Chapter Twenty-three

John, Vanessa and Ryan were driving from Vanessa's house to Randy Montarelli's out in the valley. The three were crammed into the front bench seat, Vanessa in the middle. John was sweaty and pulled a pack of cigarettes out from the car door's side pocket and lit one.

" You smoke? " Vanessa asked. She made a serious, unscruti-nizable face.

" As of now, I've started again. I'm worried about Susan. I can't unstress. "

Once in the Valley, John pulled the Chrysler into an ARCO station for gas and gum. He went to pay at the till, and on returning to the car found Ryan and Vanessa in the front seat giggling like minks.

" Christ, you two. "

" We're young and in love, John Johnson, " Vanessa teased.

" People like you were never young, Vanessa. People like you are born seventy-two, like soft pink surgeon generals. "

Driving along in the accordion-squeezed traffic of Ventura Boulevard, John said, " So, are you two wacky kids gonna get married or something? "

" Absolutely, " said Ryan. " We've even got our honeymoon planned. " John considered this young couple he was driving with across the city. They were like rollicking puppies one moment, and Captain Kirk and Spock from Star Trek the next. Both seemed bent on discovering new universes. John thought that they were, in a way, the opposite of Ivan and Nylla, who he was convinced had married in order to compact the universe into something smaller, more manageable.

" Where are you two clowns going to honeymoon then, Library of Congress? "

" Chuckles ahoy, John, " Ryan replied. " We're actually going to Prince Edward Island. "

" Huh? Where's that—England? " John was driving at an an-noyingly slow speed in order to torment a tailgater.

" No, " said Vanessa. " It's in Canada. Back east—just north of Nova Scotia. It has a population of, like, three. "

" We're going to dig potatoes. "

John put his hand to his forehead. " Dare I even ask. . . ? "

" There's this thing they have there, " said Ryan, " called the tobacco mosaic virus. It's this harmless little virus that's lolling about dormant inside the Prince Edward Island potato ecology, not doing much of anything. "

" Except, " said Vanessa, " it's highly contagious, and if it comes in contact with tobacco plants, it turns them, basically, into sludge. So what we're going to do is rent a van and fill it up with infected potatoes and then drive down to Virginia and Kentucky and lob them into tobacco fields. "

" We're going to put Big Tobacco out of business, " said Ryan.

" Romantic, " said John, " but it does appeal to my Lodge pesticide genes. "

" Vanessa's dad died of emphysema. "

" Don't make me sound like a Dickensian waif, Ryan, but yes, Dad did hork his lungs out. " " Vanessa likes to fuck things up with the information she finds, " said Ryan with a note of pride.

" You know what, Ryan? I have an easy time believing that. I'm also going to light up another cigarette. Sorry, Vanessa, but I'm flipping out here. "

Ryan shouted, " Hey—that's Randy Montarelli's street over there, " and John pulled into a leafy suburban avenue. The tail-gater whizzed off in a huff. Randy's wood-shingled house was pale blue and tall cypress tree sentinels were lit with colored floodlights.

" Well, " said Ryan as they parked across the street and peeked at the house. " We're here. "

" We are, " said John. It was a quiet moment, like being on holiday, after flying the whole day and navigating through cabs and crowds, arriving in the hotel room, shutting the room and taking a breath. What came next was unknown, and John realized he hadn't given this moment much thought. He was stage-struck.

" I just saw somebody move inside a window, " said Ryan.

" We have to go down there, " said John.

" Ryan. . . " said Vanessa. " Maybe we should wait here. Maybe John should be alone for this. "

" No. Come, you guys—I need you. "

Like clueless trick-or-treaters, they headed to the front door. From inside the house they heard a TV blaring, feet pounding an uncarpeted floor and a door shutting. John rang the bell before he had a chance to change his mind. All interior sound stopped. Vanessa rang it again three times quickly. A minute passed and still nothing. Ryan tried the doorknob to see if it was open. It was.

