There’s an overpass ahead. I look at Candy.
“Do you trust me?”
“I hate that question.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then undo your seat belt and put your head down on your knees.”
“I hate how this sounds.”
“Don’t worry. It gets worse.”
The pickup moves up to ram us again. I stay ahead until just before the overpass. And stomp the brakes, pulling up on the handbrake at the same time. The pickup can’t slow and hits us at full speed, driving up the rear of the car and over the top like we’re a ramp. I throw myself on top of Candy. Wrap my arms around her. The car roof smashes down on my back but stops when it hits the armor. The weight of the truck is suddenly gone and we start to slow. From below I hear the sound of crashing metal and exploding glass. The Porsche slows and comes to a stop, grinding against the guardrail.
I slam my back against the roof a few times and manage to raise the crushed metal a few inches. When I have enough room to move my legs, I kick out the driver-side door, slide out, and run around to Candy’s side. Her door is jammed so tight that I can’t even get a good grip. I climb on top and drive the black blade through the roof, slicing it and prying it open like a sixty-thousand-dollar oyster. Candy looks up at me through the hole.
“This is what you mean by ‘trust me’?”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I’m developing what are called trust issues.”
“I’m sure Allegra knows some good shrinks. Reach up your hand and I’ll get you out of there.”
We get a ride into Hollywood in a station wagon with a family from Houston. I agree with them that we’re damned lucky to walk away from an accident like that with just a few scratches. Luckier than the pickup that went off the overpass and crashed onto the street below. They drop us on Hollywood Boulevard near Allegra’s clinic, and when I try to give the dad some money he waves it off.
“I’m sure you’d do the same for someone stranded. Just pass the good fortune along.”
Candy and I look at each other and I know we’re thinking the same thing.
Who knew people not playing angles or hustling something still existed. I thought they’d died out with the triceratops. I feel funny now. A little dirty. Like maybe I contaminated their car with bad luck. I wonder if they would have given us a ride if they knew I was the Lord of the Underworld. What’s funny is I think they would have.
Nice people are fucking weird.
Carlos is sitting up in a plastic chair in the clinic reception area. His arm and shoulder are still bandaged and smell of aromatic oils and potions.
I sit down next to him.
“Hey, man. I’m really sorry to get you mixed up in my shit.”
He laughs, patting his pockets.
“When haven’t I been mixed up in your shit? I met you on the day you got back from Hell, remember?”
“I guess so.”
“Yes so. I knew something like this could happen. It’s called a calculated risk. And now it’s happened and I’m walking away. It’s like I got a measles shot. I’m immunized. Nothing bad will ever happen to me again.”
“I’m not sure it works like that.”
“Of course it does.”
He gives up patting his pockets.
“You have any cigarettes? I’m dying for one. No pun intended.”