Back inside Bodhi Dharma Pizza, Hector was furiously on defense, eyes inflamed, haircut askew. "Zoyd! ?órale, carnal! Tell these people how much I don' need this shit!"
"Where's my kid, Hector?"
Back in the employees' toilet, as it turned out, where Prairie had locked the door. Zoyd went and stood hollering back and forth with her, trying to keep an eye on Hector at the same time, while the deep chanting continued.
"He says he knows where my mom is." Her voice wary.
"He doesn't know where she is, he was askin' me the other day, now he's tryin' to use you."
"But he said, she told him that — she really wants to see me. ……"
"He's bullshittin' you, Prairie, he's DEA, his Business is lying."
"Please," Hector called, "could you do somethín about the glee club here, 'causs it's makín me, I don' know, weird?"
"You're abducting my kid, Hector?"
"She wants to come with me, asshole!"
"That true, Prair?"
The door opened. Big fat tears were rolling down her cheeks, with little swirls of violet eye makeup. "Dad, what is it?"
"He's crazy. He escaped from the Detox."
"You better know how to protect her, Wheeler," the federale getting frantic now. "You better have some resources, you're gonna wish she was with me before too long, ése, I ain't the only stranger in town today."
"Yeah you must mean that army up at my place — tell me Hector, who is that?"
"Anybody less of a fool would know already. It's a Justice Department strike force, they got military backup, and it's beín led by your old pal himself, Brock Vond, remember him? Man who took your ol' lady away from you, hah, cabrón?"
"Well, shit." Zoyd had just assumed all along they were Hector's people, DEA plus their local dope-squad tagalongs. But Brock Vond was a federal prosecutor, a Washington, D.C., heavy and, as Hector had so helpfully recalled, the expediter of most of Zoyd's years of long and sooner or later tearful nights down in places like the Lost Nugget. Why, at this late date, would the man be coming after Zoyd full-scale like this, unless it had something to do with Frenesi, and the old sad story?
"And you might as well forget about goín home, chump, 'cause you got no more Home, paperwork's already in the mill to confiscate it under civil RICO, 'causs guess what, Zoyd, they found marijuana? in yer house! Yah, must've been two ounces of the shit, although we're gonna call it tons."
"Dad, what's he talkin' about?"
"They're up 'ere all right, Trooper."
"My diary? My hair stuff, my clothes? Desmond?"
"We'll get 'em all back," as she moved beside him into a one-arm embrace. He believed what he was saying, because he couldn't quite believe the other yet. Trent could've been taking some artistic liberties, right? Hector could be having a Tubal fantasy provoked by watching too many cop shows?
"Then I still need to know," Zoyd addressed the beleaguered narc up on the table, "why Brock Vond and his army is doin' this to me."
As if their chanting had been recitative for Hector's aria, everyone now fell silent and attended. He stood beneath a stained-glass window made in the likeness of an eightfold Pizzic Mandala, in full sunlight a dazzling revelation in scarlet and gold, but at the moment dark, only tweaked now and then by headlights out in the street.
"It ain't that I don' have Hollywood connections. I know Ernie Triggerman. Yeah and Ernie's been waitín years for the big Nostalgia Wave to move along to the sixties, which according to his demographics is the best time most people from back then are ever goín to have in their life — sad for them maybe, but not for the picture Business. Our dream, Ernie's and mine, is to locate a legendary observer-participant from those times, Frenesi Gates — your ex-ol' lady, Zoyd, your mom, Prairie — and bring her up out of her mysterious years of underground existence, to make a Film about all those long-ago political wars, the drugs, the sex, the rock an' roll, which th' ultimate message will be that the real threat to America, then and now, is fro, m th' illegal abuse of narcotics?"
Zoyd squinted. "Oh, Hector. . . ."
"I'll show you the figures," Hector raved on, "even with a i% penetration we're oil gonna be rich forever off of this, man!"
