“What?” asked Diller.
“Ah, nothing. It just occurred to me – we got into this whole mess because I tried to win fifty grand in that stupid leprechaun hunt, and now we’ve got an entire village full of lunatics trying to get us for the same prize.”
MONEY IS THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL.
Not now.
“You need to stop blaming yourself,” said Diller.
“Why? It’s my fault.”
“No. You agreed to go to Hawaii and be humiliated to make sure my mom was OK. All of this,” he said, wafting his hand around, “is because there are some insane people in the world, and at least one of ’em had a lot of money and, well, let’s just say some issues.”
“That is a very kind way of putting it – for both him and me.”
Diller handed Smithy a can of beer. “Here.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Wilkins has a cooler in that storeroom at the back.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the beer sort.” Smithy opened his can and clinked it against Diller’s can of soda in a toast. “Has he calmed down yet?”
“I don’t think he’s ever going to calm down.”
They’d worked all night, doing what they could with the meagre resources they had. They did it all against the backdrop of Wilkins ranting that the Lewinsky dress was genuine and that he had gone to great lengths to verify its authenticity. He was more annoyed than Muroe, and it was she who had been accused of cheating.
After Wilkins had launched into his fifth monologue of the night on the subject, she’d slammed down the hammer she’d been holding. “Look, we all know it was genuine. Reed just sold us out to save his own flabby ass. Now, you can spend the night whining or stick it to him by winning this thing. You know – living is the best revenge and all that.”
This had shut Wilkins up, at least about that. His umbrage at the authenticity of his collection being called in question was nothing compared to when Junkyard Elvis turned up a few hours later and demanded a couple of items from The Collection. For a minute, it looked a lot like Wilkins was going to go down fighting rather than allow them to be taken. Muroe had done some truly outstanding negotiations to prevent the whole thing from going to hell. If the woman used her powers for good there was no reason why she couldn’t sort out the Middle East. Last they’d seen him, Wilkins had been muttering darkly in a corner. The man took his job seriously.
The car itself – well, Muroe was good, that much was obvious. Without her knowledge they’d have been screwed. Smithy knew electronics, but Muroe’s uncle must’ve been one hell of a teacher because twenty-plus years later the woman could rig an engine using scavenged parts and an alarming amount of duct tape.
Smithy and Diller had left Muroe doing some final tweaks and testing, after she’d made it clear that not only was their presence not required, but actively discouraged. Everybody was exhausted, and tempers were frayed.
Diller looked at the burns, scrapes and cuts on his hands. “Man, that was a long night of work. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah. There’s a reason that part would be a montage in a movie.”
“Do you think it’ll be enough?”
“What?”
“The car.”
“Absolutely.” Smithy had been going for confident, but he was too tired to clear that high bar. Sure, they’d done a good job in the circumstances and, fingers crossed, they’d managed to throw in a few surprises, but nobody was fooling themselves that they really had a chance.
Smithy was aware of Diller starting to say something a couple of times, and then stopping himself.
They watched the first rays of the sun peeking above the rusted wall of metal opposite. It was kind of beautiful. Smithy thought of Cheryl, and then wished he hadn’t. Their last words had not been kind ones.
Diller coughed to clear his throat. “I still don’t understand why it has to be you to drive the car. We should draw lots.”
“Nope,” said Smithy. “I appreciate it, but you don’t drive – and Muroe and Wilkins barely drive – whereas I, my friend, have attended the greatest survival driving school known to man. I drive a New York taxi and I’m still alive to tell the tale. And besides, the car has already been modified for me. It’s a done deal.”
Smithy finished the rest of his beer. Maybe it was the moment, but it really did taste incredible.
Diller lowered his voice. “We could make a break for it.”
“No, we couldn’t. We’re currently on an island surrounded by circling sharks. Somebody has us in the sights of a rifle right now.”
Diller’s head spun around, trying to look in all directions at once. “Where?”
“Over there. Eleven o’clock. On top of that pile of wrecks.”
Diller squinted and then raised his voice. “Fido – is that you?”
After a moment, a hand was raised and waved at them. “Hey, Dill. No offence, man. I got child-support payments.”
Diller shook his head. “And to think, I threw in an extra bottle of tequila on his order.”
“Would that be the imaginary order for the imaginary party that you lied to him about?”
Diller shrugged. “Well, if he’s got child-support payments he shouldn’t be getting loaded. He should be out getting a job and being a responsible parent.”
Smithy nodded. “While I agree with the sentiment, maybe don’t tell him that right now.”
Diller shifted in his seat. “I’ve been meaning to ask – Lousy Louis ratted out his friend Finley to Chaz, and pushed that bullshit narrative about Muroe having cheated and faked the dress. How come he didn’t tell Emperor Chaz anything about us? I mean, he was there when we first discussed getting out with Wilkins.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he did tell him. Or maybe he realised that telling him over a day later about our little chat might have raised some awkward questions. Who knows? Seems like those two didn’t exactly have the healthiest of relationships before all this happened. He clearly decided to say whatever he thought would save his lousy ass.”
“Still,” said Diller. “I can’t believe he’d turn on his friend to save his own skin.”
“Yeah. I was wrong about a lot of stuff, but I stand by my original assessment of that man’s character.”
They sat there quietly for a few moments, watching the sun rise.
“Look,” said Smithy, when he eventually broke the silence. “We will be fine, but if anything goes wrong, y’know … Could you … talk to Cheryl?”
“Of course.”
“And say …” Smithy stopped to think. He squeezed the empty beer can in his hands, crushing the metal. “For the life of me, I can’t think of a damn word to say. Wait … Sorry. That’s one word, I guess.”
“It’s a good start.”
Smithy nodded. “In case I don’t get the chance to expand on that, can you maybe throw in a little more? You’re good with words.”
“This time tomorrow you can tell her yourself.”
Smithy smiled. “Sure.”
The sun moved a little further skyward. As the light hit some shattered glass in a window of one of the wrecks, it refracted into a rainbow.