Form showed up to meet me, with positive identification, I would be released into the custody of Child Protective Services or to local law enforcement officials in the city of my destination.
“But—”
“All children under fifteen. No exceptions.”
“But I’m not under fifteen,” I said, floundering to produce my official-looking state-issued New York ID. “I am fifteen. Look.” Enrique—envisioning perhaps the likelihood of my having to go into what he called The System—had taken me to be photographed for it shortly after my mother died; and though I’d resented it at the time, Big Brother’s far-reaching claw (“Wow, your very own bar code,” Andy had said, looking at it curiously), now I was thankful he’d had the foresight to carry me downtown and register me like a second-hand motor vehicle. Numbly, like a refugee, I waited under the sleazy fluorescents as the clerk looked at the card at a number of different angles and in different lights, at length finding it genuine.
“Fifteen,” she said suspiciously, handing it back to me.
“Right.” I knew I didn’t look my age. There was, I realized, no question of being up-front about Popper since a big sign by the desk said in red letters NO DOGS, CATS, BIRDS, RODENTS, REPTILES, OR OTHER ANIMALS WILL BE TRANSPORTED.
As for the bus itself, I was in luck: there was a 1:45 a.m. with connections to New York departing the station in fifteen minutes. As the machine spat out my ticket with a mechanical smack, I stood in a daze wondering what the hell to do about Popper. Walking outside, I was half-hoping my cab driver had driven off—perhaps having whisked Popper away to some more loving and secure home—but instead I found him drinking a can of Red Bull and talking on his cell phone, Popper nowhere in sight. He got off his call when he saw me standing there. “What do you think?”
“Where is he?” Groggily, I looked in the back seat. “What’d you do with him?”
He laughed. “Now you don’t and… now you do!” With a flourish, he removed the messily-folded copy of USA Today from the canvas bag on the front seat beside him; and there, settled contentedly in a cardboard box at the bottom of the bag, crunching on some potato chips, was Popper.
“Misdirection,” he said. “The box fills out the bag so it doesn’t look dog-shaped and gives him a little more room to move around. And the newspaper—perfect prop. Covers him up, makes the bag look full, doesn’t add any weight.”
“Do you think it’ll be all right?”
“Well, I mean, he’s such a little guy—what, five pounds, six? Is he quiet?”
I looked at him doubtfully, curled at the bottom of the box. “Not always.”
J.P. wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave me the package of potato chips. “Give him a couple of these suckers if he gets antsy. You’ll be stopping every few hours. Just sit as far in the back of the bus as you can, and make sure you take him away from the station a ways before you let him out to do his business.”
I put the bag over my shoulder and tucked my arm around it. “Can you tell?” I asked him.
“No. Not if I didn’t know. But can I give you a tip? Magician’s secret?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t keep looking down at the bag like that. Anywhere but the bag. The scenery, your shoelace—okay, there we go—that’s right. Confident and natural, that’s the kitty. Although klutzy and looking for a dropped contact lens will work too, if you think people are giving you the fish eye. Spill your chips—stub your toe—cough on your drink—anything.”
Wow, I thought. Clearly they didn’t call it Lucky Cab for nothing.
Again, he laughed, as if I’d spoken the thought aloud. “Hey, it’s a stupid rule, no dogs on the bus,” he said, taking another big slug of the Red Bull. “I mean, what are you supposed to do? Dump him by the side of the road?”
“Are you a magician or something?”
He laughed. “How’d ya guess? I got a gig doing card tricks in a bar over at the Orleans—if you were old enough to get in, I’d tell you to come down and check out my act sometime. Anyways, the secret is, always fix their attention away from where the slippery stuff’s going on. That’s the first law of magic, Specs. Misdirection. Never forget it.”
xxi.
UTAH. THE SAN RAFAEL SWELL, as the sun came up, unrolled in inhuman vistas like Mars: sandstone and shale, gorges and