"About this 'we,' " Zoyd was wondering, "have you brought Cap'n Vond on board this project yet, you and this Ernie?" Hector was looking down at his shoes. "We didt'n finalize it."
"Y'haven't been in touch with him at all, right?" "Well I don't know who is, ése — nobody's returnín calls." "I don't believe this, you wantin' to be in the world of entertainment, when all along I had you pegged as a real terrorist workin' for the State? When you said cuttin' and shootin' I didt'n know you were talkin' about film. I thought th' only kind of options you cared about were semi- and full automatic. Why, I'm lookin' at Steven Spielberg, here."
"Risking a lifelong career in law enforcement," put in the saintly night manager, who called himself Baba Havabananda, "in the service of the ever-dwindling attention span of an ever more in-fantilized population. A sorry spectacle." "Yah, well you sound like Howard Cosell." "So Brock Vond taking over my place, Hector, that's got nothin' to do with your movie scheme, that correct?" "'Unless . . .," Hector looking almost bashful. Zoyd saw it coming. "Unless he's out looking for her too?" "For," in a low suave croak, "let us say, motives of his own." At which point, finally, in through the doors front and rear of Bodhi Dharma Pizza came the NATO-camouflaged guys and gals of the Tubaldetox goon squad, to bring Hector gently "back to where we can help you," cajoling him through the crowd, who'd begun to chant again. Doc Deeply, grooming his beard, strode over, high-fiving Baba Havabananda on the way. "Can't thank you enough, anything we can do —" "Long as he'll be out of my face for a while." "Don't count on it, we're only minimum-security down there. We can keep him under observation, but if he wants to, he can be back on the street inside of a week."
"I got a contract!" Hector was screaming as they loaded him into the Tubaldetox paddy wagon, which went screeching off just as Isaiah Two Four and his friends came screeching in.
The boy loomed over them, frowning, unfrowning, frowning again as Zoyd and Prairie filled him in and the other Vomitones made dangerous sounds. Finally, "This wedding gig down in the City …… . what if Prairie came with us for a while? Get her out of the area?"
"Where's my kid, Hector?"
Back in the employees' toilet, as it turned out, where Prairie had locked the door. Zoyd went and stood hollering back and forth with her, trying to keep an eye on Hector at the same time, while the deep chanting continued.
"He says he knows where my mom is." Her voice wary.
"He doesn't know where she is, he was askin' me the other day, now he's tryin' to use you."
"But he said, she told him that — she really wants to see me. ……"
"He's bullshittin' you, Prairie, he's DEA, his Business is lying."
"Please," Hector called, "could you do somethín about the glee club here, 'causs it's makín me, I don' know, weird?"
"You're abducting my kid, Hector?"
"She wants to come with me, asshole!"
"That true, Prair?"
The door opened. Big fat tears were rolling down her cheeks, with little swirls of violet eye makeup. "Dad, what is it?"
"He's crazy. He escaped from the Detox."
"You better know how to protect her, Wheeler," the federale getting frantic now. "You better have some resources, you're gonna wish she was with me before too long, ése, I ain't the only stranger in town today."
"Yeah you must mean that army up at my place — tell me Hector, who is that?"
"Anybody less of a fool would know already. It's a Justice Department strike force, they got military backup, and it's beín led by your old pal himself, Brock Vond, remember him? Man who took your ol' lady away from you, hah, cabrón?"
"Well, shit." Zoyd had just assumed all along they were Hector's people, DEA plus their local dope-squad tagalongs. But Brock Vond was a federal prosecutor, a Washington, D.C., heavy and, as Hector had so helpfully recalled, the expediter of most of Zoyd's years of long and sooner or later tearful nights down in places like the Lost Nugget. Why, at this late date, would the man be coming after Zoyd full-scale like this, unless it had something to do with Frenesi, and the old sad story?
