Odd Thomas

go, by the grace of psychic magnetism, was to the unknown man who'd killed Robertson and who might now be preparing himself to carry out the atrocity that they had planned together. Stormy wouldn't be safe at my side.
        "No," I said. "You get on with your dream. Pack those cones, mix those milkshakes, and be the best damn purveyor of ice cream that you can be. Even little dreams can't come true unless you persevere."
        "Did you think that up, odd one, or are you quoting?"
        "Don't you recognize it? I'm quoting you."
        She smiled affectionately. "You're smarter than you look."
        "I'd have to be. Where are you going on your lunch break?"
        "You know me - I pack my lunch. It's cheaper, and I can stay at work, on top of things."
        "Don't change your mind. Don't go near a bowling alley, near a movie theater, near anything."
        "Can I go near a golf course?"
        "No."
        "A miniature-golf course?"
        "I'm serious about this."
        "Can I go near a game arcade?"
        "Remember that old movie, Public Enemy?" I asked.
        "Can I go near an amusement park?"
        "James Cagney's this gangster having breakfast with his moll-"
        "I'm nobody's moll."
        "-and when she irritates him, he shoves half a grapefruit in her face."
        "And what does she do - castrate him? That's what I'd do, with my grapefruit knife."
         "Public Enemy was made in 1931. You couldn't show castration on the screen back then."
        "What an immature art form it was in those days. So enlightened now. You want half my grapefruit and I'll get my knife?"
        "I'm just saying I love you and I'm worried about you."
        "I love you, too, sweetie. So I'll promise not to eat lunch on a miniature-golf course. I'll have it right at Burke & Bailey's. If I spill salt, I'll immediately throw a pinch over my shoulder. Hell, I'll throw the entire shaker."
        "Thanks. But I'm still considering the grapefruit-face smash."
        

CHAPTER 46
        
        AT THE TAKUDA HOUSE ON HAMPTON WAY, no bodachs were in sight. The previous night, they had been swarming over the residence.
        As I parked in front of the place, the garage door rolled up. Ken Takuda backed out in his Lincoln Navigator.
        When I walked to the driveway, he stopped the SUV and put down his window. "Good morning, Mr. Thomas."
        He's the only person I know who addresses me so formally.
        "Good morning, sir. It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?"
        "A glorious morning," he declared. "A momentous day, like every day, full of possibilities."
        Dr. Takuda is on the faculty of California State University at Pico Mundo. He teaches twentieth-century American literature.
        Considering that the modern and contemporary literature taught in most universities is largely bleak, cynical, morbid, pessimistic, misanthropic dogmatism, often written by suicidal types who sooner or later kill themselves with alcohol or drugs, or shotguns, Professor Takuda was a remarkably cheerful man.
        "I need some advice about my future," I lied. "I'm thinking of going to college, after all, eventually getting a doctorate, building an academic career, like you."
        When his lustrous Asian complexion paled, he acquired a taupe tint. "Well, Mr. Thomas, while I'm in favor of education, I couldn't in good conscience recommend a university career in anything but the hard sciences. As a working environment, the rest of academia is a sewer of irrationality, hatemongering, envy, and self-interest. I'm getting out the moment I earn my twenty-five-year pension package, and then I'm going to write novels like Ozzie Boone."
        "But, sir, you always seem so happy."
        "In the belly of Leviathan, Mr. Thomas, one can either despair and perish, or be cheerful and persevere." He smiled brightly.
        This wasn't the response I expected, but I pressed forward with my half-baked scheme to learn his schedule for the day and thereby perhaps pinpoint the place where Robertson's kill buddy would strike. "I'd still like to talk to you about it."
        "The world has too few modest fry cooks and far too many self-important professors, but we'll chat about it if you like. Just call the university and ask for my office. My graduate assistant will set up an appointment."
        "I was hoping we could talk this morning, sir."
        "Now? What has