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They sat, the soft glow of the dash illuminating the car’s interior, as Shaw set up his hot spot and North logged in to his laptop. North made a satisfied noise as his laptop picked up the internet connection, and then he began opening tabs.
“What are you going to do?” he asked as he started typing.
“Daydream,” Shaw said. “I’ve been working on this particular fantasy about a world without boots.”
North bent lower over the laptop, and it sounded like he might have said, “Jesus Christ.”
“It’s a fair and just and equitable world.”
“Why don’t you do something useful? Why don’t you wander into traffic or chew on a high-voltage line or something? Oh, but leave the phone.”
“Nobody gets their toes stepped on.”
“It was one time, mother of God, and I’m never going to hear the end of it.”
“Innocent puppies aren’t viciously de-tailed by hulking, stomping men who are angry because their cartoons got canceled.”
“The puppy still has his tail, thanks very much, and why the fuck would you slap an infomercial into that Saturday morning time slot?”
“Nobody is a secondhand victim of boot foot.”
North’s head came up. “I do not have boot foot. I don’t even know what that is. I mean, it’s not a thing.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a thing. It’s when your socks get all crusty—”
“You know what would be fun? Let’s see if your head fits inside the glove compartment. How’s that sound for a game?”
For about a minute, North tried to grab Shaw—he even went so far as to open the glove box—and Shaw fought him off. North was hampered by the fact that they were still in their seats, as well as by the laptop. Shaw was a victim of a giggling curse an invisible witch put on him—which he tried to tell North about, and which only made North shout louder—so, all in all, they were about even.
Finally, North gave up and said, “Make some fucking phone calls!” And then he went back to work on the laptop.
So, Shaw took out the list of phone records that Deputy Weiss had assembled for them, and he began to work his way through the highlighted numbers. The most recent one, for Liliana Cain, connected him to a recorded message for a law firm. He made a note of the firm’s name in the margin and moved on.
Next, he tried the number for Melvin Welch. The phone rang several times before connecting to a voicemail service. There was no prerecorded message; instead, a robotic voice read off the number Shaw had called. When the tone beeped, Shaw made his voice as stilted as he could and said, “Hello, this is a recorded message from the Missouri Department of the Treasury. We have unclaimed funds for Philip Welch. To learn more, please call us back at your convenience.” Then he recited his phone number and disconnected.
Shaw looked over at North.
“Not your best,” North said.
Shaw couldn’t help the dismay. “Not my best?”
“Your Avon lady is better.”
“But an Avon lady wouldn’t be calling—you’re an asshole! That was really good!”
North shrugged as he clicked the trackpad.
Shaw placed the next call to Carly Welch. This time, a woman answered. Shaw opened his mouth, and then all he could hear was North inside his head saying,Not your best. Out of reflex, he started up with his same spiel. “Hello, this is a recorded message from the Missouri Department of the Treasury. We have unclaimed funds for Philip Welch.”
“Fuck!” North swore.
“Hello?” The woman—presumably Carly Welch—said. There was a tapping noise like she might be checking the phone. “Hello? I thought this message was recorded.”
In a rush, Shaw finished, “To learn more, please call us back at your convenience.” He gave his phone number again and disconnected.
“God damn it,” North said to himself. “Connect, you piece of shit.”
“She heard you!”
