“Quit playing games, gentlemen. The book?”
I reach back, very slowly, holding my other hand open to keep everyone calm, and I grab my yellow DMV book. I hold it up over my head and wiggle it around, “Okay, okay . . . there's no reason for any of this to get out of hand.”
They're all looking at me like I'm a talking vegetable. Perhaps an argument could be made. I say, “Everyone calm down. There's no problem. Here's the book. But, just so you know, I don't think it will do you fellas any good.”
Ricky is kind of pissed at me, I'm sure, but he's also trying not to laugh, his eyes down as his shoulders quiver a bit. I don't know why he wants to always laugh at the most inopportune times. But then, Ricky and I . . . we laugh in the face of peril.
I toss the book across the void that separates us all, and the cadre of mean-faced little men seems uncomprehending. One of them bends down slowly to pick up the book as if it might be a trick. He looks at it, his eyes quizzically study the thin paper cover, then he tosses it to the lead guy. They speak some strange language amongst themselves, and Ricky is looking at me like I'm playing with fire.
Again, he's probably right.
If I had a bunch of knives right now, these guys would be in bigtime trouble.
Under his breath, Ricky says, “Let's not piss them off, Jack. They look . . . ” he takes a deep breath, “ . . . sincere .”
The leader guy, he steps forward chunking the book back across the parking lot. “What is that?”
The book , I answer. It's the only book we have. Were you referring to some other book?
“We want the Book of Sighs, you idiots,” he snaps. And suddenly, the other guys look less friendly. They look motivated and violent, always a bad combination. He continues, “We know that you have it. We have been following you for some time.”
Well, there's a couple questions answered, I say under my breath.
“It's ours. Give it to us, or take us to it. Now!”
“Oh, that book,” I say nodding, like I've just seen the light. I look over at Ricky.
“Book of Sighs, right,” Ricky says. “You should have just said that from the beginning. It would have made all of this much easier.”
“So,” the mean man says, “you have it, then?”
Well, I say . . . not anymore, we don't.
His face wrinkles, his eyes narrow and menacing, “What do you mean?”
“We did have it,” Ricky explains, “but it was stolen weeks ago.”
Then they all start talking in that rapid-fire whatever-it-is they speak. And I know that this is usually the part in the movie where Ricky and I should get our asses kicked.
38
Three baited breaths later . . .
While they're discussing which way to smash us into jelly, Ricky adds some much needed fuel to the fire, “And anyway, what's your claim to the book?”
They all get quiet and the lead guy turns back to us, “We're the descendants of Temuchin.”
Huh?
“The great Mongolian warrior-ruler. The greatest conquerer in history.”
Ricky raises his hand, “Oh, wait, wait . . . I know this one.”
You do not.
“Do, too,” Ricky says. “Bet me two hot apple pies.”
“You're on,” I say as we hit knuckles to lock-in the bet. That's how they do it on BET .
And then, real slowly, as if he's in front of a crowd of spectators, he says, “ Genghis . . . Khan . Died on August eighteenth, twelve twenty-seven.”
Shit .
We both look to the mean guy, “Westerners refer to him as Genghis Khan, yes.”
I turn to Ricky, How would you know that? Who knows that, other than those guys over there?
He shrugs, “ Discovery channel, last Tuesday night.”
The little mean guy looks agitated enough to come out of his skin. He snaps, “We are the rightful descendants of Temuchin, and we want what is ours. We took possession of the book in eleven eighty-four. It was stolen from us in the late eighteen hundreds. And we will stop at nothing to bring it back. It will only be safe when it's in our hands.”
Seeing this all unfold, us and them, our empty parking lot full of secrets and innuendo, I've got to admit that this is exciting. Perhaps intense is a better word.
“We don't have what you're looking for!” I say loudly, for the benefit of everyone else in the parking lot. “And another thing,” I say, “how old are you, anyway . . . like nine hundred-years-old?”
