East

Croc did not like his bath, but he tolerated it as long as Angela and I slipped him bits of buttered toast as a reward for not biting us. We used the hose in back of the mechanic’s shop to do the job. After we finished Croc didn’t look much better, but at least he was reasonably clean.

Aside from being an expert driver and mechanic, Boone was a walking (or driving) USA encyclopedia. We didn’t pass a single town he hadn’t been to before. Not only that, he appeared to know everything about these towns going back a hundred years or more. As we drove he would give us geographical and historical tidbits for our Web page assignment.

When we passed through Cheyenne, Wyoming, he said, “If your parents’ band was on tour in the 1860s they’d be travelin’ in a private Union Pacific railroad coach called a Pullman—not a coach like this. Every act from New York stopped in Cheyenne to perform on their way to San Francisco. There were several small theaters in town and a good-sized opera house. You ever heard of Lillie Langtry?”

We hadn’t.

“Lillie Langtry played in Cheyenne. She was the musical diva of her day. No one knew what Lillie would do next, but whatever it was, she did it in a big way and made sure everybody knew about it.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

“Books,” he said. “Everything you need to know can be found in a book.”

We didn’t write about Lillie Langtry specifically, but we did something for the Web page comparing how musicians made their living in the 1860s to how it works now.

During the day we drove east on Interstate 80, stopping in small towns and tourist attractions in Utah, Wyoming, and Nebraska. At night we pulled into RV parks, hooked up the coach, and ate dinner—usually cooked by Roger. There was nothing wrong with the food, or Roger’s cooking—some of it even tasted good. But what I couldn’t figure out was how I could eat an entire plate heaped with food and afterward feel as if I hadn’t eaten anything at all.

Roger and Mom hadn’t driven an hour since Boone joined us. They gave him a compartment to store his stuff and offered to let him sleep on the sofa bed inside, but he preferred to sleep outside with Croc. I joined them one of the nights, hoping Boone might have some meat stashed in that big backpack of his. He didn’t. He appeared to live on bottled water and air.

About three quarters of the way across Nebraska I thought I would starve to death before we reached Philly.

I was sitting next to Boone in the passenger seat, practicing some rope tricks (which I was pretty good at) when Boone pointed out a sign for a town called Grand Island. He turned to Mom and Roger who were working on a new song. “If I remember right,” Boone said. “There’s a decent farmer’s market in Grand Island. Good place to replenish our veggie supplies and stretch our legs.”

Grand Island was not an island and it wasn’t exactly grand, but it turned out to be a great place to stretch our legs, or in my case my shrunken belly.

I usually stuck with Boone and Croc while Roger, Mom, and Angela explored vegetable opportunities.

Boone was dead serious about books and a lot smarter than he sounded. When he wasn’t driving he was reading, and not just spy novels. History, current affairs, philosophy, poetry, classics, self-help books, science…there didn’t seem to be a subject he wasn’t interested in, or a subject he didn’t know something about. His storage compartment under the coach was beginning to look like a small public library. He seemed to have a sixth sense about where to locate the biggest used bookstore in any given town. It was as if he could smell a collection of mildewed books. And Grand Island was no exception.

I followed Boone’s nose to a used bookstore about half a block from the market.

“Are you interested in thrillers and spy novels?” Boone asked as we entered the dim store with more books than there were shelves to hold them.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Well, this is a Spy-Fi goldmine!” Boone pointed to the shelves. “John le Carre, Len Deighton, Graham Greene, Helen MacInnes, Ken Follett, Eric Ambler, Robert Ludlum…”

I hadn’t heard of any of these authors.

He slipped his daypack off his shoulder, picked up a stack of paperbacks, and wiped the dust off the covers. “Look at these. Three pristine Ian Flemings with original cover illustrations! Goldfinger, The Man With The Golden Gun, and Dr. No. There’s nothin’ like a good 007 yarn, although they aren’t exactly politically correct. He wrote them in the ’50s and we had different outlooks back then.”

“I’ve seen some of the James Bond movies,” I said.

“Then you don’t know anything about James Bond,” Boone scoffed. He held up Dr. No. “You gotta read this. Did you know that Lee Harvey Oswald was reading Dr. No the night before he assassinated President Kennedy in 1963?”

I shook my head.

“But here’s the weird thing,” Boone continued. “That same night, JFK was reading the same book in his hotel room.”

That was weird, but I still wasn’t sure I was interested in reading James Bond.

I watched Boone sort through some more books, then I glanced out the window thinking I might wander over to the market. What I saw across the street wiped that idea from my brain. It wasn’t Goldfinger or a man with a golden gun. It was a golden arch. I started salivating.

“You’re gonna love these gems,” Boone said, holding up two more paperbacks.

Not as much as I’m going to love the two cheeseburgers and an order of fries, I thought.

“I’m going across the street to use the restroom,” I said.

Boone nodded distractedly and headed down another dark aisle in search of more gems.

Ziv dropped Eben at the Salt Lake City airport.

