Chapter 22
The Mason District Police Station was a newer station designed to dupe White people into thinking it was a shopping mall. Those were found everywhere now, like law enforcement was tidy and safe.
Detectives Hendricks and Morris returned to the room where Manny and I waited and Hendricks said, “Here’s where I’m at.
Ready for some life philosophy? Young people used to have babies in their teenage years.
Right? For centuries, the girls were hitched at fifteen, the boys at seventeen or whatever, bam, they were popping out babies in their adolescence.
No problem, teenagers are full of energy at that age, right?
They could handle it. Mother Nature’s plan.
Now though these kids have condoms and abortions and no babies.
All that energy that used to be channeled into childcare, it’s got nowhere to go.
Those hormones and energy and drive, they aren’t getting up at four in the morning to change diapers, so they find other outlets for it, like absurd causes to support, reasons to get angry, they find fetishes, they turn themselves into furry animals, for Pete’s sake. ”
Hendricks was a classic cop guy. Taller, heavyset but athletic, wearing prescription glasses and a mustache. He talked like he had teenagers at home. Manny had been staring upward for the last hour, still asking God for patience, and he nodded at Hendricks’s rant.
“That makes so much sense. How come you never thought of that?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “I can’t be the only genius.”
“This furry crew that jumped you,” said Hendricks, “up here scattered around Fairfax, they come from money. Or, you know, their parents aren’t broke.
There’s no threat of starving, they don’t have to work.
They’re bored. Full of energy. Mad at the world.
No penalty for sex, no reason for living.
So what the hey, let’s be animals. Society will play along, we have to or they’ll cry discrimination.
Problem is, once they grant themselves the right to do whatever they want, even be a unicorn, they think they can do whatever they want.
Why not, there’s no consequences. Group sex.
Outdoor sex. Online pervy stuff. They’ve thrown their own feces at people.
Turns out, the furries are as gross as the rest of us.
” He pulled out a chair and sat down. Detective Morris stayed standing, too tired to sit.
“I’ve read that other furry communities aren’t as bad. ”
“She’s not a furry,” I said. “She’s a therian. Or so she told me.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Manny.
“Furries know they’re people but they play pretend,” I said. “Therians believe they are nonhuman.”
Detective Morris made a humph noise. “Whatever she is, she’s got a great rack on her.” Morris was a woman, which meant she could say what the rest of us pretended we hadn’t noticed.
“Her OnlyFans account has twenty-thousand subscribers,” said Hendricks. “We looked it up. Furry sex stuff. Ask me, she doesn’t believe she’s a unicorn.”
“Belief has nothing to do with truth,” said Manny.
I looked at him. So did the other two.
“You’re not just a pretty face,” I said.
“You guys don’t read Percival Everett?” asked Manny.
“Anyway.” Hendricks rubbed his face with his hand.
With his other hand, he patted the hard table between us.
“This furry crew has been caught before. Burglary and battery and smash-and-grabs and public sex orgies and drunk in public and blah blah. They’re a mess.
She says she doesn’t know a Theo Cardot and I believe her.
She’d be saving her ass if she could. We’ll knock on Theo’s door in the next few days but so far nothing puts him there tonight.
” He cast a gaze at Manny and made an I’m impressed face.
“By the way, that gorilla guy you busted up? He’s a former MMA fighter, nicknamed Max.
Real name’s Cole Vaughn and he had an 11-3 record before he was banned for hiding steel in the knuckles of his fighting gloves. You busted him up easy?”
“Gorilla Max can’t handle a kidney shot.”
“He’s awake but he’s loopy,” said Hendricks. “Watch your back when he gets out—he cheats.”
“Give him my address,” said Manny.
“The unicorn’s lawyer’s in there with her now. We’re keeping them both overnight and charging them with everything we can. We got all we need from you. You boys need a ride?”
“No,” said Manny, a muscle working in his jaw. “We have a ride.”
My trusty Honda Accord was a crime scene.
I’d never considered myself a car guy, but the Accord had been faithful and fancy, maybe my favorite.
Tomorrow a wrecker would haul it to a junk yard and insurance would declare it totaled.
Because a blessing of unicorns and a leap of leopards had smashed it and poured paint into the engine.
You know, that old story. I felt the loss like a light that I’d taken for granted was switched off and now I couldn’t see, realizing the world could be emptier.
Outside the police station on the sidewalk, the clock struck midnight. Temperatures dropped into the fifties. My body hurt. Manny limped.
“You read the story of Noah’s flood?” said Manny. “God wants mankind to start over? I bet it was because they were dressing like furry animals. Because I want to burn the world down.”
“I’m glad Max the gorilla was Black,” I said. “So you can’t blame it all on Whites.”
“Whites started it,” he said. “That’s for damn sure.”
“Why’d you tell the detective we had a ride?”
He glanced at his iPhone. “We do. I called in a favor. The Bureau is dropping off a car.”
“The Bureau? You’re the kinda guy says The Bureau?”
“You ever tried to spell it? Crazy word.” He looked up from his phone. “Says the car is here somewhere.”
As we watched, a white car zipped up the parking lot and stopped at the curb, silent and smooth. A Tesla.
“Hell,” said Manny, “no.”
“There’s nobody in it.”
“A Tesla saved my life. A work thing. Which is why I don’t shoot them when I see them, but cars that drive themselves should be dropped into the ocean.”
“You’re having a rough night.”
“I need an American car. I need muscle and burning fossil fuels and a car that bleeds red, white, and blue. Not this toy. Odio este coche.” he said. More like he growled it.
