American Gods (51 page)

Shadow almost took his hands off the wheel to applaud. Instead
he said, “Okay. So if I tell you what I’ve learned you won’t think that I’m a
nut.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Try me.”

“Would you believe that all the gods that people have ever
imagined are still with us today?”

“... Maybe.”

“And that there are new gods out there, gods of computers
and telephones and whatever, and that ti%y all seem to think there isn’t room
for them both in the world. And that some kind of war is kind of likely.”

“And these gods killed those two men?”

“No, my wife killed those two men.”

“I thought you said your wife was dead.”

“She is.”

“She killed them before she died, then?”

“After. Don’t ask.”

She reached up a hand and flicked her hair from her
forehead.

They pulled up on Main Street, outside the Buck Stops Here.
The sign over the window showed a surprised-look-ing stag standing on its hind
legs holding a glass of beer. Shadow grabbed the bag with the book in it and
got out.

“Why would they have a war?” asked Sam. “It seems kind of
redundant. What is there to win?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Shadow.

“It’s easier to believe in aliens than in gods,” said Sam. “Maybe
Mister Town and Mister Whatever were Men in Black, only the alien kind.”

They were standing on the sidewalk outside the Buck Stops
Here and Sam stopped. She looked up at Shadow, and her breath hung on the night
air like a faint cloud. She said, “Just tell me you’re one of the good guys.”

“I can’t,” said Shadow. “I wish I could. But I’m doing my
best.”

She looked up at him, and bit her lower lip. Then she
nodded. “Good enough,” she said. “I won’t turn you in. You can buy me a beer.”

Shadow pushed the door open for her, and they were hit by a
blast of heat and music. They went inside.

Sam waved at some friends. Shadow nodded to a handful of
people whose faces—although not their names—he remembered from the day he had
spent searching for Alison McGovern, or who he had met in Mabel’s in the
morning. Chad Mulligan was standing at the bar, with his arm around the
shoulders of a small red-haired woman—the kissing cousin, Shadow figured. He
wondered what she looked like, but she had her back to him. Chad’s hand raised
in a mock salute when he saw Shadow. Shadow grinned, and waved back at him.
Shadow looked around for Hinzelmann, but the old man did not seem to be there
this evening. He spied a free table at the back and started walking toward it.

Then somebody began to scream.

It was a bad scream, a full-throated, seen-a-ghost
hysterical scream, which silenced all conversation. Shadow looked around,
certain somebody was being murdered, and then he realized that all the faces in
the bar were turning toward him. Even the black cat, who slept in the window
during the day, was standing up on top of the jukebox with its tail high and
its back arched and was staring at Shadow.

Time slowed.

“Get him!” shouted a woman’s voice, parked on the verge of
hysteria. “Oh for God’s sake, somebody stop him! Don’t let him get away!
Please!” It was a voice he knew.

Nobody moved. They stared at Shadow. He stared back at them.

Chad Mulligan stepped forward, walking through the people.
The small woman walked behind him warily, her eyes wide, as if she was
preparing to start screaming once more. Shadow knew her. Of course he knew her.

Chad was still holding his beer, which he put down on a
nearby table. He said, “Mike.”

Shadow said, “Chad.”

Audrey Burton took hold of Chad’s sleeve. Her face was
white, and there were tears in her eyes. “Shadow,” she said. “You bastard. You
murderous evil bastard.”

“Are you sure that you know this man, hon?”‘-said Chad. He
looked uncomfortable.

Audrey Burton looked at him incredulously. “Are you crazy?
He worked for Robbie for years. His’slutty wife was my best friend. He’s wanted
for murder. I had to answer questions. He’s an escaped convict? She was way
over the top, her voice trembling with suppressed hysteria, sobbing out her
words like a soap actress going for a daytime Emmy. Kissing cousins, thought
Shadow, unimpressed.

Nobody in the bar said a word. Chad Mulligan looked up at Shadow.
“It’s probably a mistake. I’m sure we can sort this all out,” he said. Then he
said, to the bar, “It’s all fine. Nothing to worry about. We can sort this out.
Everything’s fine.” Then, to Shadow, “Let’s step outside, Mike.” Quiet
competence. Shadow was impressed.

