Forever Odd

configuration of stars, but the heart cannot flourish on logic alone. Unreason is an essential medicine as long as you do not overdose.
        In the alley, a police car pulled up at the gate. The headlights were doused.
        I rose from the yard under the tree of death, and if my buttocks had been poisoned, at least they hadn’t yet fallen off.
        When I got into the front passenger’s seat and pulled the door shut, Chief Porter said, “How’s your tongue?”
        “Sir?”
        “Still itch?”
        “Oh. No. It stopped. I hadn’t noticed.”
        “This would work better if you took the wheel, wouldn’t it?”
        “Yeah. But that would be hard to explain, this being a police car and me being just a fry cook.”
        As we drifted along the alleyway, the chief switched on the headlights and said, “What if I cruise where I want, and when you feel I should turn left or right, you tell me.”
        “Let’s try it.” Because he had switched off the police radio, I said, “Won’t they be wanting to reach you?”
        “Back there at the Jessup house? That’s all aftermath. The science boys are better at that than I am. Tell me about the guy with the Taser.”
        “Mean green eyes. Lean and quick. Snaky.”
        “Are you focusing on him now?”
        “No. I only got a glimpse of him before he zapped me. For this to work, I’ve got to have a better mental picture-or a name.”
        “Simon?”
        “We don’t know for certain that Simon’s involved.”
        “I’d bet my eyes against a dollar that he is,” Chief Porter said. “The killer beat on Wilbur Jessup long after he was dead. This was a passionate homicide. But he didn’t come alone. He’s got a kill buddy, maybe someone he met in prison.”
        “Just the same, I’ll try for Danny.”
        We drove a couple of blocks in silence.
        The windows were down. The air looked clear yet carried the silica scent of the Mojave vastness by which our town is embraced.
        Scatterings of crisp leaves, shed by Indian laurels, crunched under the tires.
        Pico Mundo appeared to have been evacuated.
        The chief glanced sideways at me a couple times, then said, “You ever going back to work at the Grille?”
        “Yes, sir. Sooner or later.”
        “Sooner would be better. Folks miss your home fries.”
        “Poke makes good ones,” I said, referring to Poke Barnett, the other short-order cook at the Pico Mundo Grille.
        “They’re not so bad you have to choke them down,” he admitted, “but they’re not in the same league with yours. Or his pancakes.”
        “Nobody can match the fluff factor in my pancakes,” I agreed.
        “Is it some culinary secret?”
        “No, sir. It’s a born instinct.”
        “A gift for pancakes.”
        “Yes, sir, it seems to be.”
        “You feel magnetized yet or whatever it is you feel?”
        “No, not yet. And it would be better if we don’t talk about it, just let it happen.”
        Chief Porter sighed. “I don’t know when I’m ever going to get used to this psychic stuff.”
        “I never have,” I said. “Don’t expect I ever will.”
        Strung between the boles of two palm trees in front of the Pico Mundo High School, a large banner declared GO, MONSTERS!
        When I attended PMHS, the sports teams were called the Braves. Each cheerleader wore a headband with a feather. Subsequently, this was deemed an insult to local Indian tribes, though none of the Indians ever complained.
        School administrators engineered the replacement of Braves with Gila Monsters . The reptile was said to be an ideal choice because it symbolized the endangered environment of the Mojave.
        In football, basketball, baseball, track, and swimming, the Monsters haven’t equaled the winning record of the Braves. Most people blame it on the coaches.
        I used to believe that all educated people knew an asteroid might one day strike the earth, destroying human civilization. But perhaps a lot of them haven’t heard about it yet.
        As though reading my mind, Chief Porter said, “Could’ve been worse. The Mojave yellow-banded stink bug is an endangered species. They could’ve called the team Stink Bugs .”
        “Left,” I suggested, and he turned at the next intersection.
        “I figured if Simon was ever coming back here,” Chief Porter said, “he would’ve done it four months ago, when