled beside Harper and across from Spike.“I haven’t felt so wound up since the night the ISA agents killed Bugboy. But under the circumstances I want to have a clear head.”

“Bugboy,” Harper said. “Sounds like a memory worth sharing.”

“It’s not suitable dinner conversation,” Benny assured her.

Their waiter, Shane, was a handsome twentysomething guy with well-manicured beard stubble that, although currently fashionable, reminded Benny of the throngs of homeless men who pitched tents in parks or sprawled insensate in bedrolls on sidewalks littered with empty ampules of drugs. He didn’t understand many fashion trends, like eyebrow rings and shoes without socks and suits with shorts instead of pants, unless the point was to sayLook at me, which in Benny’s opinion was always a mistake. When you called attention to yourself, there were bad people who would decide to do things to you that you didn’t want to be done. Anyhow, Shane proved as efficient as he was stubbly, took their orders, and then delivered exactly the food they wanted instead of his interpretation of their desires.

Harper received the Cobb salad, and Benny had a double-patty cheeseburger with bacon and extra-crispy French fries. Spike tucked into two orders of filet mignon accompanied by Broccolini and baby carrots, with two sides of fried mozzarella, followed by sautéed salmon with basmati rice and brussels sprouts, followed by two pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese. And one entire meatloaf.

Of a generation that considered it a virtue not only to ignore but even to applaud the excesses of others (which was also Benny’s generation, although he didn’t feel a part of it), Shane made no comment about the volume of comestibles arriving in waves on Spike’s side of the table. Fat-shaming still existed in some unenlightened corners of society, but muscle-shaming had never been engaged inby a significant number of people, especially not when the potential target of such comments was as dangerous looking as Spike.

“Back there at the service station,” Harper said, “I was rather surprised by the violence of your reaction to those carjackers.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Spike replied gruffly.

“But you sure broke some bones.”

As though to mollify her with a change of tone and the addition of an honorific, Spike smiled and nodded and looked penitent and said, “Yeah, but I didn’t kill anyone, little lady.”

---