dropping. Spalding heretically flicked his cigarette butt into a flawless hedge and asked about Mastodon’s tanning session that morning.
“He canceled after getting busted with that chick,” Christian said. “He won’t be back here till Saturday afternoon. Can you break free then, for one last test flight?”
“No way. We’ll be slammed all day, prepping for the ball.”
“Come on, man. Thirteen bloody minutes is all I need.”
“Sorry,” said Spalding.
“Well, to quote my dear old granddad, shite.”
“The Cabo’s working great, bro. You kicked its hinky ass, so just chill.”
“Yeah,” Christian said. “I kinda did.”
* * *
—
The deep-voiced man who called said he needed a large air-conditioned storage unit with an electrical outlet. An hour later he drove up in a box truck.
Mazzelli, the owner of the warehouse park, was waiting at the office. The man was very tall, and he had a sun-beaten face like an old cowboy. Oddly, he was wearing a bolo tie and a pin-striped suit. His silver hair had been combed back, only half of his beard was groomed and one eye was covered with a black satin patch. For ID he produced an Arizona driver’s license; Mazzelli had no expectation that it was legitimate, and he didn’t care one way or the other.
“How long you need the space for, Mr. Hayduke?”
“Couple days.”
“We got a two-month minimum.”
“That’s fair.” The one-eyed man signed the lease and counted out three hundred dollars in twenties.
“Access is twenty-four-seven,” Mazzelli told him. “Your gate code’s the last four digits of your Social.”
“Outstanding.” The man pretended to re-read the last page of the lease. Mazzelli knew he was memorizing the made-up Social Security number he’d written down.
“You got a padlock for the unit?”
The man said, “Yes, but unfortunately there’s only one key. I misplaced the spare.”
“Not a problem.” Mazzelli had to smile. “We don’t ever go inside unless the cops show up with a warrant. Then we just bust off the lock with a hammer.”
“I’m storing only personal items. Mostly books.”
“Honestly? None of my business.”
“Are you a reader?” the man asked.
“Me? Naw. I don’t have time.”
“Do you vote?”
“Huh?” said Mazzelli.
“It’s the bare minimum,” the man said, “assuming you believe in democracy. Voting, reading, paying attention—those would be the fundamentals.”
Whack job, thought Mazzelli. He lied and told the man he’d recently moved to Florida from Detroit. “I haven’t got around to switching my registration yet,” he said.
“There’s plenty of time before the next election.”
“Right. It’s at the top of my list.” Mazzelli showed him a map of the property. “Your unit is 626-Y. Third building, middle door.”
“What about the power outlet?”
“Basic one-twenty, so no heavy appliances.”
“Ha! The only thing I’ll be plugging in is a heat lamp,” the man said with a startling grin. “The next few nights are supposed to be nippy.”
A heat lamp for books? Mazzelli thought. What a fag.
After the man unloaded his truck, he came back to the office seeking restaurant recommendations. “I’m not used to city dining,” he said.
“What kinda food you like, Mr. Hayduke?” Mazzelli had almost slipped and called him Mr. Haywire.
“I’ll eat almost anything dead,” the man answered, which was true in a way that Mazzelli could not have imagined.
“Try the Longhorn on Belvedere,” he said.
“Thanks, brother.” The man amiably snapped his eye patch and walked out the door, which Mazzelli immediately locked.
A few days later, after the gay psycho had cleared out, Mazzelli went to inspect the storage space. It was as spotless as a surgical suite, and empty except for one item—a small leatherbound book in the middle of the bare floor. Mazzelli circled cautiously before picking it up.
The title of the book was The Zurau Aphorisms, written by somebody named Kafka. It had been left open to a page upon which two sentences had been underlined with a green ballpoint:
The mediation by the serpent was necessary. Evil can seduce man, but cannot become man.
Mazzelli was no Bible scholar, hated snakes, and his only experience with mediation was a pauperizing day spent with a future ex-wife and two divorce lawyers. He had no idea what fucked-up message the one-eyed freak was trying to send, and no intention of trying to figure it out.
He closed the door of the warehouse and sailed the book into the nearest dumpster.
TWENTY-SIX
A snide cease-and-desist letter from lawyers representing Ms. Stevie Nicks snuffed Mastodon’s planned duet with Roseanne Barr at the Commander’s Ball. In response, the President defiantly ordered an instrumental version of “Leather and Lace” added to the set list, which already included several songs written by