Emperor of Gondwanaland by Paul di Filippo Read Free Book Online Page B

Martens. She had red hair shorter than mine, too much purple lipstick, and six studs in one ear, each one a different fake gem.
    A pin on her bib said: anarchy won’t work? that’s an indictment of work, not anarchy.
    Her voice was roughened by smoke and drink. “Have you guys read Hakim Bey?”
    “Who?”
    She told us about this mysterious Arab and his theory of “poetic anarchy.” It sounded intriguing.
    So we read him.
    Burr and I started hanging out with Fiona. We found out a little about her.
    She worked a phone-sex line, and hated it. But she couldn’t stand any other job, either. She shared a crummy apartment with a junkie girlfriend on welfare. And somewhere back in her past, she must’ve been really hurt by some guy.
    This part we more or less deduced by her determined stoniness to advances from either of us.
    Her life was like a Lou Reed outtake. Easy to poke fun at. Except that it was all too real for her.
    A few months after we met Fiona, Uncle Karl died of a heart attack.
    So much for retirement.
    We were amazed as hell to learn he had willed his old house to Burr, along with a few thousand dollars.
    Fiona helped us move our junk in the Ranger.
    When we had carried in the last box, it somehow didn’t surprise me when Burr said, “Now we’ll go for your stuff.”
    “Okay,” said Fiona.
    That night, over dinner, Fiona said, “You know, we’re pretty lucky. A roof over our heads, food, money … Let’s have a toast to Uncle Karl!”
    We clinked our glasses, full of cheap jug wine.
    “We’d be pretty irresponsible,” Fiona continued solemnly, “if we didn’t take advantage of our good fortune.” Burr smiled as if he knew exactly what she meant. I realized with a start that I kinda did, too.
    “Meaning …?”
    “Meaning that the time for talk is over. Now it’s time for action.”
    “Poetic?” Burr said.
    “Creative?” I asked.
    “Anarchistic!” Fiona replied.
     
    I pulled up in front of an unmarked steel door at the rear of the mall and put the Toyota in park, leaving the engine running. Odors of french fries and plastic clothing seeped in.
    I turned to look at Fiona. She was sitting primly in the passenger seat, knees together, clutching a patent-leather purse in her lap by its gold chain. Sodium light lit her from overhead. I burst out laughing.
    Fiona wore a teased and frosted wig. Her face was made up so she looked like Tammy Faye Bakker’s slightly more sophisticated sister. A frilly blouse, madras skirt, opaque pantyhose, and pumps completed her outfit.
    “Who’s your husband again?”
    Fiona’s rough voice had somehow been transformed into that of a pampered suburban hausfrau. All that phone sex, I guessed.
    “Councilman Danvers. And he’s going to be so worried unless we find little Jennifer right now!”
    Her voice had escalated into a kind of peremptory hysteria on the final phrase, and I found myself utterly convinced, even though I had helped write the script.
    “Great. Buy us half an hour, and then we’ll pick you up right here.”
    Fiona locked gazes with me then, only her pirate eyes familiar in her strange face. “Don’t forget me in there,” she urged in her normal rasp.
    I was taken aback by her intensity. I couldn’t think of what to say, so I reached for her hand.
    The mall door opened, and someone hissed.
    “Okay, you guys—hurry!”
    The weird moment ended. Fiona jacked open the car door and hustled inside the mall. Burr took her place.
    “No one will see her come in without little Jenny,” Burr chortled. “There’s nothing down that corridor but the rest rooms, and that’ll be her excuse out.”
    I was kind of irritated that Burr had chosen just then to break up whatever might have been about to happen between Fiona and me, even as I told myself I shouldn’t be. “I know all that, man. We’ve been over the plan a hundred times.”
    Burr looked hurt. “Hey, chill out. I’m as nervous as you, for Christ’s sake.”
    “Let’s get to it,