At the car, Richard said, "Which one of you wants shotgun?"

"What?" I said.

"What?" Orlando said.

Richard looked at us with pity. "Have the both of you always had chauffeurs? Shotgun is the front seat."

"I want the shotgun," Orlando said swiftly. "Gallagher lets me have the shotgun."

"It's not a real gun," Richard said. "It only means you get to sit up front like in the old stagecoaches." At our blank expressions, he sighed. "Never mind. Sit up front, kid."

Orlando was already grabbing the handle of the front passenger seat. "I want the dog in the front, too."

"No way," said Richard. "Either the dog is in her purse or he's in the backseat. I don't trust him."

"But I want to play with the computer."

"This car doesn't have a computer."

Orlando finally got a good look at the vehicle. "What a piece of junk."

"Yeah, but it's all we've got."

I turned Spike loose in the backseat. He immediately found a dribble of something edible on the upholstery. He licked it, then began to chew.

"Stop," I said.

Spike gave me a look that communicated my complete lack of understanding of canine desires and went back to chewing.

"Okay," said Orlando, sizing up the situation. "I'll sit in the back with the dog."

We got into the car and Richard told Orlando to buckle up.

"I can't find the seat belt."

"It's probably wedged down inside the seat. Feel around for it."

"I can't find it."

I got out of the car, opened the back door and helped Orlando find and fasten his seat belt. Spike panted while he watched me wrestle with the buckle; then he attacked Orlando's backpack. Orlando opened the backpack and found his package of cookies.

"Don't make crumbs back there," Richard warned. "And don't give the dog any cookies. He'll probably throw up."

I got back into the front seat and muttered, "You were the one feeding him cookies in the kitchen."

"Well, now we're in the car. The rules are different."

Orlando ate a cookie and fed another one to Spike. I could hear them both spreading crumbs all over the backseat.

Two minutes after we hit traffic, Orlando said, "May I have a Perrier, please?"

"I don't have any Perrier," said Richard, glancing at Orlando in the rearview mirror. "Is that all you drink? Fancy water?"

"Sometimes at school they let us have a Pepsi. But Uncle Hem says it's bad for me."

"I thought all kids drank Pepsi."

"I'd like a Pepsi," Orlando ventured. "I'd like one now."

I could hear Spike panting and looked back to see Orlando wrestling with the dog. They were feeding off each other's energy.

"Spike wants a Pepsi, too," Orlando said.

"He's out of luck," Richard replied.

"We need something to drink," Orlando insisted, still tussling with Spike. "Can we stop for a Pepsi? Please, please, can we stop? I'm dying of thirst. I need a Pepsi. I need a drink so bad I can hardly swallow. I want a Pepsi. My throat's going to crack open. You can die from dehydration. I want a Pepsi, I want a Pepsi, I want a Pepsi, I want-"

"You might as well stop," I said finally. "He's not going to give up."

Richard pulled into a fast-food drive-up.

Orlando said, "They only have Coke here. I want a Pepsi."

Richard drove to the next fast-food restaurant.

By the minute, Orlando seemed to transform from a perfectly mild-mannered child into a kid-shaped, Spike-like monster. "I want some French fries, too," he said when we arrived at the drive-up window. Feverishly, he read the outdoor menu. "If you buy me a whole meal I can have an action figure. I want the guy with the sword. Can you tell them I want the guy with the sword? This isn't the right guy. I want the guy with the sword."

"This kid is becoming a pain in my ass."

I said, "I'll go inside and ask for the guy with the sword."

"No," Richard said. "I'll go inside. If I stay in the car, I might kill him myself."

He went into the restaurant and came out with the action figure with a sword. He gave the toy to Orlando, who was already asking for another Pepsi.

"Spike drank all my Pepsi. I need another Pepsi. This one was too small. Spike is really thirsty. I want another Pepsi."

"You're not letting the dog drink out of your cup, are you?"

"He's thirsty."

Richard went back into the restaurant for another soft drink.

On the road again a few minutes later, a car zoomed past us. Richard said, "Hey! The driver of that car just gave me the finger."

Orlando giggled in the backseat.

Richard glared at him in the mirror. "Are you flipping off other drivers?"