“Teslas are manufactured in California,” I said.
“They are not. California is a great American state. Home to red wine and Marilyn Monroe. Not Marxist cars.”
It looked like a cross between a white spaceship and a bullet. A dual-engine Model 3, it read on the back, whatever that meant. “It doesn’t make noise.”
“Cars are supposed to snarl.”
“I’m driving,” I said.
“I’m walking.”
“There’s no handle.” I pawed at the side, where the handle should be. I could see a cutout that I was supposed to push.
“Elon Musk forgot handles,” said Manny. “He’s White. I bet he dresses up like a unicorn.”
“Do you have a key?”
“No I don’t have a damn key.” His phone chimed. He read a text. “She says my phone is the key.”
“Who says that?”
“Special Agent Weaver. Someone I might throw out a window,” he said.
The car made a thunk sound and the hood opened by itself. Spooky. I peered in.
“There’s no engine?” I said. “This is a big empty storage space where the engine should go. Ask Special Agent Weaver where she keeps the transmission.”
Manny’s phone rang.
I said, “How does the car work with no engine?”
Manny answered the phone and said, “Beck. Did you know about this? Send a real car before I get angry.”
I could hear a feminine voice laughing on the other end.
His face darkened. Furious Manny was beautiful. “Envíame un coche de verdad, o te tiro por la ventana y te doy de comer a los tiburones.”
The feminine voice spoke more. I thought I heard two voices talking. Likely a conference call with Weaver and Noelle.
He lowered the phone. “Special Agent Weaver popped the trunk. Said it would be funny. It’s not funny. She’s controlling it with her phone app, which is what an estúpida idiota perra would do.”
The women kept talking but Manny hung up. He crossed his arms and looked up again, this time at the stars. “I’m glad I’m not engaged to Beck. I would break it off tonight and make her sleep on the grass.”
I closed the hood and pushed at the weird door handle until something popped out and I could leverage the door open. I dropped in behind the wheel. A huge iPad on the dash glowed at me.
“How do I start it?” I said.
“Let’s set it on fire.”
“Get in.”
He kicked a tire. “Pirelli. That’s the only thing about this car I like. Elite tires.”
“There’s no key. No ignition button,” I said. On screen was an image of the car itself and a map of the surrounding area.
As I watched, a message popped up on screen.
>> Tell Manny I’m sorry. This is the only kind of car they had ready.
“The car is apologizing,” I said.
“It should.”
“The heater is running even though the engine isn’t. How’s that work?”
>> The car is on. It’s just silent.
“Elon Musk is listening to me,” I said.
>> It’s Noelle. My supervisor asked me to get you guys a car. I can message you through the app.
“You can hear me?”
>> I can hear you through the dash mic. What happened to your car?
“A unicorn and a gorilla smashed it up,” I said. “Don’t tell Ronnie.”
The radio turned on by itself and played “La Bamba.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “Noelle is funny.”
“Tell Beck she has to move out.”
>> Manuel. I’m sorry. The FBI is doing you a favor and they had no Camaro available.
Manny kicked at the passenger door. “Amigo. Make this stupid thing open.”
“Noelle, where are Tesla’s made?” I asked.
>> California and Texas.
“Hah,” I said.
He got the door open and sat down and slammed it. “Don’t let it drive itself. I’m not in the mood.”
I searched. “There’s no gear shift.”
“There’s no anything,” said Manny. “There’s no buttons. There’s no common sense, no American spirit, no testosterone.”
“We provide our own testosterone,” I said.
>> You two are so funny.
The big iPad switched to a screen of a log burning in a fireplace and romantic music played. The car’s interior warmed and reddened. Ideal for a date.
“She’s doing this from an app on her phone?” said Manny. “Gone be embarrassing to spank a grown-ass woman.”
>> You’d enjoy it.
The screen changed again and the car started making flatulence noises. Farts loud enough that two cops walking by shot us a glance and grinned.
>> Okay boys, you're on your own. Good night.
With my phone, I googled ‘How to drive a Tesla,’ and read the basic instructions. I clicked the car into drive but it didn’t move. It sat still.
“This is weird,” I said.
“This is death.”
I stepped on the gas and we silently eased forward.
“There’s no speedometer,” I said. “Or tachometer or gas gauge or oil temp.”
“Elon forgot everything. I wish he was here. I’d strap him to the hood.”
I whisked us around the parking lot and as I neared the exit I took my foot off the brake and we quickly stopped, a jarring motion.
“You forget how to drive?” he said.
“The brakes are weird.”
I did another lap to get used to it. Fun, like driving a go-kart. Manny pressed buttons on the screen to find the radio but never did.
I took my hands off the wheel and the car beeped warnings and shouted at us and it braked hard before we hit the curb.
“Mack,” said Manny. “It’s been a long day and I’m mad at everything. Why can’t you drive anymore?”
“I thought this thing drove itself.”
“You think driving into a curb is what starts it?” he said.
“I don’t know. Pull up the map, I’m lost.”
“I can’t even find the thermostat, hombre.”
“See if there’s a map in the glove box,” I said.
He smacked at the dash in front of him. “There’s no way to open the glove compartment. I swear to God.”
>> You can use your voice to open the glove box.
“Beck!” shouted Manny. “Go to bed! Ahora!”
“Car,” I said. “Open the glove box. Give us a map.”
Nothing happened.
We left the police station cautiously and I merged onto a highway. At midnight, it was mostly empty and we whooshed along with only a hum.
I said, “You think it’s fast?”
“There’s no engine. Can’t be.”
I stomped the gas pedal.