They buy a burner phone the next day at the 7-Eleven. Louise has a plan. It came to her in the night. She was in the woods and a woodchuck told her to seek the Troll.
“Really?” Duane asks when she tells him.
Louise laughs, peels off the packaging, slips a sim card into the phone.
“No,” she says. “It came to me on the shitter, but that’s not how these stories are supposed to go, is it, Bilbo? We’re supposed to get a sword from some bitch in a lake, so whatever, a woodchuck whispered the secrets of the universe in my ear, and then we made mad love under a blanket of stars.”
Duane sighs. It’s not that Louise isn’t his absolute favorite person on Earth. It’s just she can be a bit much sometimes, especially after four solid days.
“So who’s the Troll again?” he asks her. “That’s not his real name, is it?”
“Evan? No. He’s just this whatever, rent boy, upturned-collar, pimp motherfucker who deals in high school girls, pills, blah, blah, blah.”
She turns on the phone.
“And you have his number?”
She nods.
“Get this,” she says. “Homeboy calls himself a rabatteur, which is, like, a French word for the guy who leads a fox hunt and beats the bushes and stuff.”
“For what?”
“To drive your prey into the open, Jim. That’s what we were. The prey.”
She enters Evan’s number from memory, all those nights texting back and forth. Part One: the prey is seduced into the open. Part Two: predator eats the prey.
She types.
—You still like it in the ass?
They smoke cigarettes in the parking lot while they wait for a response. The mosh pit boys stumble out around three and pile into a silver Honda.
Her phone beeps.
—Who dis?
She writes back.
—It’s Louise, Romeo.
—Are you in town?
She looks at Duane. He shakes his head.
—Not far.
—What you need? A little DP from a BBC?
—I need some sugar, daddy.
Overhead the sky turns from gray to orange. They can smell the flames surging through the mountains. A police car races by, chased by a pickup truck with a machine gun mounted in the bed, in an inversion of cause and effect. Louise wonders if she played the wrong hand, then— —Sugar daddy is lying low right now, butterfly. Maybe next year.
—baby needs $. baby do anything for $
Duane throws rocks at a dead rat while they wait for him to reply, then— —You still look young? he writes. You know what He likes.
So Louise goes inside and takes a photo of herself in panties, making her most innocent sex-pout, and sends it to him. She knows there’s no universe in which the Wizard is lying low. He is a bottomless pit of sexual debauchery, a ravenous monster, never satisfied. I mean, shit, he fills his veins with the blood of younger men, and has six personal trainers, four chefs, and, like, a cryo chamber in every house. He doesn’t know how to restrain himself. Restraint is for human beings.
She puts her clothes back on, waiting for the chime. Her phone rings instead. She looks at Duane, who raises his eyebrows. Louise answers.
“Meow,” says the Troll.
“Baby,” says Louise breathlessly. “Did you miss me?”
“Like a hooker misses herpes. You look like shit.”
“Liar. I’m premium number one all time.”
“Where you been, prison?”
“Grandma put me in the looney bin, but I’m one hundred percent cured now and ready for love.”
From the sounds on the other end of the phone, the Troll is eating a bowl of cereal.
“Listen, lady bird,” he says, “maybe we can help each other out. Sugar Daddy needs his three meals a day, but in case you haven’t noticed, California is on fire right now, and it’s not the usual easy peasy to find food.”
“In San Francisco?”
“I wish. Sounds like he had a close call in Texas, so he went to ground. Where are you?”
“Riverside.”
“What the fuck for?”
“What do you care?”
“You’re right. I could give a shit.”
He takes another mouthful, slurping milk. “That’s perfect actually. Fucking Riverside. Genius. Meet me tomorrow outside the art museum at four.”
“There’s an art museum in Riverside?”
“Ha ha. Don’t be late, bitch.”
He hangs up. She throws the phone on the bed.
“Can we get a real meal tonight?” she asks Duane. “I can’t eat another fucking bag of chips.”
Duane grabs her by the shoulder, fakes slapping her.
“What did he say?!”
“We’re in. Riverside art museum tomorrow at four.”
“Wait. There’s an art museum in Riverside?”
“That’s what I said.”
She puts on her shoes, dreaming of burgers and fries. They’ve got $35 between them. That should get them fed and a little drunk while they figure out a plan.
*
The next day when they check out, the LeSabre won’t start. Duane and Louise hoof it through the urban sprawl, looking for a new set of wheels. Louise’s plan is to kidnap the Troll and make him take them to see the Wizard. Duane says, “It sounds like we don’t need force,” and, “Didn’t he say he’s taking you there already?” But Louise says they’re on a payback tour, and this preppy motherfucker deserves some payback like nobody’s business.
Duane thinks about arguing, but he’s still angry about the ambush, so he says, “Fuck it. I’m in. Let’s go get this cocksucker.” And Louise says, “Careful, some of my best friends suck cock.” And then, ’cause they’re in such a good mood, they decide to steal an Amazon delivery truck, because it’s funny and because there’s one idling driverless at the curb when they turn the corner. And so they jump in and Duane hauls ass, and they’re laughing and the radio is way up and Soundgarden is playing, and the sky is fucking orange overhead, and the mountains are on fire, and there are clowns in the streets with chain saws, but they’re young and alive and, for a few minutes, it feels like they’re in control.
And then Louise gets the idea that they should kidnap Evan using only items boxed up in the back of the truck.