Ricky crosses his arms, trying not to smile like a Cheshire cat. “Best thing for you guys to do is get back into your rental cars and go back to whatever airport you came from.” Kind of ballsy move on his part.
“Where is the Book of Sighs?” the man says sharply. His patience seems to be worn to the bone. “I will not ask you again.”
Ricky turns to me, “You want to deliver the punch-line?”
No, I say. I wouldn't want to steel your thunder.
He nods, “This is your last chance, Fu-man-chu.” Ricky is taking the aggressive angle. Interesting, really.
The angry little Genghites all start to step forward until Ricky extends his arm, pointing past them. They pause in mid-step, turning around and they seem less interested in Ricky and I.
It could be that they've seen the futility in beating us up over a book we might not even have. Or perhaps they realize that Ricky and I are formidable opponents, him with his head butts and knees to the nuts, me with my two weeks of Jiu-jitsu and kick boxing. Maybe they realized that we would never give them what they wanted, no matter how long and painful their torture sessions were.
Sure, it could have been any of those things. But, more likely, those mad little men were all frozen solid because there were five or six police cars spread out in the parking lot, turned sideways with cops behind the cars pointing guns.
Apparently, one of Ricky's favors from the other day at that haunted house had been called in by Billtruck. The police had been driving quietly into the parking lot for the last few minutes.
No flashing sirens.
No noise.
Foreigners always expect some kind of spectacle. That's too much Hollywood, for you.
“That has got to be embarrassing,” Ricky mused.
And slowly, all of these men look nervously to their leader for an order.
“ . . . place your hands in the air and slowly lower yourselves to the ground!” an officer barks into a microphone.
The Mongolians talked amongst themselves, then conceded the day, lifting their arms higher than they probably ever had before.
The police moved in, searched, and cuffed all of them. One by one, they were loaded into white and blue police cars.
“Have fun with I.N.S.,” Ricky quips, as he's waving at them.
I wave, too, “And send our regards to the Khan.”
I can't see their expressions, but I hope they do get deported. If not, they're going to come back here and kick the holy shit out of Ricky and me.
39
Texas Department of Motor Vehicles.
Thursday 10:12 am . . .
Our Mongolian book collectors are tied up at the moment. We've been informed that they're sitting in a Federal Detention Center, in Seagoville, which is right outside of Dallas. They'll be there pending an investigation by INS into their recent activities in the US during the last few months. Apparently, they're here on expired work visas, and have worn out their welcome. And unless they manage to stage an uprising in the next few weeks, they'll be shipped back to China.
Billtruck had a good laugh as he told us that he had been watching from satellite as it all went down. He's even going to make us a tape where we can dub in our clever comments. Hal thinks we took 'irrationally absent-minded, juvenile risks' in our dealings with the Mongolians.
Ms. Josephine was so tired from debunking the floating blue people, that she dismissed our parking lot event with the wave of a hand. “Boys will be boys,” she said as she recorded her notes int
o her workstation.
Turns out the glowing blue people that crossed through their yard was actually a neighbor down the street who is in his early seventies, likes to wear a powder blue dress, and has a hard time remembering that he's a man, and not Gretta Garbo. Ricky says that neither of us win the bet, but I'm pretty sure I just got screwed out of a pizza.
Anyway, I had my driver's test to prepare for, so we spent most of Wednesday on my specific techniques. I probably parallel parked about 2,000 times. I can almost do it with my eyes closed.
Ricky and I even practiced high-speed breaking and J-turns—that's where you go really fast in reverse, then turn the wheel and hit the brakes to bring the car sliding around like in the movies. And, though I doubt I will ever, in a million years, find a reason to do this maneuver, Ricky says we'll have it our repertoire.
Angela called me Wednesday afternoon. Our conversation was strange, almost as if I was only talking to half of her. The other parts of her personality were distant. Lost somewhere. This thing with Jesse, it's really taken its toll on her.
