I followed Wallace to his camp. And as freaky as walking, talking bears are, his friends were an all-out freak show. They were all sitting by a campfire. Most were human-sized, but animal-lookin'. It was like I'd been plopped into some far-out Mother Goose story. There was a rat, a grasshopper, a rattlesnake, a Gila monster, and a… just a regular guy. But to top it off, it looked like they'd just knocked over a Western Warehouse. They were wearing cowboy boots, hats, and denim. Everyone was sitting on a Mexican blanket, playing… poker?
"Look what I found out in the desert," Wallace said.
The rat piped up. "He's too small, throw 'im back." They all laughed. The rat was wearing a leather vest, Wranglers, and boots. But he had a Midwest accent that sounded like he might have been from Chicago. On his forehead were strapped some 1920s-style motorcycle goggles. And on his hips, a pair of antique Colt Walker pistols. An old Harley motorcycle with a sidecar was parked behind him.
"He said he just got here. I found him rolling in the dirt with a Parasite."
"They don't make good pets," said the rat, scratching his big round ears, as he peeked up from his cards.
"Have a seat, kid," said Wallace, as he plopped down next to the rat.
There was an open spot next to the grasshopper. I sat down. "Name's Kelly," said the grasshopper, holding out one of her four green hands.
"Uh… nice to meet you." I took her hand. It was crisp and sharp like you'd imagine an insect's would be, but her face was kind. She wore denim coveralls and steel-toed work boots, like an oilfield worker. The coveralls were spattered with rainbow-colored stains. And she had an electric guitar lying in her lap.
"So, how'd you die?" Kelly said, picking up the guitar and plucking a few strings.
"He says he's not dead," said Wallace.
Everyone smirked. The rat looked up. "They all say that. Here's some free advice, kid. The sooner you accept you're dead, the better off you're gonna be."
"I'm just looking for my dad," I said, changing the subject. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to tell everyone I was alive.
"Oh yeah, car accident?" said Kelly. "People get split up in car accidents all the time."
"Uh… no. We were… uh… swimming."
The rat looked me over. "Next time, remember to take your boots off before you get in."
Everyone laughed.
"Just ignore them," Wallace said. "Soon as it's light, we'll help you find your dad."
I smiled, a little.
The Gila monster leaned over. He was dressed to the nines, or at least the eights. He had on an old-fashioned wool suit. A bowler hat sat in his lap. "Where are my manners? I'm Clyde, and this is my associate, Snyde," he said, motioning to the snake. Snyde was just a human-sized snake, instead of a giant-sized one. His only bit of clothing was a bolo tie. He gave me an armless bow. Behind them sat a wooden wagon, the kind that would belong to a traveling salesman in an old Western. And, in the darkness, I thought I could make out a horse munching on hay.
"Name's Earl," said the normal-looking man. He held out a beefy hand. I shook it. He was bald and a bit pudgy, but you could see he had a decent helping of muscle under all that. And not only was he the only human in the group, but he'd also decided that Western wear was not his thing. He wore a purple velvet tracksuit and at least five thick gold chains.
"The grumpy one is Rip," said Wallace, pointing to the rat.
Rip twitched his whiskers, giving a humph.
"Nice to meet y'all," I said. "I'm Coffee."
Rip eyed Wallace at the sound of my name.
"Told ya," Wallace said, nudging him.
Then I smelled something, a truly intoxicating smell. In the fire, perched on top of a mound of hot coals, was a cast-iron Dutch oven. Something in it was simmering, steaming, and popping.
"Want some?" said Wallace, smiling as he picked up a ladle.
I was hungry. "What is it?"
"Try some," Wal said, scooping up a big ladleful. He poured it into a tin bowl and passed it to me with a spoon.
It was just a bowl of barbecue baked beans. But the smell was out of this world. I scooped up a spoonful. Brown juices glistened in the firelight.
"It's got just a smidge of chili powder," said Wallace. "An old family recipe."
"That's a lie," said Rip. "You ain't got no family."
Wallace frowned, ladling beans into another bowl and passing it around. "It's an old recipe, and it's good for families. It's an old family recipe."
"Whatever," said Rip.
I took a bite. The sweet, smoky, spicy flavor filled my mouth. Images floated through my mind. I remembered a picnic with Mom and Dad. We were in a park. It was sunny, and a cool breeze was running through the trees. Our dog Snickers was there, and I was throwing him the Frisbee. Dad was cooking out. Everything was how it was supposed to be… I blinked hard, bringing me back to reality. I looked down and saw the spoon hanging out of my mouth like a thermometer.
"Pretty good, huh?" said Wallace.
I nodded, shoveling in another mouthful.
"They do have charm," said Clyde, rolling his big Gila monster eyes. "Even if they are the only thing he can cook."
"Since you don't cook nuthin'," said Rip, "why don't you shut it?"
