Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 51

“They’re ready for you, Mr. Webster.”

“Thank you. I be right there.”

“You said you met Dr. X once before,” I say. “Do you know where he is now? Where I can find him?”

Junior Webster purses his lips. “I might could help you with that. But first I got a show to do. You play any music, Cameron?”

I shake my head.

“Music opens your soul, makes you ready.”

“Ready for what?”

He smiles big. “Exactly.”

I follow Junior Webster into the completely packed club. As Junior passes, people reach out to touch him. This is what they’ve been waiting for, a chance to hear the famous Junior Webster and his magic trumpet.

Gonzo manages to squeeze his way through. He falls in beside me. “Dude, I’ve been waiting, like, twenty minutes next to a bowl of toxic nut mix trying not to breathe in. What happened with Junior Webster?”

“He’s gonna tell us where to find Dr. X. But he’s got to play his set first.”

Junior leads us to a stage beside huge doors that open to a balcony. Down below, it’s a surreal sight—throngs of revelers in wild costumes dancing and swaying in the street, waiting for Junior to blow.

Miss Demeanor grabs the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Horn and Ivory Club is proud to introduce the one, the only, Mr. Junior Webster.”

The crowd whoops and hollers and chants his name. Junior puts the trumpet to his lips, but before he can blow a note, he staggers, his hand over his heart. A gasp rolls through the crowd. Junior stumbles over and grabs hold of my hand. “You feel ’im, son?”

“Feel what?”

Junior’s eyes go wide. “He’s here.”

Looking out over the gray cigarette haze, all I see is a bunch of people waiting for Junior to give them a good time. The sharp tang of some harsher smoke tickles the back of my throat, though, and cutting through the crowd is a tall figure in black spiked space armor and a shiny helmet. The visor covers his face completely. I feel weak. When I look down at my protective E-ticket wristband, the first of the five listed kingdoms—Adventureland—is starting to lose color.

“The Wizard of Reckoning,” Junior gasps. He pats my sleeve. “Get behind me, son.”

“You come for this?” Junior waves the trumpet.

The Wizard of Reckoning moves his head slowly from side to side.

“What you come for, then?”

The wizard slides a piece of paper out from behind his armor. It could be just another one of those missing posters plastered to the crumbling walls of New Orleans. I only catch a glimpse, but I could swear it looks like the guy I saw on the Internet. Junior shakes his head hard.

“I cain’t let you do that.”

The wizard seems to notice me for the first time. He points one gloved finger in my direction.

“No, sir,” Junior growls, as if the wizard’s spoken. “He ain’t ready for you, yet.”

A low murmur ripples through the club. Down on the street, revelers shout for Junior. They’ve come for a show and they’re getting pissed off about the delay. The candles on the tables flare suddenly. The Wizard of Reckoning squeezes his hand into a fist, and it’s like I can’t breathe.

“All right, all right!” Junior shouts, and the breath comes back into my body. The candles die down. “I’ll make you a deal. I know you been wantin’ my horn for a while now. I’mmo play you for it. I win, you leave in peace and don’t come back. You win, you get the horn.”

The wizard cocks his head. I don’t hear him say anything, but Junior must, because his face falls, his mouth set in a grim line. “All right, then. If that’s the way it’s gotta be. I accept.”

“Accept what?” I ask Junior.

“Never you mind,” Junior whispers. “If something happens to me here tonight, you take my horn with you.”

“But you just said—”

Junior’s voice is as tight as his lips. “I know what I said, son. You take this horn and someday, when you gotta, when there’s nothin’ else, you play it. You feel me?”

“Okay,” I say, not understanding at all.

Next, he hands me his dark glasses. His eyes are cloudy. “Now. You take these glasses and bury ’em under the angel and wait for a message. You need that message to keep on with your trip.”

“I don’t understand. Is this about Dr. X?” I ask.

“It’s about a lot more than that, son.” He blows air over his lips, loosens them for playing.