She told me about the funeral, when and where it would be held, and asked if I would go with her. And, I know this sounds mean, but . . . I told her that I would feel out of place . Especially after the other day at the bookstore. I told her I didn't belong.
“Just go there with me, Jack. For me,” she said as she started to cry. I hate it when girls cry, even when it's not because of something I did—which isn't often.
In the end I agreed to take her. It's on Saturday morning, so with any luck, I should have my driver's license by then. I've already taken the computer exam, and aced it with a 96 %. The D.P.S. lady in line said that I did wonderful. And even as the words were coming out of her mouth, Ricky is behind me rolling his eyes.
Right now I'm just waiting for them to call my name and I'll meet some Driving Test Administrator at the curb out front. I didn't like the idea of using Ricky's Porsche Cayenne for the test because I didn't want the Administrator guy to think I was a rich jerk who just cruises through life. The fact that I'm in my mid-30s and just now getting around to obtaining my driver's license is cause enough to raise those kinds of suspect thoughts.
“ . . . Jack Pagan, Jack Pagan, please make your way to the test area in the front of the building.”
That's me, I say to Ricky.
“Unless there are other Jack Pagans here in the great city of Dallas,” Ricky says, glancing around as if there might be another me. Ricky is just full of shenanigans, lately. I think it's his way of dealing with stress.
He hands me the keys to the Porsche , “Just like we practiced, Jack.”
No ! I tell him. Nothing like we practiced. I need to pass this thing.
And then I walk out into the hot Texas sun. I have all kinds of rules going around in my head as I approach the curb. This short woman, thin as a rail looks up from behind thick bi-focal glasses. Her hair is yellow, bordering on green, and it's pulled back in a kind of ponytail with loose strands of hair falling down to her white and pink blouse. More of an effort at a ponytail, really.
She looks up at me, “You must be . . . ” she looks down, and the sun is focused through her glasses into two super-white dots on the clipboard, and at any moment I think the paper is going to burst into flames. I bet she killed lots of ants when she was younger. She looks like the kind of woman who would do that.
I'm Jack Pagan, I say thoughtfully. I'm here for my—
“ . . . oh, right. Well,” she looks out at the parking lot, “where are you parked?” Her voice is pleasant. Kind of soft and innocent. Maybe she didn't kill all those helpless bugs.
She tells me her name is Janet. She doesn't give me a last name, not because she's pretentious or anything. Just kind of simple. So, Janet and I, we make our way to the Porsche . I feel like I have to apologize for the luxury of the SUV.
All I can think to say is, “I'm not a snob or anything . . . ”
She laughs, “Oh, I have guys who come in here, stuck in their mid-life crisis, and they have their Corvettes all polished. And you know what they do, they hit on me the whole time I'm grading their driving performance. Some of them actually fail the test in order to see me again.”
Well, I say, I have a girlfriend. Although, technically we haven't used the words girlfriend and boyfriend, yet. But, you know what I mean. So you don't have to worry about me. I'm just trying to get my license so I can be a productive member of society, instead of a drain on its social infrastructure.
“Wow,” she says with a giggle. “Did you memorize that to impress me?”
Yes.
She smiled, “Don't you worry, Mr. Pagan. If you put half the effort into your driving as you do your preparation, you should do just fine.”
Well, I told her, I put at least half the effort. Maybe even sixty-five percent.
She laughed. I let her into the passenger's side of the truck and we took a ten minute course where I performed several left hand turns, a few rights, two stop lights, three stop signs, and even a blinking yellow light near a railroad track. I yielded correctly. I maintained a safe speed. And when it came time, I nailed my parallel parking.
Funny thing was, she told me that I didn't even have to pass the parallel parking because I had done so well, already. I told her that I wouldn't have felt right about getting the license without it.
We actually had a pleasant time. Janet was very nice, she smiled a lot, and I realized that there are good people in this world. I'm so glad there weren't spooks following her. They would have been really distracting during the exam.