"I was only saying–"
Kelly strummed a bit louder, and jumped in. "Clyde, you just get back from the market?" Her green antenna bobbed in the firelight, as she motioned to the wagon. "Find anything interesting?"
"The market?" said Rip, wrinkling up his nose. "I can't stand those fleas."
"They always cut me a good deal," said Clyde, running a black, scaly finger around the inside of his bowler hat. "And the things they get their claws on. In fact, I happened to come across twelve bottles of high-quality Wrath."
Earl looked up. "Black Wrath?"
Clyde nodded, "Pure Hell-fire."
"Flea market Wrath?" said Rip. "I wouldn't touch the stuff. It's probably cut with something, like Fear, or Loathing, or Mildly-ticked-off." Rip hooked a thumb at his Harley. "Nothing like filling up your tank with a bottle of Wrath, only to find out it was Manic-depression. Now, that's a bumpy ride."
"Itchy-con has never sold me a defective product," said Clyde. "You're welcome to test it," he added slyly.
"Only if you take a swig first," said Rip.
It was then that I noticed a metal star on Rip's vest. Wallace had one too. "You guys are cops or something?"
"Rangers," said Wallace, taking a big bite of beans.
"I thought you weren't supposed to wear those anymore," said Clyde, pointing at Rip's tin star. "Not after… you know."
"Good thing you don't make those calls," said Rip, resting his elbow on his revolver.
I looked at Clyde with a raised eyebrow.
He turned to me. "The Rangers are a defunct outfit. Once there were hundreds of them, gallivanting here and there, saying they were doing good. But mostly they just pushed people around."
"Yeah, like the time we confiscated six Haints you had locked up in a shack," Rip said. "They didn't seem to mind us pushing you around so much."
"I bought them fair and square, on the open market," said Clyde. "It was completely legal."
"Too bad we shut that market down," said Rip. "If the Rangers were at full strength, things wouldn't be like they is. There was a time when a spirit could go out at night without—."
"Sweet Jiminy," Earl said, throwing his hands up, his gold chains bouncing on his hairy chest. "Do we have to listen to all this again? My ma said, never talk politics in polite company. Let's get back to the game." Earl plopped the deck down in front of Rip.
Rip frowned. "Nobody said nuthin' about this company being polite." He shuffled the cards.
I looked around. Everyone had a stack of chips in front of them. Clyde and Rip had the biggest piles, and the chips looked like the one I'd found in my pocket. Each had a face on it, but they were all different. Also, there were no colors; just black, white, and grey. And I couldn't see any obvious breaks. Some were just slightly lighter or darker than others, like if you sorted 'em out they'd just make a smooth gradient running from black to white. I couldn't see how anyone could tell how much they were worth.
Clyde looked at me. "Do you play?"
Dad always said there's no better way to get in with people, than a good game of poker. And this seemed like my best chance of getting help finding Dad. I nodded. "Is it Texas Hold 'Em?"
"Of course," said Clyde, nodding his fat Gila monster snout. "We are civilized men, aren't we?"
"Excuse me?" said Kelly, all four hands on her hips.
"I was mistaken," said Clyde. "Kelly is far from civilized." He turned back to me. "Do you have any chips?"
"Where's he gonna get chips?" Rip said, passing the deck to Snyde. "He just died." Snyde twisted his snaky head around, and with his mouth, took the top half of the deck, and cut it.
"I've got one," I said, pulling the chip out of my pocket.
"Where'd you get that?" said Rip.
"I just found it in my pocket."
"Maybe he stumbled across it in the desert," said Wallace, trying to wipe a glob of bean juice off his serape.
"Hmm," said Rip, looking at the single chip. "This may be a short game for you."
"How much is it worth?" I said.
"May I inspect your chip?" Clyde said, stretching out a scaly hand.
I gave it to him.
He pulled out a monocle and peered at it. His eye darted to me quickly, then back to the chip. "It's worth one," he said, handing it back.
"It took you all that to say it's a one," said Rip. "We can all see that from here."
"It's everything the boy has. It deserves a thorough evaluation."
"That's called a fence-straddler," said Wallace, "since it's right in the middle."
"The middle?" I said.
"Yeah," Wallace dug through his stack and pulled out the brightest chip he had and the darkest. The light one was so white it seemed to glow. The dark one was so black it seemed to suck in the light around it. "The lighter they get, the more they're worth, and the darker they get, the more they're worth."
"That doesn't make any sense," I said.
"That's the way it is," said Wal. He held up the light and dark chip, "These are both worth about twenty-five."
"Wheeew," Earl whistled. "Those are some big bets right there. Where'd you get your hands on live-ones like that?"
Wal just smiled and tucked the chips back into his pile.
"Twenty-five is a big bet?" I said.
