thought of it that way, vicar.”
“God is always killing children in the Bible or threatening to,” says Vikar. “He kills His own child.”
Viking Man nods slowly. “That’s a hell of an observation,” he says. “Listen, vicar, can you hand me something from the glove compartment?”
Vikar opens the glove compartment. There are maps and an old note pad and pen. There’s also a small package of something wrapped in foil.
“Hand me that small bit of tin foil there, will you?” says Viking Man.
Vikar takes the foil from the glove compartment. Under the maps is a gun. “There’s a gun,” says Vikar.
“Smith & Wesson .38. Go ahead and hold it if you want.”
“No, thank you.”
“Good for you, vicar,” Viking Man says, unfolding the foil and carefully beginning to roll a joint in his lap, “it’s not a damned toy. Schrader already would have shot one of us by now, the stupid son of a bitch.” He lights it and draws in the smoke and offers it to Vikar.
“No, thank you.”
“Good for you again. It’s a hippie pinko indulgence, basically fit for fairies with flowers for cocks and spade musicians, for some of whom I have an extraordinarily high regard, I should add. But some sort of mind alteration is called for in these circumstances, and in lieu of the lysergic sacrament or a bottle of half-decent Cuervo, this will have to do.”
Viking Man throws the Bug into reverse and backs out of the lot. He continues driving west on Mulholland, crossing the Sepulveda Pass and winding along mountain roads. All of the freeways are closed and the surface streets are clotted with traffic. It takes two and a half hours to reach Malibu Canyon Road and cut over to Pacific Coast Highway.
At the sea, Viking Man turns right and heads north, talking about movies all the way.
71.
Past the Colony and up the highway until they’re almost to Zuma—
—where Viking Man finally pulls off PCH, heads up the beach side of the boulevard along a row of water-logged houses until he slides into the drive of one. Pulling the surfboard off the top of the car, without a word to Vikar he strides toward the beach, circling around the house rather than through it.
Vikar sits in the car a moment, until Viking Man is nearly out of sight, before he gets out and follows.
72.
A crowd of about a dozen people, more men than women, are on the beach on the other side of the house. “Viking Man!” one of the guys calls out to him. “Earthquake waves!” All the guys call out to Viking Man and the women ignore him, until one sees Vikar standing alone in the sand. She looks after the other man running toward the ocean with his surfboard. “Uh, John?”
Viking Man stops at the water’s edge and turns.
“Is this guy with you?” asks the young woman. She’s lying on a towel in the sun; she has dark hair and is naked and has the largest breasts Vikar has ever seen. Two other women, one dark and one blond, wear bikini bottoms and no tops. Two other women, one petite and the other large, are dressed; the petite one says more bad words in five minutes than Vikar has heard a woman say or all the women he’s heard combined.
“That’s the vicar,” Viking Man answers.
The dark-haired woman looks at Vikar. Vikar says, “I’m a friend of Viking Man.”
“The vicar and the viking,” the woman says, lying back on the towel and closing her eyes, “isn’t that too cute for words?”
73.
Vikar stays three days. He can’t figure out how to get home. He loses track of when Viking Man is around and when he isn’t, and he doesn’t want to ask anyone else for a ride into town. The crowd grows smaller and then larger, faces come and then go just as they become familiar; the dark-haired naked woman and the topless blonde are attentive to Vikar, asking now and then if he wants something to eat or drink. He believes no one is paying attention until he turns his gaze fast enough to catch people staring at him. He suspects some of them are
“God is always killing children in the Bible or threatening to,” says Vikar. “He kills His own child.”
Viking Man nods slowly. “That’s a hell of an observation,” he says. “Listen, vicar, can you hand me something from the glove compartment?”
Vikar opens the glove compartment. There are maps and an old note pad and pen. There’s also a small package of something wrapped in foil.
“Hand me that small bit of tin foil there, will you?” says Viking Man.
Vikar takes the foil from the glove compartment. Under the maps is a gun. “There’s a gun,” says Vikar.
“Smith & Wesson .38. Go ahead and hold it if you want.”
“No, thank you.”
“Good for you, vicar,” Viking Man says, unfolding the foil and carefully beginning to roll a joint in his lap, “it’s not a damned toy. Schrader already would have shot one of us by now, the stupid son of a bitch.” He lights it and draws in the smoke and offers it to Vikar.
“No, thank you.”
“Good for you again. It’s a hippie pinko indulgence, basically fit for fairies with flowers for cocks and spade musicians, for some of whom I have an extraordinarily high regard, I should add. But some sort of mind alteration is called for in these circumstances, and in lieu of the lysergic sacrament or a bottle of half-decent Cuervo, this will have to do.”
Viking Man throws the Bug into reverse and backs out of the lot. He continues driving west on Mulholland, crossing the Sepulveda Pass and winding along mountain roads. All of the freeways are closed and the surface streets are clotted with traffic. It takes two and a half hours to reach Malibu Canyon Road and cut over to Pacific Coast Highway.
At the sea, Viking Man turns right and heads north, talking about movies all the way.
71.
Past the Colony and up the highway until they’re almost to Zuma—
—where Viking Man finally pulls off PCH, heads up the beach side of the boulevard along a row of water-logged houses until he slides into the drive of one. Pulling the surfboard off the top of the car, without a word to Vikar he strides toward the beach, circling around the house rather than through it.
Vikar sits in the car a moment, until Viking Man is nearly out of sight, before he gets out and follows.
72.
A crowd of about a dozen people, more men than women, are on the beach on the other side of the house. “Viking Man!” one of the guys calls out to him. “Earthquake waves!” All the guys call out to Viking Man and the women ignore him, until one sees Vikar standing alone in the sand. She looks after the other man running toward the ocean with his surfboard. “Uh, John?”
Viking Man stops at the water’s edge and turns.
“Is this guy with you?” asks the young woman. She’s lying on a towel in the sun; she has dark hair and is naked and has the largest breasts Vikar has ever seen. Two other women, one dark and one blond, wear bikini bottoms and no tops. Two other women, one petite and the other large, are dressed; the petite one says more bad words in five minutes than Vikar has heard a woman say or all the women he’s heard combined.
“That’s the vicar,” Viking Man answers.
The dark-haired woman looks at Vikar. Vikar says, “I’m a friend of Viking Man.”
“The vicar and the viking,” the woman says, lying back on the towel and closing her eyes, “isn’t that too cute for words?”
73.
Vikar stays three days. He can’t figure out how to get home. He loses track of when Viking Man is around and when he isn’t, and he doesn’t want to ask anyone else for a ride into town. The crowd grows smaller and then larger, faces come and then go just as they become familiar; the dark-haired naked woman and the topless blonde are attentive to Vikar, asking now and then if he wants something to eat or drink. He believes no one is paying attention until he turns his gaze fast enough to catch people staring at him. He suspects some of them are
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