Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality (12 page)

Toby wipes off his boots on the welcome mat and rings Luckytown's doorbell. Me and Lip Cheese stand back a bit, on the scrubbed-white sidewalk leading to the front doorstep.

The seal of the wood-grain door unsuctions. I prepare my face.

But right when you expect Luckytown to process Toby's lard into canned food, Luckytown opens the door wearing oven mitts and an apron that says
M.C. GRILLER.
“You are under arrest,” he says.

Toby half-flinches.

“You ponyboys! I'm kidding!” Luckytown says. “Please come in.”

Luckytown's dining room is clean and unused, colored like embroidered china. His kitchen has a stainless steel refrigerator where the freezer's actually the bottom drawer. A finger-shaped smear of blood, just to the right of the garbage disposal switch, looks twisted into the kitchen wallpaper.

“We come to you head in hands, believe me,” Toby says. “But we wanted to let you know about some suspicious things, about our friend Andrea, and about the broadcast building explosion and several recent fires, now that we've had time to remember them more, you know, formally.”

Luckytown looks away from us and raises his eyebrows quickly.

“After Necro's show ended that night, Necro was sort of shoving us toward the building, like he wanted us to be close to the building when it exploded?” Toby says.

And, I force myself to say, since This Is Going to Bring the Funny, Murman-Mango Jitney-Level: “And earlier in the evening? Before that explosion? Necro and Wicked College—John Violi—had this argument on the way to the Weapons of Mankind show?”

Luckytown removes a casserole from the oven, which throws me off a little and makes me feel like I need to explain more when I don't want to.

“Because, Necro always hates it when you say Kangaroo for a Kid, because he has all these German Shepherds in his house?” I say. “And Necro left these drawings in his car, and Wicked College John—he and Necro have never really gotten along, because once, Lip Cheese found this sweater in this abandoned home and gave it to Wicked College John as a gift. And Wicked College John didn't want it, but Necro convinced Wicked College John to wear it—you know, to be nice to Lip Cheese. But after Wicked College John put it on he got this rash—like, a whole Rash Shirt for three weeks, and he blamed Necro, so ever since then they hate each other?”

But the problem is the entire story is impossible to explain and I start to feel embarrassed, total pre-Melting Backsickle, and I forget what I was talking about.

“Have you heard of NecronicA?” Toby says.

Luckytown rips off a length of foil from the roller. “Our department tracks any number of activities.”

“Because if you go to his website, NecronicA,” Toby says, “you can see that he has been drawing an awful lot of fire.”

Luckytown motions for us to sit in his living room, the carpeted region just to the right of his kitchen. Vine plants with red flowers hang above a small, gray TV/VCR combo. Basil-green recliners are arranged in this prim way where it feels like nobody ever sits in them. Lip Cheese sits in one, though, and sets his papers on his lap.

“So far, this year, the Rochester Fire Department has reported twenty-one arson task force investigations under way,” Lip Cheese reads from some document, with Toby nodding grimly.

Lip Cheese turns to a printout he has made of all the drawings posted on NecronicA. His index finger hops over each miniaturized picture on the page. “There are twenty-one fire-related artworks on NecronicA,” Lip Cheese says.

Maybe this is all still technically hilarious, but I really start to wonder: They are getting really specific with this joke.

“Hm,” is all Luckytown says, folding the length of foil over the casserole before sliding the dish back into the oven.

“Do you know Bambert L. Tolby?” Toby asks.

“We know he opened a military surplus store in Webster,” Luckytown says, losing his upright-barricade cop voice for a second. “On Ridge Road. Bambert's Weapons. But that's public. Something else happened with him, years back. I don't remember.”

I swallow a yarnball of lightning. “Have you seen Necro there?” I say.

“Oh I don't know,” Luckytown says, shredding some Parmesan on a bell-shaped shredder. “But, hey, little man, that's why we have police departments.”

