“Yeah,” said Diller, “and I need a pen and a clipboard.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
At another time, this place would have been heaven to Smithy. It wasn’t as if he were a real “car guy” – he could name most of the parts of an engine, maybe even replace a couple of them, but that was all. Still, the place was extraordinary. The junkyard stretched off into the distance. Whoever had owned it before it had become Nowhere had accumulated thousands of wrecked cars, for reasons unclear. Most of them were not much more than rusted shells, but there were plenty that looked as if they could be working vehicles again, with enough TLC. More than that, the place had a real sense of history to it. Cars from every decade were stacked on top of one another, like layers of rock concealing the treasures of bygone generations.
Now was not a time for a leisurely sightseeing stroll, though – they needed to find a way out of this madness. If that meant competing in this demolition derby then so be it. They had a day, little in the way of tools, and nothing in the way of a car.
Once they’d got their hands on the two tow trucks, complete with trailers, they’d headed to the arena. Unfortunately, by the time they got there, much of the remains of Dragonzilla had been stripped. So much for Zero’s men protecting them. They really could’ve used those tank tracks, but all that remained was some of the steel armour that had been too heavy for the scavengers to carry away. Smithy took all they could, figuring he’d decide what to do with it later.
Once they’d finished up there, their little convoy rolled on to the junkyard proper. Smithy wasn’t completely ignorant of cars, but at the same time, he didn’t feel confident of really being able to build one from scratch, at least not in the time allowed. Luckily, as it turned out, he didn’t have to. He, Wilkins and Muroe climbed down from the trucks and eyed the masses of metal stretching away in haphazard rows for as far as the eye could see.
“OK,” said Muroe, retying her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head, “let’s see what we’re working with.” She turned to Wilkins. “Jeeves, you got much experience with cars?”
“Well, I drove a Rolls-Royce for a few years.”
“Super. If we need somebody picked up from the airport, you’re our guy. Smithy?”
“I’m good with electronics and I’ve done some basic repairs but—”
“OK, you’re my assistant.”
Smithy raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Before I started making deals with the devil, I spent my awkward teenage years working in my uncle Bert’s shop. I’m not saying I’m him, but neither of you two is either, so let’s go with me. Now, what do we need?”
“A car?” ventured Wilkins.
“Good guess, but entirely wrong. We need an engine. That’ll be the biggest get. Bigger the better, assuming it’s working – or that we can get it to, in the crappy amount of time we’ve got. Then, we need a decent chassis to put it in. Something that can hold up that armour – assuming we’re going with that, which I’m guessing we are. We don’t have much in terms of offensive weapons, so I imagine hanging in there and hoping for the best is our tactic. There are lots of other things we need, but I’ll explain as we go.
“Split up, start opening hoods. You find an engine that looks like it might work, come call me. Also, when you open a hood, stand well back. You’re in the desert. Odds are the local wildlife might be using it for some shade and won’t be too happy about you disturbing them. Everyone clear?”
Wilkins and Smithy nodded.
“Great.” Muroe pointed at one of the three lackies with Zero – the beanpole with the broken nose and the forehead you could screen movies on. “You, tall guy, come with me. I’m going to need a hand carrying stuff.”
“Not my job.”
“Sure. Shall we go ask the mighty emperor if carrying stuff falls within your remit? He strikes me as the type of guy who loves to clarify small details.”
The guy gave a disgruntled nod of assent.
“Super.”
Smithy spoke in a low voice. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Oh, yes,” said Wilkins. “Ms Muroe wisely chose the homosexual amongst our captors.”
“Really?”
Smithy craned his neck to look around her at the beanpole. “How can you possibly tell?”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Oh. Right,” said Smithy, looking up at Wilkins. “Well, this group is just full of surprises.”
“It is confusing. People are often unsure if my manners, good deportment and high standard of personal hygiene are indicative of my sexuality, or merely a by-product of being English. It happens to be both.”
Smithy nodded awkwardly. “Cool.”
“I am so relieved to have your acceptance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and not get bitten by a rattlesnake.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Diller stood at the entrance to what had been the museum and was about to become their garage. The sun was already starting to dip as they headed towards evening, and time was of the essence.
His assigned chaperone was the guy sporting the toothbrush moustache, mohawk and scar that ran down the left side of his face. Diller had never heard the man speak – over the last couple of days the guy had spent their time together really focusing on his sneering game. Still, like Diller’s mom had told him on his first day at school, people who seem unfriendly are often just scared or shy. You’ll be amazed what kind of response you’ll get if you’re kind to them.
Those words had served Diller mostly well. He had been actively trying to keep thoughts of his mom out of his mind since they’d been here. Assuming what Muroe had said was true, her recovery back there – in what he was struggling not to think of as the sane world – would hopefully be going well. Nothing else mattered. OK, it did – but still, the thought of her getting well was a great comfort to him.
Diller remembered another piece of advice she had given him: ‘Where possible, open with a compliment.’
He put on a smile and extended his hand to his chaperone. “Hi there. Cool moustache. You don’t see that style much these days because of the, y’know, associations, but you really make it work.”
The man looked at Diller’s hand and then at his face, making no effort to accept the handshake. After Diller had left it there for a couple of lonely seconds, he threw his hand up in a jaunty salute. “Sorry, I’m Diller by the way.”
The man opened his lips, revealing an unhappy collection of issues that could pay for a dentist’s second divorce. “Adolf.”
“Cool. Is that, like, a nickname you got because of the—”
“No. Mine since birth.”
“Right. Sure, I mean, why not? It is crazy for a name to be off the table just because one guy had it. I mean, people still call their kids Ted and Charlie and, y’know … whatever other serial killers are called. I like how you sort of leaned into it with the moustache too. Really owning it.”
This earned Diller a confused look, before the man turned and showed him the tattoo on his right shoulder.