Deeply Odd(43)

Twelve cylinders of internal combustion powered us, and psychic magnetism guided us as I held the face of the rhinestone cowboy in my mind’s eye. I’d taken off the hooded raincoat and dropped it through the open privacy panel between the front seat and the passenger compartment.

The cell phone was tucked in one of the two cup holders in the center console, in case it rang again, though that seemed unlikely. Annamaria’s meaning might be as puzzling as a five-thousand-piece jigsaw of one of M. C. Escher’s most intricate drawings, but she always said succinctly what she wanted to say. She wasn’t given to long, chatty conversations about the weather or celebrities, or the aches and pains of a life in gravity.

In such a short time, Mrs. Fischer and I had achieved a degree of friendship that allowed periods of silence without awkwardness. I felt comfortable with her. I was reasonably sure that she would never shoot me or stab me, or set me on fire, or throw acid in my face, or lock me in a room with a hungry crocodile, or dump me in a lake after chaining me to two dead men. Such confidence in a new acquaintance is more rare these days than it once was.

Twenty-six miles south of Barstow, I said, “Now we’ve driven out of the rain, we could switch places without you getting wet.”

“I’ll keep driving. I’m not tired. Haven’t been tired since the thingumajig.”

“What thingumajig?”

“The implant doohickey with the three little lithium batteries. I shouldn’t talk about it.”

I frowned. “Implant? Like a heart pacemaker or something?”

“Oh, don’t you be concerned, child. It’s nothing like that. My ticker’s fine.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“They put this gismo in your buttocks. Well, in one buttock, on the right. Used to worry it might be uncomfortable on long rides, but I don’t even ever know it’s there.”

I half suspected that my chain was being pulled. “Whyever would they implant anything there?”

“Because that’s where it needs to go, of course.”

“What does?”

“The doohickey gismo.”

“What does it do?”

“Everything they said it would. This is all a little indelicate, dear. I’d rather not discuss it anymore.”

Generally speaking, when someone asks me not to inquire further about his or her butt implant, whether it’s a little old lady or not, I politely refrain from posing additional questions, but I was sorely tempted to seek more information in this case.

Instead, I said, “Sure. All right. But I still don’t think you should do all the driving. We might have a long way to go.”

She deployed her legendary dimples to take the sting out of what she had to say. “No offense, sweetie, but you make me a little crazy when you drive.”

I was surprised to hear my reply: “But I’m your chauffeur.”

“Well, what I think maybe we should do is, we should give you a different job description.”

“Such as what?”

“How about—male secretary?”

“I have no secretarial skills, ma’am.”

Driving with one hand, Mrs. Fischer reached out to pinch my cheek affectionately. “God love you, child, you don’t have the best chauffeuring skills, either.”

“Back at the truck stop you said I was a good driver.”

“You are a good driver, dear. But you dawdle.” Her sudden smile was radiant. “I know! You can be my fry-cook.”

“You said you didn’t need a fry-cook. But really … dawdle?”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I need a fry-cook. Yes, you dawdle. You’re no Steve McQueen, dear. In fact, you’re no Matt Damon.”

“Matt Damon is no Jason Bourne. He has a stunt driver in those movies.”

“Well, it seems silly to hire a full-time stunt driver for my chauffeur, sweetie. Fry-cook it is.”

“Ma’am, I had this beauty up to ninety back there.”

“My point exactly. How do you expect ever to catch this nasty rhinestone cowboy of yours that way?”

“Look, Mrs. Fischer—”

“Call me Edie.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anyway, you don’t need a fry-cook. You said you’re always on the road, you eat at restaurants all the time.”

“I’ll buy some restaurants here and there, so whenever we’re near one, we’ll stop and you can cook for me.”

“You’re not serious.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Good grief, how much money do you have?”

“Oh, gobs and gobs of it. Don’t you worry.” She reached across the console to pat me on the shoulder. “My delightful fry-cook.”