I won't even begin to tell you how I reacted that night to Luckytown finding out, before me, where Necro might be semi-Maverick Jetpantsing to. Taking a shower, I'm fine. But lying in bed that night, I throw an elbow into my mattress. At first, since Mom is asleep, I pick up a stereo speaker and set it down on its side, as if I've knocked it over. I roll a pen off my
homework desk. After that, all I will say is that the rumors are not true and my room is normally that trashed.

The next day, there's enough leftover Off-the-Top-Ropes rage in me to drive over and pick up Toby (because Lip Cheese is working, and Toby drove yesterday, and so I'm driving today, because those are the Laws of Gas). We go to Ridge Road in Webster, if only so that you know, Necro, that no matter where you are, you will see my face.

Webster is flat, with cracked, tarred-up roads, big backyards, and houses with storefronts. The sign on the new weapons shop, above one huge window, says
Bambert's Weapons
in italicized maroon lettering. When we enter, a tinkly “Here's a Customer” bell rings from the handle of the glass door, like the sound of Hitler making his own candy. Immediately, I'm scanning for anything that might be not just Murman-level Uncomebackable, but Pharaoh Uncomebackable, something so Pharaoh Uncomebackable that Necro will never leave his house again.

But the store is only a counter and a stack of cardboard boxes behind it. Rambocream, with a sweaty buzz cut, leans over the glass display counter, ice-cream sandwich arms spread out and palms flat on the glass top. He closes some book by H.P. Lovecraft. In the glass display are sword- and knife-shaped velvet insets but no weapons. Rambocream looks like he's not sure if he should let us know he remembers us.

“Excuse me, we're not technically open yet?” he says.

“We're looking for Andrea Fanto,” I say. “And Bambert L. Tolby.”

His eyebrows leap and he suddenly smiles, voice suddenly
connoisseurish: “Bambert, unfortunately, is booked solid today. I assume you're from the church?”

“Church?” Toby says.

“Are you Community Investors?” Rambocream says, apparently capitalizing those words.

Toby slants his brow, the way he does when he appears to be yelling, inside his head:
I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY I'M CONFUSED.

“All we were wondering is if you could tell us if you've seen Necro today,” Toby says.

“Necro?” Rambocream says.

“Andrea,” I say. “Andrea Fanto.”

Rambocream folds his arms. “You mean Loostro. Are you the media?” he says.

“Necro's in here that much,” Toby says.

Rambocream points to a Toyota Camry parked across the street outside, with a manila-folder-colored sparkle.

“That's Mel Reid, from the newspaper,” he says. “Whenever I lock up at night and walk out, he carries this tape recorder that's the size of a Fisher-Price tape recorder. Sometimes, he'll even park outside Bambert's house, for an hour, eat a sandwich, and drive off without requesting an interview. Two weeks ago, they printed a headline titled: ‘No word yet on white-supremacist explosion.' Maybe you are Loostro's friends? But I'll have to consult and see what we're comfortable with.”

Rambocream closes his eyes, raises his eyebrows, and angles his head slightly away.

“Let's go, Nate,” Toby says. “This guy's Colonel Hellstache.
Do you even know what that means? Colonel Hellstache? Holy Grail Points? He doesn't know. He isn't Necro's friend.”

We turn around to leave, because really I should be applying for jobs right now, but then Rambocream goes: “The Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm. What about that?”

I swing myself around. I don't know if my reaction is visible.

“Because that's where he is,” Rambocream says. “He goes out there to clear his head. If you know him, why don't you
take
and take a journey, with Journey, and go find him there.”

When I worked so hard to stay Necro's friend, and Necro gives away even the Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm. Where the abandoned Canal Creamee had this payphone that worked without change. You and me, Necro, Off the Top Ropes, playing America's ribcage as a guitar, pranking Nintendo customer service with that phone (“Uh, are you planning on coming out with a new Nintendo game where you can, uh, make tires?”). Because, going to the Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm got me through back-to-school season. You want to give something away, Necro? Give away Shinobi Hamslicer. Give away Peanut Butter Shoulder. Give away Dorito Henderson; we never needed Dorito Henderson, Necro; you and I together were always better than Dorito Henderson. But to tell even Rambocream about the Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm? This one hurts, Necro.