Within ten miles, we were pulled over by a police officer.

"What's the problem, Officer?"

"Sir, may I see your license and registration?"

Richard complied.

"Sir, are you aware that your son has put a sign in the back window of the car?"

"He's not-What sign?"

I climbed halfway over the seat and dislodged the hand-lettered paper sign Orlando had made while waiting for his second soft drink. I could hear Orlando's strangled laughter. The sign said, HELP! KIDNAPPED!

I handed the sign to Richard. He crumpled it in his hands.

Several minutes later we were back on the road with the cop following us at a safe distance.

Orlando said, "Spike is puffing. I think the dog is going to throw up. He's making funny noises. Yep, Spike is definitely going to throw up. I think he must have the flu. I think he's-"

Richard pulled over. I got Spike out of the car in time for him to vomit his banquet of fast food onto the gravel. When he finished being sick, Spike looked dazed. I got back into the car and put him on my lap. For an instant, I thought I heard him whimper.

Five miles later, Orlando said, "I have to go to the bathroom. Can we stop the car? I bet that store has a bathroom. Can we ask that gas station if they have a bathroom? I need a bathroom."

I said, "Richard . . ."

His teeth were clenched. "I'm stopping, I'm stopping."

Richard accompanied Orlando into a convenience market, where they remained far longer than a simple bathroom stop. I had time to walk Spike in the grassy area beside the highway. The fresh air seemed to perk him up again.

By the time Richard and Orlando came out of the convenience store with several plastic bags of goodies, Spike was his nasty self again. He happily began to shred one of the bags.

Getting into the backseat, Orlando upended a bag of Skittles directly into his own open mouth. Richard said, "Go easy on the junk food, kid. If you're not used to that stuff, it can do some damage."

"Okay," Orlando said around a mouthful of candy. "Can I have my crossword puzzle book now? Does anybody have a pencil? Does anybody know another word for 'ghost'?"

"Demon," said Richard.

"I feel sick," said Orlando after five minutes. "I think the dog gave me the flu. I think I'm going to throw up. Maybe I have food poisoning. I'm going to throw up."

Richard pulled over.

Later, I said, "At least he didn't vomit on you."

"Do you mind rolling down your window?" he asked.

When we arrived at Blackbird Farm, two vehicles were parked on either side of my mailbox. One of Michael's acquaintances got out and without expression motioned Richard to stop his car.

It was Aldo, three hundred pounds of pasta-fed bulldog dressed in a maroon track suit with a black parka zipped over it. The parka was open at the neck just enough to see Aldo's gold chains. His face, as always, looked as if it had been run over by a beer truck.

"Hello, Aldo," I said when Richard had rolled down his window. "It's me."

Aldo gave Richard a once-over that was part inquisition, part intimidation. "Pop the trunk, buddy."

"What?"

"He wants to see if you're hiding Mr. Hoffa in the trunk," I said.

When Aldo waddled back to have a look, Richard said, "He's kidding, right?"

"I don't think so."

"Nobody really looks like that in the mob, do they?"

We heard Aldo rummaging in the trunk. After a minute, he slammed it shut, stepped away from the car and waved us on.

Michael met us on the back porch. He leaned one shoulder against the pillar, a relaxed posture that did not give away the leaps his nimble mind made as we all got out of Richard's car.

Orlando went up the sidewalk, dragging his backpack and looking suspicious. Michael returned his expression.

Richard said, "I hope you have a large supply of Pepsi."

When Michael raised his brows, I said, "Don't ask. It was an ugly situation."

Orlando looked as if he might burst into tears. Softly, he said, "I'll be good. I won't do anything wrong again."

"Damn," Michael said. "Spike and I were looking forward to raising a little hell with you tonight."

Orlando squinted up at him, trying to decide if Michael was serious.

"Go inside," Michael said to Orlando. "Take the dog with you."

The boy obediently went into the house. Spike followed, tail down.

Richard said, "How did you do that?"

Michael said, "You ever been in a prison yard?"

"Michael," I said.

He grinned. "I'll be inside protecting your furniture."

Michael left us alone, and Richard lingered on the steps.

Chapter 13.