were just cruising around town, listening to jazz. Then I pushed the thought right out. I had to not think that way anymore.
Because this would have to be the last case I worked with Sister Mary. She liked it too much, and I liked her liking it. If there was a God I didn’t want to be responsible for tearing a soul away from him.
I turned the music off and cursed and hit the steering wheel a few times.
Finally I parked about a block and a half from where I had first seen Sonny Moon. I walked down until I could see him and his disciples passing out literature. A guy playing guitar. Knuckle Face wasn’t there, as far as I could see.
In hiding maybe. He was my number-one suspect and I had to find a way to prove it.
I popped into a novelty store and bought myself four Indiana Jones hats, paying the typical tourist freight. I put a hat on, then my sunglasses, and rolled up my sleeves. Then I went out to hang out on the boulevard of dreams. I would fit right in.
I waited around about half an hour, watching the moonies across the street harass passersby. Pretty boring show.
Batman walked by me, on his way to the Kodak to pose for pics with the tourists. “Nice hat,” he said.
“Nice mask,” I said.
I got a call from my doctor friend. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “But he’s going to be in a lot of pain for a week. I can prescribe something for the pain, and I suggest he not hit things with his face for a while.”
“Good advice,” I said. “I follow it myself.”
“Where do I send the bill?”
“I’ll tell you when I come in.”
“And when will that be?”
“Give me another hour or so. Tell Daryl to sit in the lobby and read a magazine.”
“I think I’ve got the latest AARP mag.”
“He’ll love it.”
148
ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES after the call a blue Lincoln pulled up to the curb across the way and parked in a loading zone. The big guy, Knuckle Face, got out. He high-fived a couple people and sat down next to the guy with the guitar.
I went to the corner and crossed the street. I pulled the Indy hat low over my eyes, slouched a little, and, holding the other hats under one arm, ambled toward the quasi-religious gathering.
A girl with a fistful of flyers got to me first, handed me one. The title was The End of the World and the Dirty Little Secret Your Goverment Won’t Talk About.
Goverment was spelled that way.
She said, “Would you like to take our survey?”
“No thanks,” I said, with a gravelly Sling Blade voice. “I want some Gover Mints.”
“Huh?”
“Want a hat?”
“Um, no, but they’re pretty cool.”
I touched the brim of my hat, the way the old cowboys used to do when meeting a lady on the street, and continued on. Since I already had my flyer, nobody paid me much attention.
I stopped next to the guy with a guitar and Mr. Knuckle Face. I held out one of the fedoras and said, “Anybody want to buy a hat?” Then I quickly shoved one onto Knuckles’ head.
“Looks good,” I said.
Knuckles ripped it off his head and threw it at me and told me to get out of his face. I never wanted to do anything more in my life. I took the hat, turned, and slouched on, memorizing the license plate of Knuckles’ car.
When I got to the corner of Hollywood and Highland I saw two boys, twins, with their mother. They were eight or nine, and pointing across the street at the El Capitan Theatre. The latest Disney spectacular was about to suck them in.
“They are a couple of fine-looking Harrison Fords,” I said. “Would they like to have two hats? Free?”
The mother said, “Oh, no thank you.”
One of the tykes said, “What’s a hairy man Ford, Mommy?”
“Great question,” I said, holding out the fedoras.
The mother looked at the kids. She looked at me. I smiled. She grabbed the kids by the hands and hurried across the street.
You just can’t trust a man in a hat anymore, I guess. I made a mental note to tell Pick McNitt about this. His hat theory was taking a beating.
I crossed the street. On the other side was a homeless guy talking to no one in particular. He was saying, “Try to get a date if you don’t have money. Try to get a date if they say