"And you might as well forget about goín home, chump, 'cause you got no more Home, paperwork's already in the mill to confiscate it under civil RICO, 'causs guess what, Zoyd, they found marijuana? in yer house! Yah, must've been two ounces of the shit, although we're gonna call it tons."
"Dad, what's he talkin' about?"
"They're up 'ere all right, Trooper."
"My diary? My hair stuff, my clothes? Desmond?"
"We'll get 'em all back," as she moved beside him into a one-arm embrace. He believed what he was saying, because he couldn't quite believe the other yet. Trent could've been taking some artistic liberties, right? Hector could be having a Tubal fantasy provoked by watching too many cop shows?
"Then I still need to know," Zoyd addressed the beleaguered narc up on the table, "why Brock Vond and his army is doin' this to me."
As if their chanting had been recitative for Hector's aria, everyone now fell silent and attended. He stood beneath a stained-glass window made in the likeness of an eightfold Pizzic Mandala, in full sunlight a dazzling revelation in scarlet and gold, but at the moment dark, only tweaked now and then by headlights out in the street.
"It ain't that I don' have Hollywood connections. I know Ernie Triggerman. Yeah and Ernie's been waitín years for the big Nostalgia Wave to move along to the sixties, which according to his demographics is the best time most people from back then are ever goín to have in their life — sad for them maybe, but not for the picture Business. Our dream, Ernie's and mine, is to locate a legendary observer-participant from those times, Frenesi Gates — your ex-ol' lady, Zoyd, your mom, Prairie — and bring her up out of her mysterious years of underground existence, to make a Film about all those long-ago political wars, the drugs, the sex, the rock an' roll, which th' ultimate message will be that the real threat to America, then and now, is fro, m th' illegal abuse of narcotics?"
Zoyd squinted. "Oh, Hector. . . ."
"I'll show you the figures," Hector raved on, "even with a i% penetration we're oil gonna be rich forever off of this, man!"
"About this 'we,' " Zoyd was wondering, "have you brought Cap'n Vond on board this project yet, you and this Ernie?" Hector was looking down at his shoes. "We didt'n finalize it."
"Y'haven't been in touch with him at all, right?" "Well I don't know who is, ése — nobody's returnín calls." "I don't believe this, you wantin' to be in the world of entertainment, when all along I had you pegged as a real terrorist workin' for the State? When you said cuttin' and shootin' I didt'n know you were talkin' about film. I thought th' only kind of options you cared about were semi- and full automatic. Why, I'm lookin' at Steven Spielberg, here."
"Risking a lifelong career in law enforcement," put in the saintly night manager, who called himself Baba Havabananda, "in the service of the ever-dwindling attention span of an ever more in-fantilized population. A sorry spectacle." "Yah, well you sound like Howard Cosell." "So Brock Vond taking over my place, Hector, that's got nothin' to do with your movie scheme, that correct?" "'Unless . . .," Hector looking almost bashful. Zoyd saw it coming. "Unless he's out looking for her too?" "For," in a low suave croak, "let us say, motives of his own." At which point, finally, in through the doors front and rear of Bodhi Dharma Pizza came the NATO-camouflaged guys and gals of the Tubaldetox goon squad, to bring Hector gently "back to where we can help you," cajoling him through the crowd, who'd begun to chant again. Doc Deeply, grooming his beard, strode over, high-fiving Baba Havabananda on the way. "Can't thank you enough, anything we can do —" "Long as he'll be out of my face for a while." "Don't count on it, we're only minimum-security down there. We can keep him under observation, but if he wants to, he can be back on the street inside of a week."
"I got a contract!" Hector was screaming as they loaded him into the Tubaldetox paddy wagon, which went screeching off just as Isaiah Two Four and his friends came screeching in.
The boy loomed over them, frowning, unfrowning, frowning again as Zoyd and Prairie filled him in and the other Vomitones made dangerous sounds. Finally, "This wedding gig down in the City …… . what if Prairie came with us for a while? Get her out of the area?"