By the time they got untangled from the state police they were out of tracking range and knew they would never catch up. Eben decided to fly ahead and leave Ziv to drive the SUV, which the state troopers had miraculously found twelve hours after it had been stolen, one mile from the diner. The only damage was to the ignition where the thief had hotwired the SUV to get it started.

“Anything missing?” Arth asked.

“No,” Eben lied. His automatic and Ziv’s were both gone. They were not going to be easy to replace.

“Lucky,” Arth said.

“Weird,” Williamson said.

The troopers checked their passports and visas, made a phone call—presumably to the person who had tipped them off—then sent them on their way.

It was obvious that someone had been watching them. But who? Eben wondered. And were they still watching?

Food for Thought

I crossed the street with Croc at my heels, looking both ways, making sure the veggie patrol didn’t see me slip beneath the Golden Arches.

“Two cheeseburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake.” I said, then looked at Croc staring gluttonously at me through the window. “Make that three cheeseburgers.”

“For here or to go?”

“For here.”

“Would you like that supersized?’

“Absolutely.”

The order was up within a minute. I took my food around the corner where I couldn’t be seen from the street and almost dropped my tray when I saw who was sitting in the very last booth next to the wall.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

Angela nearly choked on her Big Mac and her face turned as pink as the strawberry shake in front of her.

I laughed and sat down across from her. “You’re about the last person in the world I thought I’d see in here,” I said, I unwrapped my first cheeseburger and added, “With the exception of your dad of course.”

“Are you going to tell?” Angela asked.

“Nope.” I popped a salty fry into my mouth, thinking that my new sister and I were going to get along after all.

Angela gave me a grateful smile. “I guess there are some things we don’t know about each other.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like just about everything.” I took a huge satisfying bite out of my cheeseburger. “I don’t suppose your dad ever sneaks into a place like this for something to eat.”

Angela shook her head. “Never, but my mom…” She bit her lower lip and looked away.

I looked away too. Angela’s mom had died four years earlier.

Angela looked back at me. “Anyway,” she continued. “My dad is a true vegetarian. And I agree with the practice at least in theory. But it’s hard to stick with the diet when your friends are eating stuff like this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Also because stuff like this tastes good.” I finished off my first cheeseburger in three bites and began unwrapping the second. “Do you have any other big secrets I should know about?”

“Yes,” Angela admitted. “But I think it’s only fair that you tell me one of your secrets before I give you another one of mine,” she said.

“You didn’t exactly offer up your burger secret voluntarily, but I guess I could give you something. But before I do, define ‘secret’ for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I tell you something is it just between you and me, no one else, including your dad, my mom, or any other human being?” I held up my right hand after licking some ketchup off of it. “So help you God?”

Angela held up her right hand. “I swear.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I still don’t understand why you don’t tell your dad about this.” I pointed to the food on the table. “I don’t know him very well, but he seems pretty laid back.”

“He is. And I don’t think he would mind me eating a burger once in awhile, but it’s complicated. I guess I don’t want to disappoint him. Besides, staying away from this kind of food is better for you.”

“If you can,” I said. “I think my mom’s going along with the vegetarian thing in order to lose some weight.”

“Your mom looks great,” Angela said.

“I think so too,” I said. “But she’s gotten more selfconscious about her looks since the album came out.”

“So has my dad,” Angela said. “The old Roger Tucker wore sweatpants, sandals, T-shirts, and rarely shaved more than once a week. Now he shaves every day—even in the coach. He’s bought a whole new wardrobe and goes to a hair stylist. He used to cut his own hair, believe it or not.”

“It’s all part of the job,” I said. “My real dad wears ripped jeans, torn shirts, ratty-looking sneakers, but he pays a fortune for them at the best boutiques in L.A. I guess you don’t care about your image until other people start caring about your image.”

“What about that secret?” Angela persisted.

“It will cost you two fries,” I said.

“All right.”

I took two of her fries and put one of them on my right palm and one on my left, then closed my hands over them.

“What are you doing?” Angela asked.

“Take off your sunglasses.”

She pushed them to the top of her head.

“When I grow up,” I said. “I want to become a magician.”

“That’s not too surprising,” Angela said. “Considering both your mother and father are musicians.”

Angela misheard me—a common mistake considering my parents’ profession. My dad is a famous lead guitarist named Peter Paulsen, but he’s better known by the nickname “Speed,” which is also the name of his band, which Mom used to sing with. I don’t see him much, which is just as well, because he is kind of crazy. I had no desire to play guitar, or sing like my mother—even if I could.

“Magician,” I said. “Not musician.”

“Like in magic?” Angela asked.

I opened my hands. The French fries were gone.

Angela reached across the table and turned my hands over. There were no fries hidden under them. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” I said.

“That’s why you’re always playing with the cards and ropes.”

“That and my nervous hands,” I said. “Your turn now. What do you want to become when you grow up?”

Angela bit her lower lip.

“Well?” I said.

Her answer was interrupted by two police cars roaring passed McDonald’s with their sirens blaring. We jumped up and ran outside to see what was happening and almost collided with Boone and Croc. I unwrapped the cheeseburger and gave it to Croc, which he swallowed in two gulps.