"Around here it is," said Rip. You're just used to betting with money. But these…" he held up a chip, waggling it. "These have real value."
Everyone nodded.
I looked down at my gray chip. "It's only worth one?"
Clyde nodded. "You seem to be short-stacked."
Rip burned the top card and dealt everyone their two hole cards. Since I had only one chip, that meant I'd only get one shot. But still, pulling the cards to me, I felt that rush. It was the rush that comes from pure chance blended up with white-hot skill. I pulled up the edges. Even though there's no way I'd win, or even stay in for a few minutes, I had that feeling, the feeling I got every time I played… like I owned this game.
Wallace and Earl were in the blinds. That means they are forced to bet. Wal threw in one gray chip, and Earl threw in two. It'd only be two more turns before I'd be in the blinds and be forced to bet too. If I didn't win a pot before then, that would be my one and only turn.
I watched everyone look at their cards. Wallace gave a faint grimace, probably pretending he had a bad hand, so I pegged him for having a good one. Snyde the snake pulled up the edges of his cards with his tail, quickly glancing at his chips. That meant he was thinking of betting. He probably had a good hand too. Earl was just staring at the spot where the community cards would be dealt. That meant he was looking for a break, and he had a weak hand. Rip and Clyde were stone-cold pros. I'd have to watch them closely. And Kelly, the grasshopper, was looking back and forth from Rip to Clyde. That meant she thought both of them had better hands than she did.
I peeled back the edges of my cards. It was a Jack♥ and 7♠.
"So, you were in a swimming accident?" said Clyde.
"Uh, yeah," I said.
"Odd," said Clyde. "In all your clothes, like that?" he motioned.
I looked down. I definitely was not dressed for a swim, "Um...well–"
"Swimmers don't always come over in their trunks," said Wallace, "Dying turns you all around. Sometimes you forget what you were wearin'. Take Earl here. He came over buck naked."
Everyone laughed.
"There was a good reason for that," Earl quipped.
"So, you forgot you were swimming?" Clyde said, peering at me.
"I guess so," I said.
"But now you remember?"
"It's all kind of a blur. Really, I'm just trying to find my Dad," I deflected. "We were together when we went in. But I don't see how I could have lost him."
"Don't worry kid," said Wallace. "You're with the Rangers now. We're top-notch trackers. If he's to be found, we'll find him."
"Yes," said Clyde. "Especially if he happens to have a Twinkie on him. Wallace will sniff him out in no time."
I forced back a smile. It was my turn, but I wasn't about to waste my one chip on a Jack, 7. So I folded.
"Come on, kid, you won't get lucky that way," Rip said.
"Dad always says, 'Good odds beat good luck any day.'"
"Kid's smart," said Wallace, nudging the rat with his giant elbow. "Maybe smarter than you."
In the end, the hand went to Clyde, who had pocket aces.
Wal dealt next. I only had two more chances to make a hand. I watched everyone. Wallace and Earl would fold, Snyde looked clueless, and Rip was unreadable. Clyde put his hand on his chips. Oops, big mistake, doing that shows you want to bet, really bad.
I looked at my cards, a 6♠ and a 7♠. I had a chance, like I could get straight, like a 3-4-5-6-7, or even a flush, if I could manage to get 5 spades. But what did Clyde have? It must be something good to make him grab like that. And it's gotta be a better hand than mine, maybe a pair of queens. But man, there was a chance. It could be my only chance.
Kelly and Earl were in the blinds, and were forced to bet. Now it was my turn. I needed to stall. I needed to find out what cards Clyde had. If you get 'em talking, you can get a lot of information out of 'em. I turned to Clyde. "So how come he's the only one around here who's like me?" I said, pointing to Earl.
"Earl?," said Clyde. "You mean human like you?"
I nodded.
"He's a Haint. He's dead, like you."
Now, Clyde had been really chatty earlier, but all of a sudden his sentences were short, like he didn't want to say much, like he was hiding something good. "He's a ghost?" I said.
Everyone cringed. "Oh, man!"
"Don't use the 'G' word," whispered Kelly.
"So hurtful," said Earl, shivering.
"What 'G-word?" I said. "You mean ghos–"
"Awgh, stop saying it!" Everyone winced like I was force-feeding them kale.
Wallace leaned over. "That's about the worst thing you can call a Haint."
"We prefer the term 'Corporeally Differenced,'" said Earl.
"Yeah, whatever, Earl," said Rip. "Just be glad we don't call yous Doorknobs anymore."
"Doorknobs?" I said.
"As in 'deader than'," said Wallace.
"It ain't polite," said Kelly. "But it's not as bad as the 'G' word."
"It's your turn, Chatty Cathy," Rip said to me.