“Sure,” said Shadow. He felt a hand touch his hand, and he
turned to see Sam staring at him. He smiled down at her as reassuringly as he
could.

Sam looked at Shadow, then she looked around the bar at the
faces staring at them. She said to Audrey Burton, “I don’t know who you are.
But. You. Are such. A cunt.” Then she went up on tiptoes and pulled Shadow down
to her, and kissed him hard on the lips, pushing her mouth against his for what
felt to Shadow like several minutes, and might have been as long as five
seconds in real, clock-ticking time.

It was a strange kiss, Shadow thought, as her lips pressed
against his: it wasn’t intended for him. It was for the other people in the
bar, to let them know that she had picked sides. It was a flag-waving kiss.
Even as she kissed him, he became certain that she didn’t even like him—well,
not like that.

Still, there was a tale he had read once, long ago, as a
small boy: the story of a traveler who had slipped down a cliff, with
man-eating tigers above him and a lethal fall below him, who managed to stop
his fall halfway down the side of the cliff, holding on for dear life. There
was a clump of strawberries beside him, and certain death above him and below.
What should he do? went the question.

And the reply was, Eat the strawberries.

The story had never made any sense to him as a boy. It did
now. So he closed his eyes, threw himself into the kiss and experienced nothing
but Sam’s lips and the softness of her skin against his, sweet as a wild
strawberry.

“C’mon Mike,” said Chad Mulligan, firmly. “Please. Let’s
take it outside.”

Sam pulled back. She licked her lips, and smiled, a smile
that nearly reached her eyes. “Not bad,” she said. “You kiss good for a boy.
Okay, go play outside.” Then she turned to Audrey Burton. “But you,” she said, “are
still a cunt.”

Shadow tossed Sam his car keys. She caught them, one-handed.
He walked through the bar and stepped outside, followed by Chad Mulligan. A
gentle snow had begun to fall, the flakes spinning down into the light of the
neon bar sign. “You want to talk about this?” asked Chad.

Audrey had followed them out onto the sidewalk. She looked
as if she were ready to start screaming again. She said, “He killed two men,
Chad. The FBI came to my door. He’s a psycho. I’ll come down to the station
with you, if you want.”

“You’ve caused enough trouble, ma’am,” said Shadow. He
sounded tired, even to himself. “Please go away.”

“Chad? Did you hear that? He threatened me!” said Audrey.

“Get back inside, Audrey,” said Chad Mulligan. She looked as
if she were about to argue, then she pressed her lips together so hard they
went white, and went back into the bar.

“Would you like to comment on anything she said?” asked Chad
Mulligan.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” said Shadow.

Chad nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “I’m sure we can deal
with these allegations easily enough. You won’t give me any trouble, will you,
Mike?”

“No trouble,” said Shadow. “This is all a mistake.”

“Exactly,” said Chad. “So I figure we ought to head down to
my office and sort it all out there?”

“Am I under arrest?” asked Shadow.

“Nope,” said Chad. “Not unless you want to be. I figure, you
come with me out of a sense of civic duty, and we’ll straighten all this out.”

Chad patted Shadow down, found no weapons. They got into
Mulligan’s car. Again Shadow sat in the back, looking out through the metal
cage. He thought, SOS. Mayday. Help. He tried to push Mulligan with his mind,
as he’d once pushed a cop in Chicago—This is your old friend Mike Ain-sel. You
saved his life. Don’t you know how silly this is? Why don’t you just drop the
whole thing ?

“I figure it was good to get you out of there,” said Chad. “All
you needed was some loudmouth deciding that you were Alison McGovern’s killer
and we’d’ve had a lynch mob on our hands.”

“Point.”

They were silent for the rest of the drive to the«Lakeside
police building, which, Chad said as they pulled up outside it, actually
belonged to the county sheriff’s department. The local police made do with a
few rooms in there. Pretty soon the county would build something modern. For
now they had to make do with what they had.

They walked inside.

“Should I call a lawyer?” asked Shadow.

“You aren’t accused of anything,” said Mulligan. “Up to you.”
They pushed through some swing doors. “Take a seat over there.”

Shadow took a seat on the wooden chair with cigarette burns
on the side. He felt stupid and numb. There was a small poster on the notice
board, beside a large NO SMOKING sign: ENDANGERED MISSING it said. The
photograph was Alison McGovern’s.