When we made it back to the DMV, I parked and we walked back into the building. I was glancing over her shoulder at the clipboard and she caught me, holding it to her chest. “Mr. Pagan, you passed with flying colors. But I'm not, by law, allowed to show you my test sheet.”
Yes, of course, I said. I wouldn't want to jinx it or anything.
We entered the building, getting almost knocked back by the blanket of cold air that met us. Ricky was talking to some attractive blond girl that was waiting for her turn to get her license renewed. She's nothing but blushing smiles, in some trance, as I give Ricky the good news.
As I'm recounting the excitement of my test, she's just kind of smiling at him, twirling one of our ALG business cards between her fingers. And I know, for sure, that at some point in the not to distant future, she'll be slinking around the loft at about 2 am., wearing nothing but one of his long t-shirts, looking for something to drink.
“Jack, this is Keri,” Ricky says.
That's Janet, I say. She was my test examiner. She says I passed.
Keri, with her thin bone structure and greyish-green eyes, she says, “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
Janet waves at Ricky, “You have a nice vehicle.”
“Thanks,” Ricky says, “you're doing a great service to all mankind by giving him a license.”
Janet laughs.
Keri giggles.
My eyes are going back and forth, not sure what the pecking order of politeness is at this point.
“Jack,” Janet says, “if you'll just come with me.”
Yes, of course.
Ricky and Keri, they're making pre-sexual intercourse eyes. They may not even know they are, but I know. Before they start making out I head off with Janet to get my picture taken. I'm about to be given carte blanc to negotiate the mean streets of . . . everywhere.
Today is a great victory for me.
After my picture, I'm waiting for my temporary paperwork. Apparently I won't be leaving with my actual ID card. They'll send it to me in the mail in the next five to seven working days.
While I'm waiting for Ricky I feel my phone vibrating. I pick it up and it's Hal. Yeah, Hal. The computer wanted to know if I passed my driver's test. Of course, he already knew, because he hacked the DMV, but he just figured I'd appreciate the thought. Hal seems to care more about my future than my so-called brother. Silly computer.
I'm not sure if that's a
reflection of my being a lonely loser, or my friends thinking I'm one.
40
The loft.
11:56 pm . . .
I'm having a hard time sleeping, so I'm going back through my mental archives.
Ricky and I spent most of the day at the ALG office, celebrating my accomplishment and hunting the footprints of evil. Turns out Ecuador is still hot. Plenty of radio traffic in and out of the Vatican, and none of it is optimistic.
The day was exhausting. I tried to call Angela earlier and tell her about my good news, but midway through the dialing I realized how completely self-centered and insensitive that would be. I settled with just saying hello to her. Letting her know that I was thinking about her. Girls like that kind of insignificant stuff, Hal says.
Yeah, Hal and I are becoming good friends. Mostly, he just gives me advice based on the most recent polls, case studies, and published medical journals. So, while he doesn't really tell me what he thinks, he tells me what really prominent people think. And that's pretty important, I guess.
I left the office early, heading back to celebrate my passage from non-driver, to guardian of the streets. And since then I've just been ambling around, not doing much of consequence. I played Call of Duty: Modern Warfare for a few hours, shooting all kinds of terrorists. I spent most of my time laying on my stomach beside a couch in an abandoned hotel, firing at anything that passed my cross-hairs. Eventually they wised-up and back-doored my lazy ass. It wasn't pretty.
After that I made some deli sandwiches and sat on the balcony looking down at the calm activity in the courtyard below. There were tons of those black birds pecking around, looking for their insect meals. A lady was walking her golden retriever for a while, then she got a cell phone call that was much more important and she headed off.
I watched this old guy walk halfway out into the grass between the picnic tables and this big bed of flowers. Then he just kind of looks up, smiling at the sky, like he can see something the rest of us can't. And I wonder if he's like the opposite of me. If he sees angels and glistening beams of happiness. Maybe he sees the golden embrace of angels as they come to lead people to heaven.
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 17
