The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel (33 page)

“I think,” said Woody blandly, “that we should take this party elsewhere.”

Elsewhere turned out to be a campground at Storrie Lake State Park, where Vic and Zoe had holed up since Mirplopalooza. We all sat together on the treeless shore and watched windsurfers skim across the reservoir while Vic filled in the blanks of his staged demise.

“I started to get nervous,” he told me, “after you were kidnapped.”

“I’m glad that made you nervous.”

“No, that wasn’t it. Jay called me into a meeting. The night before Mirplopalooza. Laid out his plans for my career.
My
career! Can you believe it? The yutz wanted to manage me. And low taste? I swear to God, Radar, he’d have me painting velvet Elvi.”

“So you decided to fake your own death.”

“When you think about it, I had to. Our business is all about selling nothing for something, you know? If I give him Mirplopalooza and then keep doing it, I’m just selling something for something, and what kind of sense does that make?”

“ ‘Our business’? Vic, I thought you were an artist.”

“Yeah, it was fun, but … man, a lot of work.”

“How’d you pull it off?” asked Allie. “Did you have to re-rig the ultralight?”

“No, man, it was remote controlled from the start.”

“What about your flying lessons?”

“I took ’em. Then I stopped. That shit’s dangerous.”

“So when the helicopter dropped you off on the plateau?”

“I just started walking.”

I turned to Zoe. “And you worked the whole thing from the Geoid?”

She nodded. “I had to write an app.”

“You can do that?”

“I can now.”

“I tell you, Radar, the girl is gifted. She’s got a future in the grift.” I thought about her haggard appearance and her well of sorrow when she came to see me and lured me out to her place for my last act of surrender. Vic was right. The girl had game.

I asked Woody, “Why didn’t you tell us? Why couldn’t you let us know?”

“Well, I didn’t see either of you until we got to the tent. And anyway …”

I cut him off. “I know, I know,” I said. “True believers sell best.” Woody just beamed. So glad I could please my papa. “You could’ve told us after.”

“I asked him to wait,” said Vic.

“Why?” asked Allie.

“Okay, I’m gonna tell you,” said Vic, “but before I do, let me ask, how has the last month been? You liking your jobs?” Allie and I exchanged looks. We both shook our heads. “Well, there it is,” he said. “You kids were so bent on going straight, I had to give you a taste of it so you’d know how stupid it was.”

“You had to?”

“Radar, look, think about where you were before. You’d made some
money, built a bankroll, and then you didn’t have to grift anymore. So you were ready to get out of the game. I couldn’t let it happen.”

“Are you saying you set this whole thing up?” asked Allie. “To convince us not to go straight?”

Vic just smiled. “And how did you like the ride?”

My thoughts went back to my night in the storage locker and the revelation about following my path. I don’t know where Allie’s thoughts went, but the next thing I knew, she was punching Vic hard on the shoulder.

“You’re a bastard,” she said. “You know that?”

“Tell me I’m wrong, then.”

“No,” she said. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“You know what art is, really?” said Vic. “It’s what you do because you want to, not because you have to.”

And that kind of closed out the conversation. There were some matters still to be resolved, like what Vic would do next, who he’d become, how he would cover his tracks. But he wasn’t worried about that. As he saw it, he’d been reincarnated without the hassle of having to die, and would happily go where the wind blew him next. Sure he was giving up his brand—
Mirplo!
—but figured that was a small enough price to pay for getting Allie and me back on the snuke. I guess you call that friendship.

Woody’s plans were more prosaic. He was going down to Phoenix to hustle golf with Honey. They didn’t really have to, considering the money they’d just made, but they’d do it anyhow. Maybe just to stay sharp. Or maybe because Vic’s right: Art’s what you do because you want to, not because you have to.

So it looks like I’m going to stay an artist. And we all know what kind.

M
uch later, I found out about this:

It’s a cool morning in June. Vic Mirplo, starting artist, has dropped in to see his good friends Radar Hoverlander and Allie Quinn in their Santa Fe home. He’s been worried about them lately. At first he thought it was just noise, all this talk about embracing the straight life. But now they’ve got this adobe abode and catalogs from trade schools—hell, there’s no telling where this nonsense might lead. They’re on the verge of squandering their gift, and that, Vic reckons, is not to be allowed. He wants to talk sense to them, but they’re both so stubborn, he fears he’ll have to show, not tell
.

Radar and Allie aren’t home, but there’s a postcard stuck in their door, a funny one with a picture of a jackalope. Mirplo reads the message scrawled on the back
.

I’d like to thank my agent, Betsy Amster, who kept the faith, and my new and formidable editor, Christine Kopprasch, who directed traffic with grace and aplomb. Sometimes the puzzle seemed more like a ticking time bomb, but we clipped the right wires in the end. Thanks always to my wife, Maxx Duffy, there through thick, thin, and all points in between. Thanks to everyone who loved
The California Roll
and took the time to tell me so; you inspired me in dark days. And thanks to the scoundrels and scalawags of the real world, who never run out of inventive new grist for my mill.

Remember, folks, if it seems too good to be true, it is.

JOHN VORHAUS
wears many hats: novelist, poker expert, international creative consultant. When not basking in the sunshine of his California home, he travels the world, teaching and training writers. He swears by Radar’s words: “Love what you do. If you don’t love it, you won’t do it well.” Visit him online at
www.johnvorhaus.com
.