basic necessities. I've made a list, sizes and everything. And, of course, when this is all over, I'll pay you back the cash you gave me and whatever you spend on the computer and these other things.'
'Damn right you will, Shane. And forty percent interest. Per week. Compounded hourly. Plus your child. Your child will be mine.'
Chris laughed. 'My Aunt Rumpelstiltskin.'
'You won't make smart remarks when you're
'Mother Rumpelstiltskin, Sir!' Chris said, and saluted her.
At eight-thirty Thelma prepared to leave with the shopping list that Laura had composed and the information about the computer. 'I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, as soon as I can,' she said, giving Laura and then Chris one last hug. 'You'll really be safe here, Shane?'
'I think we will. If they'd discovered we were staying here, they would've shown up sooner.'
Stefan said, 'Remember, Thelma, they're time travelers; once they discover where we've been hiding, they could just jaunt forward to the moment when we first arrived here. In fact they could've been waiting for us when we pulled into the motel on Wednesday. The fact that we've stayed here so long unmolested is almost proof there'll never be public knowledge that this was our hideout.'
'My head spins,' Thelma said. 'And I thought reading a major studio's contract was complicated!'
She went out into the night and rain, still wearing the wig and the horn-rimmed glasses but carrying her stage teeth in her pocket, and she drove away in her gardener's truck.
Laura, Chris, and Stefan watched her from the big window, and Stefan said, 'She's a special person.'
'Very,' Laura said. 'I hope to God I haven't endangered her.'
'Don't worry, Mom,' Chris said. 'Aunt Thelma's a tough broad. She always says so.'
That night at nine o'clock, shortly after Thelma left, Laura drove to Fat Jack's place in Anaheim. The rain was not as heavy as it had been but fell in a steady drizzle. The macadamized pavement glistened silver-black, and gutters still overflowed with water that looked like oil in the queer light of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. Fog had crept in, too, not on little cat feet but slithering like a snake on its belly.
She had been loath to leave Stefan at the motel. But it was not wise for him to spend much time in the chilly, rainy January night in his debilitated condition. Besides, he could do nothing to help her.
Though Stefan remained behind, Chris accompanied Laura, for she would not be separated from him for the time it would take to cut a deal for the weapons. The boy had gone with her when she had first visited Fat Jack a year ago, when she'd bought the illegally modified Uzis, so the fat man would not be surprised to see him. Displeased, yes, since Fat Jack was no lover of children, but not surprised.
As she drove, Laura looked frequently in the rearview mirror, in the side mirrors, and took the measure of the other drivers around her with a diligence that gave new meaning to the term defensive driving. She could not afford to be broadsided by a dunderhead who was driving too fast for the road conditions. Police would put in an appearance at the scene of the crash, would routinely check out her license plates, and before they even arrested her, men carrying submachine guns would materialize and kill her and Chris.
She had left her own Uzi with Stefan, although he had protested. However, she was unable to abandon him with no means of self-defense. She still carried the.38 Chiefs Special. And fifty spare rounds were distributed in the zippered pockets of her ski jacket.
Near Disneyland, when the neon-drenched phantasmagoria of Fat Jack's Pizza Party Palace appeared in the fog like the starship in
Chris said, 'Fat Jack's put up more neon since we were here.'
'I think you're right,' Laura said.
They got out of the car and looked up at the blinking, flashing, rippling, winking, grotesquely flamboyant fagade of Fat Jack's Pizza Party Palace. Neon was not reserved solely for the name of the place. It was also used to outline the building, the roofline, every window, and the front doors. In addition there were a pair of giant neon sunglasses on one end of the roof, and a huge neon rocketship poised for takeoff on the other end, with neon vapors perpetually curling and sparkling beneath its exhaust jets. The ten-foot-diameter neon pizza was an old feature, but the grinning neon clown's face was new.
The quantity of neon was so great that every falling raindrop was brightly tinted, as if it was part of a rainbow that had broken apart at nightfall. Every puddle shimmered with rainbow fragments.
The effect was disorienting, but it prepared the visitor for the inside of Fat Jack's, which seemed to be a glimpse of the chaos out of which the universe had formed trillions of years ago. The waiters and waitresses were dressed as clowns, ghosts, pirates, spacemen, witches, gypsies, and vampires, and a singing trio in bear costumes moved from table to table, delighting young children with pizza-smeared faces. In alcoves off the main room, older kids were at banks of videogames, so the
'Asylum,' Chris said.
They were met inside the front door by the host, Dominick, who was Fat Jack's minority partner. Dominick was tall, cadaverous, with mournful eyes, and he seemed out of place midst the forced hilarity.
Raising her voice to be heard over the din, Laura asked for Fat Jack and said, 'I called earlier. I'm an old friend of his mother's,' which was what you were to say to indicate you wanted guns not pizza.
Dominick had learned to project his voice clearly through the cacophony without shouting. 'You've been here before, I believe.'
'Good memory,' she said. 'A year ago.'
'Please follow me,' Dominick said in a funereal voice.
They did not have to go through the cyclonic commotion of the dining room, which was good because that meant Laura was less likely to be seen and recognized by one of the customers. A door off the other side of the host's foyer opened onto a corridor that led past the kitchen and the storeroom to Fat Jack's private office. Dominick knocked on the door, ushered them inside, and said to Fat Jack, 'Old friends of your mother,' then left Laura and Chris with the big man.
Fat Jack took his nickname seriously and tried to live up to it. He was five feet ten and weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds. Wearing immense gray sweatpants and sweatshirt that fit him almost as tightly as Spandex, he looked like the fat man in that magnetized photograph that dieters could buy to put on refrigerators to scare them off food; in fact he looked like the refrigerator.
He sat in a baronial swivel chair behind a desk sized for him, and he did not get up. 'Listen to the little beasts.' He spoke to Laura, ignored Chris. 'I put my office at the back of the building, had it specially soundproofed, and I can still hear them out there, shrieking, squealing; it's as if I'm just down the hall from hell.'
'They're only children having fun,' Laura said, standing with Chris in front of the desk.
'And Mrs. O'Leary was just an old lady with a clumsy cow, but she burned down Chicago,' Fat Jack said sourly. He was eating a Mars bar. In the distance children's voices, insulated by soundproofing, rose in a dull roar, and as if talking to that unseen multitude, the fat man said, 'Ah, choke on it, you little trolls.'
'It's a nuthouse out there,' Chris said.
'Who asked you?'
'Nobody, sir.'
Jack had a grainy complexion with gray eyes nearly buried in a puff-adder face. He focused on Laura and said, 'You see my new neon?'
'The clown is new, isn't it?'
'Yeah. Isn't it a beauty? I designed it, had it made, and then had it erected in the dead of night, so the next morning it was too late for anybody to get a restraining order to stop me. The damn city council just about croaked, all of them at once.'
Fat Jack had been embroiled in a decade-long legal battle with the Anaheim Zoning Commission and the city council. The authorities disapproved of his garish neon displays, especially now that the area around Disneyland was slated for urban renewal. Fat Jack had spent tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars fighting them in the
