What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [14]
“Tell me, was he able to provide an identity?”
“An identity? For who?”
“For ‘whom’,’” corrected Robertson. “I want to know who he was talking to just before he got set on fire.”
The cop shot Robertson a look that, if spoken, probably would have involved the F-word. “Said he drove a white car. Maybe a sedan. But that’s pretty much all he knew.” He looked back over at the flaming parking attendant and sighed. One of the firefighters was tearing open a package of marshmallows. “They got video, if you want it. Tape’s over there in the office. Apparently, most people park here under contract, but I doubt it’s any of them that did it. I guess we could try to run the plates. You know, if you want.”
“I want,” said Robertson. “Get me the tape.”
Chapter 6. Magic Queso from Heaven
The little bell on the door of the guitar shop jingled as Raju Singh came in for his afternoon shift. “Dude,” he called to Liam, who was sitting on a couch in the back office, watching T.V., “your chakras are all fucked up. I am telling you this all the way from here.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” said Liam, without looking up from an assortment of take-out containers filled with chicken and various ancillary fajita-making materials. “I’ve been meaning to have them un-fucked, but haven’t had the time. You know how it is.” He pulled the lid off a container of queso.
“No problem. But you should remember to un-fuck them soon, or you’ll be in some serious shit.”
Raju was practicing to become a self-help guru. He didn’t have any applicable knowledge or formal training per se, or even much of a clue really. In fact, all he knew about spirituality was what he’d garnered from a couple of evenings spent surfing the Internet, alternating between hits from a search engine and hits from his industrial-grade bong. Even so, he was supremely confident that he was The One. He was going to change the world. Or at least make a lot of money and be surrounded by hot chicks.
“Liam, I am thinking that maybe the time is ripe for me that I should be sharing my spiritual wisdom with the customers. What do you think of this plan?”
“Raju, shut up.” Liam saw no reason to indulge Raju’s spiritual pretense, or his affected Indian accent for that matter, if only because Raju hadn’t had either when Liam had hired him. And the fact was, Raju already spouted his B.S. at the shop’s patrons every chance he got. Of course, it didn’t really matter. The kind of musicians who came to Liam’s store weren’t about to stop coming in just because of a wacko, pothead clerk who saw himself as the next non-denominational spiritual guru. “You want some fajitas? I got guacamole this time.”
“Shit, yeah,” said Raju, forgetting to use his accent.
The bell rang again and Raju hurried back out to man the counter.
“Hellooo?” called a voice. It was Festus – Festus P. Bongwater – a bearded seminary dropout who represented the wild-eyed, I’ve-just-spent-five-years-on-a-desert-island-and-these-are-my-coconut-friends demographic among the employees at Liam’s guitar shop.
He pulled what looked like a very large grasshopper off his shirt and threw it back out the open door. “Damned locusts again,” he said.
Another swarm of the giant bugs had arrived the week before – on the same day that someone tried to hold up the shop. It had been a disaster – the locusts, dealing with the cops, the cops mistaking Festus for a perpetrator of some sort and arresting him – but they’d got it all worked out eventually. There were still a few straggler bugs, however, who had not managed to fly off with the rest of the sky-darkening swarm.
Raju looked up, spreading his hands over the countertop territorially. “Dude, you’re not supposed to be here. This is my shift. You need to fuck off. Right now.”
Festus waved him off and leaned over the counter, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. “Hey, man,” he said. “I need to ask you a favor.”
“What is up, my friend?” Raju glanced over his shoulder, to make sure Liam wasn’t within earshot.