Practical Demonkeeping by Christopher Moore Page B

dealing with tourists, his strategy was usually to start replacing things and keep replacing them until he solved the problem or reached the limit on the customer’s credit card, whichever came first.
    â€œIt wasn’t running at all when I came in,” Travis protested. “And I don’t have a credit card. It’s the radiator, I promise.”
    â€œNow, son,” Virgil drawled, “I know you think you know what you’re talking about, but I got a certificate from the Ford factorythere on the wall that says I’m a master mechanic.” Virgil pointed a fat finger toward the service station’s office. One wall was covered with framed certificates along with a poster of a nude woman sitting on the hood of a Corvette buffing her private parts with a scarf in order to sell motor oil. Virgil had purchased the Master Mechanic certificates from an outfit in New Hampshire: two for five dollars, six for ten dollars, fifteen for twenty. He had gone for the twenty-dollar package. Those who took the time to read the certificates were somewhat surprised to find out that Pine Cove’s only service station and car wash had its own factory-certified snowmobile mechanic. It had never snowed in Pine Cove.
    â€œThis is a Chevy,” Travis said.
    â€œGot a certificate for those, too. You probably need new rings. The radiator’s just a symptom, like these broken headlights. You treat the symptom, the disease just gets worse.” Virgil had heard that on a doctor show once and liked the sound of it.
    â€œWhat will it cost to just fix the radiator?”
    Virgil stared deep into the grease spots on the garage floor, as if by reading their patterns and by some mystic mode of divination, petrolmancy perhaps, he would arrive at a price that would not alienate the dark young man but would still assure him an exorbitant hourly rate for his labor.
    â€œHundred bucks.” It had a nice round ring to it.
    â€œFine,” Travis said, “Fix it. When can I have it back?”
    Virgil consulted the grease spots again, then emerged with a good-ol’-boy smile. “How’s noon sound?”
    â€œFine,” Travis said. “Is there a pool hall around here—and someplace I can get some breakfast?”
    â€œNo pool hall. The Head of the Slug is open down the street. They got a couple of tables.”
    â€œAnd breakfast?”
    â€œOnly thing open this end of town is H.P.’s, a block off Cypress, down from the Slug. But it’s a local’s joint.”
    â€œIs there a problem getting served?”
    â€œNo. The menu might throw you for a bit. It—well, you’ll see.”
    Travis thanked the mechanic and started off in the direction of H.P.’s, the demon skulking along behind him. As they passed theself-serve car-wash stalls, Travis noticed a tall man of about thirty unloading plastic laundry baskets full of dirty dishes from the bed of an old Ford pickup. He seemed to be having trouble getting quarters to go into the coin box.
    Looking at him, Travis said: “You know, Catch, I’ll bet there’s a lot of incest in this town.”
    â€œProbably the only entertainment,” the demon agreed.
    The man in the car wash had activated the high-pressure nozzle and was sweeping it back and forth across the baskets of dishes. With each sweep he repeated, “Nobody lives like this. Nobody.”
    Some of the overspray caught on the wind and settled over Travis and Catch. For a moment the demon became visible in the spray. “I’m melt-ing,” Catch whined in perfect Wicked Witch of the West pitch.
    â€œLet’s go,” Travis said, moving quickly to avoid more spray. “We need a hundred bucks before noon.”
    JENNY
    In the two hours since Jenny Masterson had arrived at the cafe she had managed to drop a tray full of glasses, mix up the orders on three tables, fill the saltshakers with sugar and the sugar dispensers with salt,