“Don't be this guy's Wendy,” Toby says. “This isn't worth the Cockdrama anymore.”

But I lower my voice and say to Rambocream: “Oh, I
know where the Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm is. We will drive to Fishers and we will find Necro and we will bring him back here in one hour and we will
talk
.”

Rambocream has this smile where his upper lip curls over his teeth, old-man style. He flips his palm upward. “All right.”

“But there's motocross on! X Games Finals!” Toby says, following me outside to the car, the door handle bell dinkling again. “I didn't set the VCR!”

“Yeah, well.”

On 490, after easily a whole episode of motocross passes, Toby yanks back the backrest of his seat and stares up at the ceiling. The sunset tangles into the trees. I near exit 45—the Mob Execution Exit.

“Wendy Wendy,” Toby says. “Wendy Wendy Wendy, Wendy Wendy Wendy put on a Wendy Nametag.”

So rather than admitting that, oh shit, I haven't been to the Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm since 1996, I totally make a tasting menu out of Toby's pissed-offedness. I slam my foot on the clutch to coast.

“Do I turn here? Exit 45? Where is Fishers again, Toby?”

“How about toward my goddamn house!”

“No, it's further this way. Past like Bloomfield and all that.”

Another episode of motocross probably passes. The worst thing about getting lost in the plains is that there are no signs or landmarks. When I turn onto the country routes, there are some white, boutique-y looking buildings that I feel like I remember, and Toby rolls onto his side.

I turn onto Route 20A—a guess turn. Then another guess turn. More episodes of motocross. The street lamps run out.
I see a sign for what, I guess, is a town called Atlanta. Wheat fields drizzle by.

“If you're not their Wendy, Nate,” Toby says, “then what are you? Their Mommy?”

In response—to make up for the Total Comeback Shutdown of yesterday afternoon—I turn left onto some road, and the sky opens up into a black whipped cream of cloud cover. “No, wait, I think I remember where we are now, Toby!” I say, smirking as hard as I can. “There's a church up here! Fishers is totally
this
way!”

“Fuck! This!” Toby kicks my glove compartment drawer.

I take the next left. “Oh wait! No! The Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm is totally up
this
way! I swear to God!”

A wall of cornstalks appears on our right. On Toby's second kick, the glove compartment door cracks. The light from inside it makes the crack look like a lightning bolt.

It's dark enough so that my headlights seem only to light the small bowl-shaped area of road right ahead of me. So I start to wonder, okay, seriously: Where am I.

“Let me see the map in there, Toby?”

With his pointer finger and thumb, Toby tweezes the map through the crack in the glove compartment and unfolds it.

“It's a map of Buffalo,” he says, and karate chops the map to the floor.

I flip on the ceiling light and pull over. I turn off the car. I'm warm enough to unzip my Bills winter jacket. We open our doors and step out into the quiet. If there were cars coming, you'd see the headlights from a county over. Everything, my shoes on the gravel, sounds intricate, like someone whispering
into your ear. Across the street from the cornfields, a hill slants upward into a patch of woods. No street lamps anywhere, no power lines.

I sit on the hood and scratch the sweat off my forehead. Toby kicks some gravel and puffs his cheeks.

“Well maybe if you'd shut up, Toby, I could've concentrated when I was on the highway and actually
found
the Nintendo Power Bucolic Farm,” I say.

“Well maybe if you didn't Mommy yourself so much over Necro—”

“Fine! Fine! Fine!” I yell. The word echoes, blinking smaller into the woods.

Then, a bright, sharp, pinhole-sized red dot, from a laser pointer or a rifle, appears on the car's rear driver's side door.