Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 17

You can run away if you like. 

—Senator Joseph McCarthy 

We exit the elevator into the quiet dorm lobby. Wizkid is calling for a taxi from the common phone in the information window. 

“We really are going to go to that party?” Derek asks. 

I look over to Wizkid to make sure he can’t hear me. “Obviously I’d rather not, but we need him to stick with us. So maybe. We need to get him on a computer to see if he can stop this fake invasion and end the national emergency.” 

Wizkid hangs up the phone. We all walk outside and wait, looking up and down the street. I monitor the people walking by, watching for anyone suspicious, but they are all unconcerned students. 

The cab pulls up and we climb in. 

“Where to?” the cabbie asks. 

Slater is going to be looking for us. We need our own transportation and a safe place to stay. “You know a good used-car lot?” I ask. 

The air is on high, blowing a cool, cigarette-scented breeze around the cab. The cabbie turns around and looks at me. “What you looking for?” 

“Something cheap. An old-time car lot, not a dealership.” 

The cabbie has one hand lazily on the wheel. He gestures at us with the other hand as he pulls out of the dorm’s driveway. “Uno’s got good deals. Have you there in fifteen minutes.” 

He drives us into east Mesa. The sun beats down on the hot wide boulevard. Palm trees line the sidewalks, making me feel like I’m on vacation. We drive by Manny’s Brake Shop, Desert Custom Landscaping, and El Churro’s Adobe Grill. A billboard that shows smiling Latina girls advertises Rosa’s Salon. We pass a McDonald’s, a Taco Bell, and a Bank of America. 

The cab stops at Uno’s Excelente Automobile Deals. Wizkid and I stand and look around, but Derek is immediately drawn to a pacific blue 1982 Dodge B150 conversion van. It has a Grand Canyon mural on one side and a howling wolf with a bright moon and stars on the other. Bond wouldn’t dare—an Aston Martin DB5 it is not. A banner diagonally crosses the window: “Sale $1,199.” 

A Hispanic man with skinny legs and small overhanging belly walks out of a white hut-like office. He wears cowboy boots and hat. “Hey there, fellas. You like that one?” He walks closer. “I’m Uno.” He opens his arms up wide to display his car lot. “And have I got some deals for you.” 

“How much for this van here?” Derek asks. 

Uno points to the window. “It says eleven ninety-nine.” 

“I think you can do better than that,” Derek says. 

“For three men who arrive in a taxi, twelve hundred is a very good price. It’s on sale.” 

“We’ll take it,” Derek says. 

“Up in smoke,” I say. 

Derek brings out his cash. A white Cadillac Escalade pulls into the lot. 

“Shit.” Uno turns and calls out to his office-hut. “Get back to work, Manuel.” 

The Escalade’s door opens. A skinny balding white man with a bulbous nose and oval sunglasses steps out. He has a Big Mac button on his pinstriped charcoal suit. “Good afternoon, Ohno.” 

Uno smiles politely. “I’m kind of in the middle of a deal here, Mr. Hochner.” 

Hochner holds up his hands. “Only a second—don’t want to hamper your business. I just want to make sure you’re making headway on the new chamber of commerce guidelines.” Hochner pulls some typewritten papers from a folder. He looks at the papers and then around at the lot, and then scratches his head.