Repo Madness by W. Bruce Cameron Read Free Book Online Page A

frown deepening. “No, a medium and a psychic are two different things. Media talk to dead people.”
    Was the plural of medium really media in this context? How the hell should I know?
    â€œI know what a medium does, Kermit,” I replied a bit peevishly.
    He told me he didn’t know any media. That’s what he said; I’m not endorsing his use of the term.
    I glanced at the clock—it was getting late—and lowered my head to my phone. Katie often had to put in evening hours at the real estate office, but she should have arrived by now. Thanks to autocorrect, I wrote: Are you com get over? Coming!
    At that point the Wolfingers, Claude and Wilma, blew into the place like human typhoons. “We won a trip to Hawaii!” Wilma screamed, in a tone and volume of voice normally reserved for people who are being actively murdered.
    Claude and Wilma were both sixty-two years old and it seems as if they’d been married a lot longer than that. When Wilma shrieked out her megaphone-level announcement, a baby in the corner started crying. Most people, though, shouted something like, “Yay!” even though we were thinking, Oh no !
    You don’t just win a trip to Hawaii . Not if you live in Kalkaska.
    Claude raised what seemed to be a postcard over his head, waving it around like a winning lotto ticket. Everyone congratulated him despite the lack of plausibility. Claude’s hands always look like he’s been down at the jail, being fingerprinted—he’s a mechanic at the local garage. White hairs sprout out of his nose and his spotted arms, and his head is mostly bald. His wife, Wilma, is part Native American, with beautiful dark skin, nearly black eyes, and a temper that flashes lightning quick. She has fifty pounds on her husband and is an inch taller than his five-foot-eight—we always say he’s fighting out of his weight class.
    â€œRuddy!” Claude bellowed when he saw me. “We’re going to Hawaii! All expenses paid!”
    â€œThat’s great, Claude,” I said as sincerely as I could.
    â€œDrinks are on me!” he cried overenthusiastically. Everyone yelled, “Yay!” again.
    â€œActually, the first two are on the house,” I corrected him.
    â€œEven better!” he enthused. “This is the best day of our lives!”
    I decided not to explain that the free drinks were due to Milt’s passing. I turned and tracked Jimmy eyeing me and remembered he was in some sort of trouble. We nodded at each other, but things were too busy to chat.
    Whether Milt would have enjoyed the conversable conviviality or not, the free drinks and the single round I let Claude put on his tab propelled the bar into a full-out celebration.
    â€œIn Hawaii, they don’t have consonants, just vowels,” Claude lectured a bleary-eyed group of revelers. “And aloha means everything: hello, good-bye, love, peace, eat, drink, lawn mower, doesn’t matter: You just say aloha.”
    A lot of people frowned as they considered this, but no one challenged him.
    â€œHoney, let me dance the hula for you,” Wilma cooed at her husband. They were being amazingly noncombative with each other—I guess winning a trip to Hawaii can really smooth out the rough spots in a relationship.
    Wilma put Claude in a chair in the center of the room and spooled up “Hotel California” on the jukebox, which I guess was as close as we could come to Hawaiian music. Everyone was laughing and cheering, but we all fell silent when Wilma started to move in a smooth, flowing, and frankly erotic fashion, her hips swaying, her hands carving the air like elegant birds. What the hell? No one had ever seen her do such a thing, or suspected she was capable of it. She was graceful and beautiful, and we were all entranced.
    The dance ended with Wilma climbing on the chair and crashing with her husband to the ground. Then they made out on the floor until Claude