“NOT GREAT, but I can live with it,” Pilate said.
They partied for the next three days. Couldn’t afford any more cocaine, but they still had the weed, and all the beer they could drink. They had more women than the men could keep up with, but the women, even if not all of them were entirely happy about it, would go both ways.
They also had to deal with the question of whether Minnesotans were actually aliens. Terry brought it up: “You know what? Everybody I seen around here has big heads. You seen that?”
They did, on their runs into town for food and beer: Minnesotans all had big heads. When they spotted a guy with a cowboy hat and a small head, they asked him if he was from Minnesota, and he told them no, he was from Montana.
“Food for thought, that’s what it is,” Pilate said.
On the morning of the second day, a white van bumped past them, crossed the bridge, and fifteen minutes later, bumped back out.
“What’s over there?” Pilate asked.
“Another campground,” Chet said. “Pap doesn’t want us disturbing the customers.”
“I can’t fuckin’ believe he has customers,” Pilate said.
Later that day, when he hadn’t seen anybody around, Pilate walked across the bridge and found another campground, with another phone pole with outlets, and three single-wide trailers up on blocks. The trailers were locked, and nothing was stirring around them. A garbage can sat near the entrance road, half full of trash, mostly food wrappers.
? ? ?
THEY WEREN’T LONG for Minnesota.
The first of three Juggalo Gatherings was coming up, in Wisconsin, and Pilate didn’t want to miss it. When they picked up the cocaine in Wisconsin, they could cut it by half, and still push it out to the Juggalos for twice as much as they paid for the uncut stuff. After three days, they left the campsite, never said good-bye to Pap, heading first for Duluth, then over to Wisconsin.
In Duluth, they rambled around town for a while, rodeoed at a McDonald’s for cheeseburgers, fries, and malts, then stumbled over a busy mall. Pilate ordered Ellen and Kristen and Linda to set up shop, and though they were doubtful, they found a spot where cross-street foot traffic might give them a chance.
Pilate, in the meantime, went inside the mall with Raleigh, to look around. They were still there when Bell went by at a jog, spotted them, turned around and came back and said breathlessly, “You know who’s here?”
“Who?” Pilate asked.
“That traveler chick who was with Henry. She’s out in the parking lot.”
“Shit. She could cause us some trouble,” Pilate said. “She’s probably looking for him. Or us.”
“Yeah, after that crazy fuckin’ Kristen told her that we cut his heart out,” said Raleigh. “She’s probably got the cops right behind her.”
Pilate said to Raleigh, “She doesn’t know your car, far as we know.”
“So?”
“So we sneak up on her, throw a bag on her head, and toss her in the car.”
“Man, she’s out in the parking lot,” said Bell. “There are eight million people out there.”
“No, there isn’t. Not really.” Pilate stood up, turned to Raleigh. “Let’s get your car.” To Bell he said, “Go tell Kristen to close up shop and get out of here. We’ll meet them over in Wisconsin. Tell them wait on the highway.”
The thing that Pilate liked about Raleigh was that after a decision was made, no matter how crazy it was, he’d go with you. To get through life, he needed someone to tell him what to do. If that were done, he’d do it: rob a bank, drown a guy, get the hammer and nails for a crucifix.
They got Raleigh’s car and started driving loops around the parking lot, and Raleigh rambled for a while: “Back in Denver I was working on this golf course, running a mower, and I met this golfer guy who said when he was playing, and had to take a leak, he’d do it right in the middle of the fairway. He’d put his bag down and stand next to it, hold his dick with one hand and with the other hand, he’d shade his eyes like he was working out his next shot. He said nobody ever paid any attention to him. But you see a guy standing in the bushes, the women start bitching and moaning about guys exposing themselves. This guy, they had no idea . . .”
“What’d you tell me that for?” Pilate asked.
“’Cause if we yank her right off the parking lot, like we were helping her in the car, people could look right at you and never have any idea.”
“You know what I like about you?” Pilate laughed. “You’re fuckin’ crazy. You’re really fuckin’ nuts.”
That’s what they did.
Pilate popped open the side door, grabbed her by the collar of her hoodie, and yanked her into the backseat before she even had a chance to scream, pushed her into the space below the seats, and popped her a few times on the cheekbone, with a fist loaded with a roll of quarters: pop, pop, pop. Raleigh rolled them out of the parking lot, and they were gone.
At the mall in Duluth, Lucas and Letty tracked down a security officer who told them that he’d heard of the group attempting to sell sex out at the edge of the parking lot, but hadn’t seen them. “A guy named Larry Royce, we’ve got his address and phone number, came in here and complained. We went right out there, four of us, but they were gone. I don’t know how long they were here, but I doubt that it was very long.”
The complainant had given them a description of the RV, but no license plate number. “It’s a Winnebago Minnie, beige. Doesn’t help much—maybe Winnebago can tell you how many they made. Royce said it was pretty beat-up. Looked like it had been pushed hard.”
Royce had seen two women with the RV, no men. He hadn’t gone inside.