What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [66]
“That’s nice, and I’m terribly interested,” said Whitford, the expression on his face indicating a variety of sentiments that did not include interest, empathy, or concern. “Right now, though, I need you to send a couple of guys out there, pick up the guy who Clyde was gonna meet with, and bring him back.”
“Alright.” Cadmon reached for a notepad on Whitford’s desk. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“How the Hell am I supposed to know that?” asked the Governor.
“Well, you’re the one—”
The Governor didn’t let him finish. He tossed a folded sheet of paper at Cadmon. “Here’s the address.”
“Okay,” said Cadmon, reaching for the paper. “But I still don’t understand how they’re supposed to find him if they don’t have a name.”
“Parker had the name, and he’s dead, okay? All I’ve got is the address. But the man is a freak, apparently,” said Whitford. “Very, very strange guy. Just tell your men to go to that address, find the weirdo, and bring him back.”
“Okay,” said Cadmon, pocketing the page.
And with that, Whitford was done. He picked up a stack of paper, sat back, and began reading.
Cadmon waited for the Whitford to say something. “Is that all—?”
Whitford didn’t even look up. “That’s all I need. Thank you.”
Cadmon stared for a second, mouth agape. The Governor just ignored him though, and with nothing else to say, he stood up and left.
Chapter 24. A Second Date with Lola
People often say – as a friendly alternative to phrases like “shit happens” or “life sucks and then you die” – that everything happens for a reason. It’s a way of putting the vicissitudes of life into perspective by saying that there’s some kind of larger plan or scheme, and that, however much your life sucks now, things will ultimately work out for the best. That may be so, but it raises several questions: First, just who the fuck is in charge of choosing these alleged reasons why everything happens? Second, what kind of arcane, coin-tossing, quantum-mechanical-undead-cats-in-a-box, new-math worldview is he or she or it using as a basis for his or her or its reasoning? Third, how do we get him or her or whatever just to stop it already?
Lola Ford walked into Liam’s guitar shop.
It was early. Nobody buys guitars before lunch, but Liam always insisted on opening the shop right after breakfast anyway. Festus was manning the register and, after his long night in jail, had fallen asleep. His lower half was perched on top of a stool, while his upper half lay sprawled on top of the glass top of the store’s main display case. He awoke with a start, saw Lola, and promptly fell off the stool and onto the floor.
He sprung back up in an instant, and started to brush himself off, but then paused to look down at the rumpled, filthy clothes he’d been wearing for the better part of twenty-four hours – a good chunk of which he’d spent in jail – and decided his time would be better spent attempting to impose some kind order on his beard and wild-man hair, so he tried that instead. He quickly gave that up, however, and pinned all his hopes instead on his winning smile.
“Hello!” he said with a slightly manic – and not at all winning – grin. He held out the hand which he’d just been running all over his dirty clothes and hair.
“Um … Hi,” said Lola. She ignored his hand. “Who are you?”
“I am whoever you want me to be,” said Festus, rearranging his face into what he intended to be a charming smirk, but ended up being just a cockeyed version of the same, manic look as before. “Name’s Festus Bongwater. How do you do?”
Liam heard the commotion from where he was checking stock in the back and felt, for the first time in a very long time, just a tiny bit nervous. The feeling took him by surprise.
He’d spent the last decade or so as a monk. In fact, his buddies at the CIA had called him “Father Liam.” It wasn’t a conscious choice. Women just didn’t seem to affect him anymore – not since that praying mantis bitch, Anna. Fuck her.
But then, last