He hands Holly’s phone back to her and says, “I can’t figure this fucking thing out. Call Directory Assistance and—”
“Try my sister again first,” Jerome says, and raps off the number.
Holly dials Barbara’s phone, her thumb moving so fast it’s a blur. Listens. “Voicemail.”
Jerome curses and drives faster. Hodges can only hope there’s an angel riding on his shoulder.
“Barbara!” Holly hollers. No mumbling now. “You and whoever’s with you get your asses out of there right away! ASAP! Pronto!” She clicks off. “Now what? Directory Assistance, you said?”
“Yeah. Get the MAC Security Department number, dial it, and give the phone back to me. Jerome, take Exit 4A.”
“3B’s the MAC.”
“It is if you’re going in front. We’re going to the back.”
“Bill, if my mom and sis get hurt—”
“They won’t. Take 4A.” Holly’s discussion with Directory Assistance has lasted too long. “Holly, what’s the holdup?”
“No direct line into their Security Department.” She dials a new number, listens, and hands him the phone. “You have to go through the main number.”
He presses Holly’s iPhone to his ear hard enough to hurt. It rings. And rings. And rings some more.
As they pass Exits 2A and 2B, Hodges can see the MAC. It’s lit up like a jukebox, the parking lot a sea of cars. His call is finally answered, but before he can say a word, a fembot begins to lecture him. She does it slowly and carefully, as if addressing a person who speaks English as a second language, and not well.
“Hello, and thank you for calling the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex, where we make life better and all things are possible.”
Hodges listens with Holly’s phone mashed against his ear and sweat rolling down his cheeks and neck. It’s six past seven. The bastard won’t do it until the show starts, he tells himself (he’s actually praying), and rock acts always start late.
“Remember,” the fembot says sweetly, “we depend on you for support, and season’s passes to the City Symphony and this fall’s Playhouse Series are available now. Not only will you save fifty percent—”
“What’s happening?” Jerome shouts as they pass 3A and 3B. The next sign reads EXIT 4A SPICER BOULEVARD ½ MILE. Jerome has tossed Holly his own phone and Holly is trying first Tanya, then Barbara again, with no result.
“I’m listening to a fucking recorded ad,” Hodges says. He’s rubbing the hollow of his shoulder again. That ache is like an infected tooth. “Go left at the bottom of the ramp. You’ll want a right turn I think about a block up. Maybe two. By the McDonald’s, anyway.” Although the Mercedes is now doing eighty, the sound of the engine has yet to rise above a sleepy purr.
“If we hear an explosion, I’m going to lose my mind,” Jerome says matter-of-factly.
“Just drive,” Holly says. An unlit Winston jitters between her teeth. “If you don’t wreck us, we’ll be fine.” She’s gone back to Tanya’s number. “We’re going to get him. We’re going to get him get him get him.”
Jerome snatches a glance at her. “Holly, you’re nuts.”
“Just drive,” she repeats.
“You can also use your MAC card to obtain a ten percent discount at selected fine restaurants and local retail businesses,” the fembot informs Hodges.
Then, at long last, she gets down to business.
“There is no one in the main office to take your call now. If you know the number of the extension you wish to reach, you may dial it at any time. If not, please listen carefully, because our menu options have changed. To call the Avery Johns Drama Office, dial one-oh. To call the Belinda Dean Box Office, dial one-one. To reach City Symphony—”
Oh dear Jesus, Hodges thinks, it’s the fucking Sears catalogue. And in alphabetical order.
The Mercedes dips and swerves as Jerome takes the 4A exit and shoots down the curved ramp. The light is red at the bottom. “Holly. How is it your way?”
She checks with the phone still at her ear. “You’re okay if you hurry. If you want to get us all killed, take your time.”
Jerome buries the accelerator. Olivia’s Mercedes shoots across four lanes of traffic listing hard to port, the tires squalling. There’s a thud as they bounce across the concrete divider. Horns blare a discordant flourish. From the corner of his eye, Hodges sees a panel truck climb the curb to avoid them.
“To reach Craft Service and Set Design, dial—”
Hodges punches the roof of the Mercedes. “What happened to HUMAN FUCKING BEINGS?”