" Shut the fucking door, Ryan, " said John.

" Just checking. "

" Hellooooo. . . ? " Vanessa called into the crack in the door.

" Oh jeez, " said John.

" You are such a chickenshit, John. " Vanessa cooed into the house, " Hello—we're from Unesco. "

Ryan turned to Vanessa: " Unesco? "

" It was the first thing that popped into my head. "

" Right, " said John, " like you're Audrey Hepburn and ready to hand over a clod of Swiss dirt if they donate five bucks. "

From down the hallway came the sound of somebody tripping over a small heap of suitcases. A man appeared, pale as linguine, in a black bodysuit, a cell phone dangling from his right hand.

" Well, well, it's the Mod Squad. I'm Randy. You're John Johnson, aren't you? What are you doing here? "

" Perhaps we could come in? " John asked.

" No. I—can't. I mean, I know you're famous and rich, but I don't know you personally. And I don't know these two here at all. "

" I'm Ryan. "

" I'm Vanessa. "

" I'm sorry, but I still can't do it. "

" That's okay, " said John. " We're looking for Susan Colgate. "

Randy didn't flinch. " And why would you be talking to me about this? "

" You are Randy Montarelli? "

" I was. "

" And you are Randy 'Hexum, ' then, too? "

" Yes, but what is your point? It's a free country. I can change my name. So you guys know stuff about my past. I'm not scared or anything. "

" We're not here to scare you, " John said.

" Okay, but why are you assuming I've got something to dowith Susan Colgate? Do you have any idea how random it is to have you three show up on my doorstep like this? Asking about some washed-up soap actress? I can already feel my spirit entering therapy as a result of this visit. "

" So you're saying you don't know her, " said John.

" I didn't say that. "

" Do you know her? "

" We've met. "

" And? "

" I used to work for Chris Thraice a few years ago when I came to L. A. As far as I know, he and Susan are still friends, but I don't think they ever talked much. " Randy added, " Hey, kids, I have an idea. I won't tell the cops that you were here if you don't tell them you were here, either. "

" Deal, " said John.

Randy's face changed like still water brushed by a breeze. " Wait. . . " He looked at John with a degree of calculation. " Maybe there is something you need to know—something you should have. " John, Ryan and Vanessa exchanged Hardy Boy glances. " Hold on, " he said, and headed down the hall, knocked a piece of luggage out of his way and entered a room. A minute later he returned with a sealed manila envelope and offered it to John. " I hope you're feeling better, " he said to John.

" What was wrong with me? " John was taken back.

" Well, " said Randy, " I recently heard that you were suffering from Jeep's syndrome. "

" Oh jeez, " said John, " that's one of those bloody Internet rumors. Who starts those things? "

" What's Jeep's syndrome? " asked Ryan.

Vanessa said, " It's when an ingrown hair follicle above the anus becomes infected, causing a massive buildup of waste fluids, requiring a surgical excision and drainage. The most famous

2O4 sufferer was English pop star Roddy Llewellyn, who once dated Princess Margaret. "

" Did we really need to know that? " John asked.

" Ryan did ask. And besides, I've heard the rumor, too. That's why I looked it up. "

Randy handed John the envelope. " You should find this interesting. " He closed the door.

A minute later they were back in the car. John was agitated, mad at himself for not having better strategized the encounter. " Shit, that guy's bailing town somewhere and he's our only clue. He could have Susan in those suitcases for all I know. Ryan, open the envelope. What's in it? "

" It's a script: 'Scratch 'n' Win, ' by Randy Hexum. "

" Shit—a script. " He slammed the steering wheel.

Vanessa said, " I have another clue, " but at that exact moment Ryan locked bumpers with a car identical to John's own—same color, same year—and their car was hobbled onto the other like animals in heat. " Oh wow, " mumbled a surf brat loitering on the corner with a friend, " two gay Chryslers fucking. "

2O2

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