There was a wooden table with old copies of Sports
Illustrated and Newsweek on it. The light was bad. The paint on the wall was
yellow, but it might once have been white.

After ten minutes Chad brought him a watery cup of vending
machine hot chocolate. “What’s in the bag?” he asked. And it was only then that
Shadow realized he was still holding the plastic bag containing the Minutes of
the Lakeside City Council.

“Old book,” said Shadow. “Your grandfather’s picture’s in
here. Or great-grandfather maybe.”

“Yeah?”

Shadow flipped through the book until he found the portrait
of the town council, and he pointed to the man called Mulligan. Chad chuckled. “If
that don’t beat all,” he said.

Minutes passed, and hours, in that room. Shadow read two of
the Sports Illustrateds and he started in on the Newsweek. From time to time
Chad would come through, once checking to see if Shadow needed to use the rest
room, once to offer him a ham roll and a small packet of potato chips.

“Thanks,” said Shadow, taking them. “Am I under arrest yet?”

Chad sucked the air between his teeth. “Well,” he said, “not
yet. It doesn’t look like you came by the name Mike Ainsel legally. On the
other hand, you can call yourself whatever you want in this state, if it’s not
for fraudulent purposes. You just hang loose.”

“Can I make a phone call?”

“Is it a local call?”

“Long distance.”

“It’ll save money if I put it on my calling card, otherwise
you’ll just be feeding ten bucks worth of quarters into that thing in the hall.”

Sure, thought Shadow. And this way you’ll know the number I
dialed, and you’ll probably be listening in on an extension.

‘That would be great,” said Shadow. They wait into an empty
office. The number Shadow gave Cha4”tD dial for him was that of a funeral home
in Cairo, Illinois. Chad dialed it, handed Shadow the receiver. “I’ll leave you
in here,” he said, and went out.

The telephone rang several times, then it was picked up.

“Jacquel and Ibis? Can I help you?”

“Hi. Mister Ibis, this is Mike Ainsel. I helped out there
for a few days over Christmas.”

A moment’s hesitation, then, “Of course. Mike. How are you?”

“Not great, Mister Ibis. In a patch of trouble. About to be
arrested. Hoping you’d seen my uncle about, or maybe you could get a message to
him.”

“I can certainly ask around. Hold on, uh, Mike. There’s someone
here who wishes a word with you.”

The phone was passed to somebody, and then a smoky female
voice said “Hi, honey. I miss you.”

He was certain he’d never heard that voice before. But he
knew her. He was sure that he knew her ...

Let it go, the smoky voice whispered in his mind, in a
dream. Let it all go.

“Who’s that girl you were kissing, hon? You trying to make
me jealous?”

“We’re just friends,” said Shadow. “I think she was trying
to prove a point. How did you know she kissed me?”

“I got eyes wherever my folk walk,” she said. “You take care
now, hon ...” There was a moment of silence, then Mr. Ibis came back on the
line and said, “Mike?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a problem getting hold of your uncle. He seems to
be kind of tied up. But I’ll try and get a message to your aunt Nancy. Best of
luck.” The line went dead.

Shadow sat down, expecting Chad to return. He sat in the
empty office, wishing he had something to distract him. Reluctantly, he picked
up the Minutes once more, opened it to somewhere in the middle of the book, and
began to read.

An ordinance prohibiting expectoration on sidewalks and on
the floors of public buildings, or throwing thereon tobacco in any form was
introduced and passed, eight to four, in December of 1876.

Lemmi Hautala was twelve years old and had, “it was feared,
wanderedaway in a fit of delirium” on December 13, 1876. “A search being
immediately effected, but impeded by the snows, which are blinding.” The
council had voted unanimously to send the Hautala family their condolences.

The fire at Olsen’s livery stables the following week was extinguished
without any injury or loss of life, human or equine.

Shadow scanned the closely printed columns. He found no further
mention of Lemmi Hautala.

And then, on something slightly more man a whim, Shadow
flipped the pages forward to the winter of 1877. He found what he was looking
for mentioned as an aside in the January minutes: Jessie Lovat, age not given, “a
Negro child,” had vanished on the night of December 28. It was believed that
she might have been “abducted by traveling so-called pedlars.” Condolences were
not sent to the Lovat family.