Boone was holding a shopping bag filled with paperbacks, staring up the street in the direction the police cars had gone. A huge crowd of people was gathered at the edge of the farmer’s market half a block away.

“Has there been an accident?” Angela asked.

“That’s no accident,” Boone said, pointing at the crowd. “I wondered how long it would take to catch up to us.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Fame,” Boone answered.

Fame

Boone was right.

By the time we reached the farmer’s market the crowd had nearly doubled in size. At the center of the swarm were Mom and Roger (both looking a little dazed) smiling for the camera phones and signing scraps of paper and CDs.

Angela and I started to wiggle into the crowd to get closer, but Boone stopped us. “Better hang back here with me,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Your folks are fine,” Boon answered. “And I think they want you to stay off the radar. Believe me, it’s better if you do.”

I jumped up to get a better view and snap a couple of photos for myself. The police had made it to the center of the crowd and were flanking Mom and Roger.

“How did this happen?” Angela asked. “We’ve been traveling for three days, stopped half a dozen times, and no one’s paid any attention to us.”

“The publicity machine is in motion,” Boone told us. “Buddy and the record company have been busy. I suspect that your parents have been plastered all over those TV entertainment shows the past couple of days. Their wedding, previews of the Rekindled video, interviews… Have they had their cell phones on?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“’I haven’t heard a call come in since I joined up with you,” Boone said. “I’m sure it wasn’t their intention, but nothing fuels the publicity machine better than lack of contact. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. They—”

“Are these the kids?”

We turned around and were assaulted by a barrage of flashing cameras. The man holding the expensive-looking camera was short, unshaven, and rumpled.

“Angie and Quest, right?” he said as he continued to take pictures. “Angie, take off those shades so I can see those beautiful eyes.”

Angela left her shades exactly where they were. “My name is Angela,” she said.

“And my name is Q,” I added.

“Stop,” Boone said, holding his hand over the camera lens.

“Hey, Boone. Didn’t see you standing there. You their babysitter or something?”

“I’m their friend,” Boone said. “And if you don’t stop, the next photo you take will be of the inside of your colon.”

“Just doing my job,” the man said.

Croc trotted forward, fixed his weird blue eye on the man and began moving toward him, growling.

“Okay, okay, Boone,” the man said, backing away from Croc. “I’ll stop.”

“You know each other?” Angela asked.

“Unfortunately,” Boone said. “This is Dirk Peski, also known as the Paparazzi Prince.”

Dirk gave us a theatrical bow and a grin.

“Is this your doin’?” Boone asked, gesturing toward the crowd.

“Not directly,” Dirk said. “All I did was snap some pics of them buying a bunch of bananas. That’s all it took. A couple of kids recognized them and asked for autographs. Then some-one got on their cell, and the person they called got on their cell… You know how it goes. Big news in Grand Island.”

“How’d you find us?” Boone asked.

“Wasn’t easy, but I figured you’d be traveling Interstate 80. I flew into Salt Lake a few days ago, rented a car, and started trolling with my CB. A trucker spotted your coach and saw you take the exit up here.”

“What are you going to do with the photos?” I asked.

“I’ll upload them onto the Internet, send them out on the wire services. Your faces will be all over the world in about fifteen minutes. You’ll be famous!”

This is exactly what Mom and Roger didn’t want. I wondered how the Paparazzi Prince would like it if I uploaded the eight photos I had just secretly taken of him taking photos of us?

“How about leavin’ the kids out of it,” Boone said.

“How about arranging an exclusive interview with the rock stars and I’ll think about it?” Dirk answered.

. . . . . .

Mom and Roger weren’t happy about Dirk’s deal, but they agreed to the interview in order to keep Angela and me out of the news. It worked, but nothing was the same after Grand Island.

Boone guessed right. Mom and Roger had their cell phones off. They turned them on after we dumped Dirk and pulled back onto Interstate 80. Between them there were over fifty messages, mostly from Buddy. Mom put her phone on speaker. Each of Buddy’s messages was louder than the previous message. His main points:

1. Their album, Rekindled, had hit #1 on Billboard.

2. The concert tour was sold out and he was booking extra concert dates.

3. Mom and Roger had dozens of appearance offers including three network morning shows.

4. Why don’t you return my calls!

5. Turn on your cell phones!

6. Who do you think you are!

Mom expected the album to do well, but not that well, and not that quickly. Roger asked Boone how long it would take to get to Philadelphia. Boone thought he could get there in less than twenty-four hours if Roger and Mom helped with the driving.

That didn’t work out. Mom and Roger were too busy talking on their cell phones to drive. Friends calling with congratulations, TV, radio, and newspaper reporters wanting interviews, and of course Buddy with new developments, questions, and demands.

I worried that the sudden attention they got in Grand Island might make Roger nervous or change his mind about the tour. But just the opposite happened. He was completely stoked. Mom was a little calmer about it, but she was used to the attention. The band she’d been in with Dad was famous.

After a few miles I put down my deck of cards and pulled out one of the 007 books Boone had been raving about. He was right. The book was a lot better than the movie.