One Hundred Percent Lunar Boy (25 page)

“Thank you, sir. Your cooperation in this matter is much appreciated. Now, before we go any further, I would like to ask you, as a parent of a child who bears lunarcroptic ocular symbolanosis, you are familiar with Quarantine Directive Number Sixty-Seven, are you not?

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. Now, sir, I should just point out, that this is a very serious regulation regarding the rights and protections of all Lunar citizens, and as law enforcement officials, it is our duty to uphold this regulation to the utmost level as the law applies. You have the right to be informed that this law pertains not only to those who directly bear lunarcroptic ocular symbolanosis, but to those who may try to protect those who bear this afiction. Do you understand what it is that I am telling you, sir?”

“Officer, as I mentioned earlier, I have nothing to hide.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rexaphin. As I stated earlier, your cooperation with the STPD is most valued and is indeed an example of good citizenship…”

Ringo was annoyed with this man daring to lecture him on citizenship, and he was also annoyed with the droning quality of his voice. As if he was reading it all from a card. Which, in fact, he was. Starting early that morning, Detective Schmet called up all the families of male children who fit the vague description of a One Hundred Percent Lunar Boy who was in the amusement park. He was keeping the Earth girl in custody, but after that ride into the atmosphere and back, he could not ask her any more questions. He chose not to. Her look of disappointment had been so immense. She got to him. He would not press her, but as a result he had no more leads, so he was looking for suspects the hard way.

“A couple of questions, Mr. Rexaphin, then I’ll be on my merry way. You have a son who goes by the name Hieronymus Rexaphin, yes?”

“That is true.”

“Funny—you may not know this, but I met your son two years ago.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“That boy, what was his name? Lester? Am I correct?”

“I do not recall the name of the boy who died of a drug overdose.”

“Yes. Drug overdose. Well, that is what they said, didn’t they?”

“Is this the reason you are calling us? To ask me about a case that I thought was closed two years ago?”

“Certainly not. No, sir. That case is shut and closed and as dead as that dead boy’s shocked rigor mortis face. Yes, that case was shelved a long time ago, of course he died of an overdose and your son showing him the mind-boggling sight of his ferocious eye color, which does not legally exist, certainly had nothing to do with his actual death.”

Ringo did not respond to Detective Schmet’s insinuations. He just hoped he would ask what he had to ask, then be on his way. However, the fact that Hieronymus came in so late, and now, a call from the police, was suddenly very worrying. He kept his face stone still.

“Anyway, Mr. Rexaphin, I’ll get to the point. Just a routine check. Can you please tell me where your son was between the hours of eight pm and midnight last night?”

“He was here,” Ringo lied without hesitation. “With me. And his mother.”

“Really? Because I just called his school. It appears, according their records, that there was a field trip yesterday to LEM Zone One. Did your son travel out to LEM Zone One with his class by any chance?”

“Absolutely not. Indeed, his class was originally supposed to go on that trip. That is true. But because so many of my son’s classmates had cut school that morning, as punishment, his section was not allowed to go—for them, the trip was canceled. A few rotten eggs spoiled it for the entire bunch. Well, I should add that that particular class has a lot of rotten eggs…”

“Yes,” said Detective Schmet. “I remember.”

“You can call back the school and double check with them yourself. Just ask them if the Loopie class was canceled from the field trip.”

“The Loopie class? Is that their official name?”

“No. But it’s what everyone calls them.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The Loopies. And they are Loopies. Every last one of them. You know, I don’t think it will be necessary for me to call back the school if you can vouch for him. I’m just going through a list of names and I have a Hell of a lot more people to call. I’m just trying to track down some kid with LOS who broke Quarantine Directive Number Sixty-Seven—he showed his illegal eye color to some tourist girl from Earth, it nearly killed her. What can I say. If your son is around, you might want to ask him about it. He might have a friend of a friend who knows someone who was there, it’s a small world and the Moon is even smaller, as they say. If you hear anything, even the smallest bit of information, just call me back on this number, if you please. Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Rexaphin.”

Hieronymus was very fast. He ran to his closet and grabbed the only clothes left that were not in a heap on the floor. His dark blue velvet suit. A pink shirt he never wore. He grabbed one black sock and one white sock. He had to act and think quickly because the detective was wrapping things up and his father was doing a great job at pretending to be surprised for the officer—but if he was not out the door and halfway down the elevator shaft before that phone conversation was over, he was going to get grounded on the spot and that would mean missing his chance to see Windows Falling On Sparrows. He had to see her again, and no call from the police was going to stop that. He refused to consider the real signifcance of it all—that Lieutenant Schmet himself had called less than twenty-four hours after showing his eyes to the girl from Earth. That it was already too late. That they were on to him. He didn’t want to think of that. He wanted to be just another normal boy afraid of getting grounded instead of an abnormal boy afraid of getting tossed into a secret prison. He ran. He scooped up his shoes with one hand and sprinted out the door. The elevator down the hall was a large, gaping welcome box into which he dashed, the doors closing just as he heard his father ferociously shouting his name with all the anger and pain that a father could yell upon learning his son was in serious, serious trouble.

The elevator went directly down. He sat on the carpeted floor and slipped both of his shoes on in a frenzy.

He sprinted through the lobby. One of the old men whom Bruegel had earlier tossed into the street was walking, his face a swollen mass of bloated bumps. He spat a tooth out of his mouth. He instantly recognized Hieronymus. “Your friend is a dead man!” the old gentleman croaked. “You tell him that! He is dead!” Hieronymus had no time for that and left the ancient gangster behind him. He made a sharp left turn, zoomed right past O’Looney’s, and hopped over several concrete benches and the large dirt-filled pots meant to hold trees but only held emptiness. Tower Ayler was behind him. Tower Zhoug was in front of

him.

