"I'm a lover, not a fighter."

Owen laughed. John looked up at him, a slight smile on his face.

His left cheek was swollen and red.

Owen felt bad again.

"Maybe we can get your glasses repaired in the morning," he said.

"Gonna need a new lens. And frame. See how the frame's busted?"

Owen saw.

"You did that," John said.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll get you a nice, new pair."

"You think that'll make everything okay?" John asked.

"No. But I do wish I hadn't hit you."

"Not as much as I do."

"I know. I'm sorry. Look, should we go out and get some ice cream or something? Would that make you feel better?"

"Nice, big dessert for the fat boy."

"I could go for some, myself. There's an ice cream shop across from the photo place."

"Yeah."

"Wanta drive over there? I'll treat you to a cone."

"Wonder if they've got waffle cones," John said.

"Probably."

"I love waffle cones."

"Let's go see."

"Promise you won't hit me anymore?" John asked.

"I promise."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Yeah. Cross my heart.

"Cause it doesn't feel good, you know?"

"I know."

"That's how they killed Houdini."

"I know. I'm sorry."

John wiped his eyes, then got to his feet. As he straightened up, he winced. "Feel like my stomach's all fucked up."

"Maybe you do need a doctor."

"Ice cream oughta fix me up."

"Okay. Let me hit the john first."

"You already did."

"Oh. Sorry about that." Owen hurried into the bathroom, used the toilet, then washed his hands.

When he came out, a telephone directory lay open on one of the beds. John, bending over it, flashed a smile at Owen and ripped out a page.

"Hey! What'd you do that for?"

"Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"Case you change your mind about paying a visit to Dana."

His eyes, red and watery, looked strange without glasses. "This has her address on it." He fluttered the page. "Lynn's address." He started to fold it.

"You know her last name?"

"I know many things."

"What is it?"

"Tucker."

"What's Dana's last name?"

"That I don't know. I know many things, not everything. But if we go over there tonight, maybe we can find out."

"We're going for ice cream," Owen said. "Nothing else. And you shouldn't tear pages out of telephone books. Other people might want to use them, you know."

John smirked. "My bad."

"You really are an asshole."

"Least I don't go around punching people."

Outside, Owen pulled the door shut and tried the knob to make sure it was locked.

"Since you're buying," John said, "I'll drive."

"Without your glasses? That'd be fun."

John smiled and blinked at him. "Contacts, man. Ever hear of contacts?"

"You've got contacts on?"

"Sure."

"How come you were wearing glasses?"

"I look good in 'em."

"Sure."

"So, I'll do the driving."

"No, you won't. It's a rent-a-car. Nobody's allowed to drive it but..."

"Not your car, mine. Come on." He nodded toward an ancient Ford Granada parked in a far corner of the lot. It looked as if it had seen better decades.

"Does it work okay?" Owen asked as they walked toward it.

"It runs. Has a brand new radiator, too. Might blow up, but it won't overheat."

"Maybe we should take my car."

"No, no. I insist."

When they reached John's car, he opened the passenger door. The seat and floor were hidden underneath candy wrappers, maps, magazines and books. Owen glimpsed a Hustler, a Scream Factory, and a paperback copy of The Horror at Malcasa Point. Then John got in the way, bent over, and started tossing the material over the seatback.

"Nice," Owen muttered.

"Huh?"

"Nice way to treat books and stuff."

"You're really some kind of tight-ass, Owen. You oughta loosen up, man."

"So I can be more like you?"

"Couldn't hurt." A moment later, John scuttled backward.

"Voila," he said, and swept a hand toward the passenger seat.

Owen could see it, now.

The floor in front of the seat was still cluttered, but nothing remained on the seat cushion except a few scattered puffs of grimy popcom, a chewing gum wrapper, and crumbs from assorted chips and cookies. Owen was tempted to brush them off with his hand. But that would've required touching the seat's upholstery.

Touching the stains. Some were pale, some dark. Some looked as if they might be sticky. Owen suspected catsup, mustard, blood, "secret sauce," salsa, honey, coffee, maybe chili. He hoped that snot, feces and semen weren't among the substances.

Don't bet on it.

"It's not very clean," he said.

John dropped into the driver's seat, shaking his car. Then he looked across at Owen and said, "Don't be a wimp."

"I don't want to get my pants dirty."

"Awww. Well, sit on a map or something."

Among the debris on the floor was a copy of Fangoria magazine. Owen held it up. "This okay?"

"Whatever."

Owen flopped the magazine onto the seat, opened it to the middle, and sat down on it.

John started the car. As he backed it toward the middle of the lot, he grinned and said, "What do you think Dana's doing right now?"

"I wouldn't know. And I don't want to talk about her. And I especially don't want you to talk about her. Don't even think about her."

John laughed. "Man, you've got it bad. Know what? I can take her or leave her."

"Then leave her."

John pulled out of the parking lot, swinging left onto Front Street. He stepped on the gas. The car leaped ahead. "Lynn's the one I like. She is so fucking cute. I'd like to rip her clothes off and..."

"Would you please shut up?"

"You take Dana, I'll take Lynn."

"We're not taking anyone. We're just gonna get a couple of ice cream cones, then go back to the Welcome Inn."

"We oughta at least drive by their house."

Chapter Forty.