The Butterfly Kid

22

“AND WHAT do you call this thing, now?” The Man was standing tall and grim beside Mike’s seat: an extravagantly Irish cop just dying to arrest himself a whole truckload of Us. (I’ve never really adjusted to policemen.)

“Right now?” Michael was being a wiseass, naturally. He liked to get away with things. Any things.

“Oh, Michael, I cautioned softly.

The cop gave me a disapproving glance. The two cops waiting on the steps gave me disapproving glances. The two or three cops waiting outside made it unanimous. Cops make me nervous.

The rest of the tribe hadn’t noticed our uniformed visitors yet, which was a blessing of sorts. They were all clustered about Gary the Frog, telling him in redundant detail exactly how uncool he was. Just a waste of redundant detail, that’s all, but a harmless enough pastime for the nonce.

“What do yez call this thing?” The Man rumbled.

“You mean the bus?”

“Oh, it’s a bus, is it? You got a license to operate a bus?”

“License?” Mike hesitated. “But we just call it a bus, officer. I mean, it isn’t a real bus; it’s more like a very big station wagon, if you get what I mean. That is…” He ran down. The policeman was unmoved.

The cops on the steps were committing the contents of Michael’s wallet to memory, which must have been interesting for them, not to mention educational. Mike’s wallet was always well stocked with oddball ID — a National Association of Warlocks, Conjurers, and Wizards membership card, for instance.

The outside cops were risking windburn for a look at the Tripsmobile’s underside. Their hats went flying in our portable gale, and well-brought-up, clean-cut, healthy, patriotic little kids caught them and brought them proudly back to be blown away again.

And the Irish cop inside had a larger-than-life-size expectant look that turned my central nervous system to silly putty. I became unhappily aware of a strong scent of pot smoke in the air.

“Doomed,” I consoled myself. “Twice doomed. Gary the goddamm Frog is holding, and Laszlo and the lobsters are already waiting by the reservoir. So we’re busted and we’re dead. Groovy. Nothing else can possibly go wrong.” I was being grateful for small comforts.

“Ah, Officer,” Mike politely hinted, “could you tell me what we’ve done, please?”

“Done what?”

“I mean, why did you stop us? What’ve we done wrong?”

I could’ve mentioned a thing or two, but I left it up to The Man.

“Got ’is license there?” The Man asked The Men on the steps. One of them, the youngish spade, shook his head bewilderedly and passed The Man a bulging handful of paper.

“What’s all this crap?”

“Them’s his license, Sergeant.”

“All of ’em?”

“Yes, sir. Every one.”

“Hmmm.” The sergeant didn’t like it, but he accepted the wad of papers and started memorizing them. After each license, he granted Mike a glower of appalling sincerity.

“State of Hawaii operator’s license.”

“That’s right, Officer. I used to live…”

“Delaware chauffeur’s license?”

“You see, I had this job and…”

“Arizona private pilot’s license, expired.”

“That was when I…”

“Two New Hampshire motorcycle licenses?”

“I thought I lost…”

“What the hell is this?”

“Oh, that’s my Russian driver’s license. I was…”

“Russian, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmmm.”

It struck me that Michael was cooking our goose with driver’s licenses. The Man, frowning bitterly, seemed to agree.

“U.S. Army driver’s license, Indiana learner’s permit, Wisconsin helicopter pilot’s license… You move around a lot, don’t you boy.”

“Yes, sir, but I…”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What’s this? A New York ground-effect vehicle operator’s license? Mother of God! And what in the name of God is a Ground-Effect Vehicle?”

“This is. Look…” Mike got up and led The Man outside for a short lecture on the ground effect. The remaining cops obviously expected me to make a break for it, but they were ready. I was something less than comfortable.

By now the rest of our brave little band was well aware of the men in blue. Gary the unspeakable Frog was gratifyingly pale, and the others were talking in half-whispers and avoiding rapid movements. The outside cops were clearing the crowd away, but the traffic didn’t appear to be moving yet.

I noticed all this through a thick gray smog of quick, inevitable doom.

But Mike’s lecture didn’t really last forever, and when they came back in The Man was saying, “I still think I oughtta run the lot of yez in,” which might be called encouraging, perhaps.

His argument for running the lot of us in was that our attendant hurricane was a clear and present traffic hazard. Michael, far more confident since his lecture, conceded this possibility, but pointed out that the bus was a duly licensed ground effect vehicle, and claimed that the wind, being integral to the vehicle, was obviously implicit in the license and sanctioned by the issuance thereof. Michael has his moments.

The shaken Man’s next argument was that he oughtta run us all in because we were funny-looking and suspicious characters. Mike countered by claiming that we were a professional rock-n-roll band in full stage dress, en route to a gig, and that he was our manager (proving this by yet another weird document from his wallet). He was ready to go on, but:

“All right! All right!” The Man gave in. “All right! So get the hell outta here!” He shoved clear signs of discontent.

“Right away, Sergeant,” burbled Michael. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Yeah. An’ just make sure you keep your nose clean ’round here, you understand?”

Mike agreed to everything. The Man very gradually split, trailing admonitions in his wake. At last Mike closed the door. Traffic started moving. So did we.

“Oh wow!” said I to Michael, “what a copper-bottomed drag!”

He grunted mild agreement.

“I thought for sure we’d had it that time. Wow!”

“The trouble with you, Chester, is that you’re afraid of cops. You don’t seem to understand: they’re on your side. You lack faith, that’s your problem. Like, what made you think that tired old sergeant was going to arrest us?”

“Well, for one thing, Gary the Frog’s holding. Copiously. And some of it’s been smoked — in plain sight of everyone in Times Square, mind you — and the whole bus reeks of burning marijuana. Why didn’t he bust us? All he had to do was inhale.”

“Like I said, Chester, you just lack faith. Here we have an old Irish cop in New York City. So there are two things you can count on his having: varicose veins and sinus trouble. Especially sinus trouble. He probably hasn’t smelled a thing since 1933.”

Mike’s right. I don’t have faith.

And there we were, moving fast up West Side Highway. The sun was sinking, time was growing short, but we were on our way at last. Maybe there was hope.