He ran faster. He knew his father would not come chasing after him. Later, he would tell Ringo everything, after he saw the Earth girl again. He had to see her. He had to return to the scene of the crime. He had to meet her, and by meeting her, it would be proof that his ability to see the fourth primary color was not such a big damn deal. That he could not predict the future action of movement. That he was practically normal.

He ran. The concrete plazas and rundown streets were nearly empty. The sky above was red. The Earth looked down upon him. In the distance, the buildings sizzled in their worn-out neon. Straight ahead, at the foot of Tower Zhoug, stood Bruegel right next to his mother’s car, wearing a ridiculous top hat made from alligator skin. A hummingbird hovered close to it, as if the cyndrical shape of it were a gigantic flower. The big Loopie smiled at the running boy in the goggles, who wore a blue velvet suit but whose socks did not match.

Hieronymus was immediately alarmed that Bruegel’s car was a Pacer.

“A Pacer?” he exclaimed, slightly out of breath.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with Pacers?”

“You are going to drive us two hundred kilometers out to LEM Zone One in a Pacer? An old Pacer?”

“Yes, Hieronymus. I fail to see the problem.”

Pacers were famous for their undependability. They always broke down. Bruegel’s Pacer was an old car, with the standard shape—a gyroscopically balanced sphere hanging within a five-meter-high rubber wheel. This Pacer had a lot of window space and its body was a dark maroon with the paint chipping of—a quality it shared with the Ferris wheel from the previous night. It sat four people, two in the front and two in the back. Hieronymus stared warily at it. It was old, clunky, and ridiculous looking. It was also covered in a layer of sticky dust. He ran one of his hands across the window. The grime pile on his fingertips was dark gray and gooey.

“When was the last time you took this
thing
to the car wash?”

“What?” Bruegel replied.

“This car is the filthiest looking piece of skuk I’ve ever seen.”

Bruegel acted like he did not hear and instead pointed out the incredibly ridiculous-looking tie he was wearing. It was a printed reproduction of a famous painting of nude figures on an Earth beach playing volleyball.

“Do you think Slue will like my tie?”

“I think that tie is the least of your worries. More pressing is the condition of your car. Do you really think we will make it to LEM Zone One?”

“I got this tie on the Waxboy Exchange.”

Realizing he was not going to get a sensible answer, Hieronymus changed the subject.

“I thought your mother’s car was a Windbird, or at least a Lancer…”

“Why are you complaining, man?” Bruegel sighed as they climbed inside, where an even worse mess greeted them.

The first thing Hieronymus’ feet touched as he got into the passenger seat were empty beer bottles. In the back were numerous collections of crinkled plastic bags, each one with a junk food label of some sort. The car upholstery was ripped in several embarrassing places. There was an odor wafting in the stale air of the car’s interior.

Bruegel started up the car engine, which whirred incoherently, coughing as if it were diseased. They lurched forward, and Hieronymus felt the car wobble. The drive to Tower Pelikanhopper, where Slue lived, was not a long one—just on the other side of the Sun King Tower housing projects—but Hieronymus quickly realized that this idea of asking Bruegel to drive him out to LEM Zone One was not only foolish, but clearly self- destructive. He figured Slue would last about ten minutes in this jalopy, providing they did not die in a car crash resulting from severe mechanical failure.

“Listen, I really have to tell you something, Bruegel…”

“Yes, Hieronymus?” replied the driver, who concentrated on the street in front of him with the nervousness of someone who had just gotten his license.

“This car really looks like skuk, you know that?”

“You think so? In what way?”

“In what way? Well, just forgetting the filthy exterior for a moment, which has probably stained my hand for life, you have beer bottles and candy wrappers and junk food bags all over the place.”

“So?”

“Do you think girls like Slue don’t notice things like that? It’s embarrassing, this mess! What on Earth ’n Moon were you thinking?”

Bruegel did not respond. Hieronymus noticed a few beads of sweat forming on his brow, as if he were suddenly nervous.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“What?”

“I just told you that your car looks like a hellhole and for the most part, girls don’t like cars filled with beer bottles and junk. We should at least stop and dump half the skuk out of here.”

“What are you talking about? This car’s a classic. My mother’s exboyfriend told me that. He said the Pacer is an underrated classic.”

“I’m not talking about whether this car is a classic or not. All I’m saying is that it is a disgusting disaster. It smells and it looks like your mother and her boyfriend had several parties in here without ever cleaning up.”

“It’s all right. Slue seems pretty cool. I don’t think she’ll mind.”

“You don’t even know her. I know her. She’ll mind.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Well, it’s too late.”

They turned a corner and began the drive up to Pelikanhopper, which was the nicest of all the residential buildings in Sun King Towers.

“You should think about this,” Hieronymus warned as they pulled into a parking space not too far from the entrance. “Slue has been going out with Pete.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Pete has a Prokong-90.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. He told us about it yesterday. Don’t you remember? He said it’s only three years old, but he keeps it in great shape. He talked about how Slue loves his car—that they go for long rides under the Earthlight in it.”

“Wow. A Prokong-90…”

“Yeah. And you’re about to take her out in a dodgy Pacer that looks, feels, and smells like the toilet at O’Looney’s.”

Slue’s mother answered the door with an incredibly worried expression. It was rare to see her like this, as she was generally so cheerful. She had an incredibly strong resemblance to her daughter, but, of course, without the goggles and the blue hair. Behind her, from somewhere in the apartment, Hieronymus heard the exasperated voice of Slue’s father, pleading with someone on the phone. This too was unusual. Slue’s mother was caught between letting them in where they might hear what was going on, or being rude and asking them to wait, which was difficult as she had known Hieronymus for many years.