Now, I knew for sure Clyde had a good hand—he hadn't said a single word in the whole conversation. Being tight-lipped is a sure sign you got a good hand. But how good? Did he have the nuts? I could always get lucky if the cards came out right. I could take that pot. But luck is like steak sauce—you only need it when your steak sucks. So I folded, tossing my cards to the burn pile.
I started. "So, if he's a gho… Doorkno–"
"Haint," said Wallace, "Y'all are Haints." Wallace turned over the first three board cards. They came up 5-8-9.
Dangit! That would have been a straight, 5-6-7-8-9! Why didn't I keep that hand? I would have been in. I would have taken the pot for sure. I held in my frustration and kept on with the conversation. "Haint," I said, "If he's a Haint, then what are all y'all?"
"We're Memes," said Rip. Clyde had just raised and Snyde folded. The rat gave Clyde a sideways look and re-raised.
"Meme?" I said. "Like funny pictures on the internet?"
"Not really," said Wallace, folding his hand. Kelly and Earl folded too. "A meme is a thought. It's an idea."
"I don't get it," I said.
"People think things all the time. And thoughts gotta' come from somewhere," Wallace said, spreading his arms wide. "That's us."
"So, right now someone's thinking of a bear in a serape?"
Wallace shook his head, "It's not like that. I'm not a bear Meme. I'm a BBQ baked beans Meme." He pointed to the pot of beans.
"Beans? You make people think of beans?"
"BBQ baked beans," he corrected. "But also, people thinking of BBQ baked beans makes me." He put a hand on his chest.
I gave a funny look.
"It's a chicken and egg thing," said Kelly.
"So, all Memes look like animals?"
"Mostly," said Rip. "It's very popular. But you can look however you want. You'll be able to do it too when you learn how."
"Remember Ricardo," Kelly said with a smile, "For fifty years, he went around with a stapler for a head."
"Ahh, good ol' Stapler Head," mused Rip.
"But I thought this was the Afterlife?" I interjected. "You know, where dead people go."
"They do," said Rip. "But it ain't all mansions and pearly gates. It takes a lot to make your world run."
I remembered Tibs saying something like that. "You run my world?"
"Yeah," said Rip. "Your world's gotta come from somewhere."
"It comes from here?" I said, pointing down at the Mexican blanket.
"Right," said Rip, his whiskers bobbing with his head.
"So what Meme are you?"
"You know when you bend over to pick something up?"
"Yeah."
"Then you stand up and bang the back of your head on a shelf or something?"
I cringed.
"That's me."
Seemed appropriate.
Rip and Clyde were the last in the hand, battling it out, raising and re-raising each other. Rip won it with three jacks. I still kick myself over that. I could have slaughtered him with that straight.
Kelly dealt next. This was it, my absolute last hand. I was in the little blind. That meant I'd be forced to bet. I'd have to throw in my one and only chip. If I didn't make it, I'd be out. Kelly flipped two hole cards my way. It didn't even matter how good they were. I got what I got. My only prayer was that they were better than everyone else's. Then I said the two most dreaded words in the English language, "All-in." And I threw in my only chip.
When you go all-in, all the action stops. Players can match your bet if they want, but there ain't going to be any more rounds of betting. Everyone just turns over their cards, and the dealer tosses out whatever board cards are left. I hate going all-in. Some people seem to do it for fun. Or as a way to be a bully, because most people won't challenge an all-in. I think it's reckless and stupid.
"Call," said Clyde, pushing in a single chip.
"Sure," said Rip, throwing in one.
Wallace, Earl, and Kelly all put in a chip. Everyone was in.
"All right, show 'em," said Kelly.
I flipped over my cards. A pair of 10s! At least that'll play. I just had to hope no one had Jacks, Queens, Kings, or Aces. Piece of cake, right?
Snyde and Earl both had trash hands. Wallace had a 3 and a 5. They must have all thrown in their chips for charity. Rip turned over his cards, a Jack and a Queen. Oh man, that's good. Only Clyde was left. He turned over… two Aces. Really? Again?
Everyone groaned.
"Bad beat, kid," said Rip. "Sorry."
"You could still get lucky," said Kelly, getting ready to turn over the board cards.
I just stared at Clyde's Aces. "Hey, wait a minute," I said. "Those aren't the same A's."
"What?" said Rip.
"The A's on his cards. They're a different font. They're different styles."
Rip leaned in to look at the cards. "They are different." He looked up. "You're cheating?"
Clyde spread his hands. "Surely it's just an old deck. Why would I cheat? There're only seven chips in the pot."
"Why indeed," said Rip, narrowing his eyes. "You willing to shake on it?" Rip thrust his hand out.
Clyde looked at the outstretched hand, his mouth hung open. "Ah, ah… there's no need–"
Wallace picked up my chip. "Hey," he nudged Rip, handing him the chip. "Look at this?"
Rip's eyes got big. He turned to me. "This chip's got your face on it."
"What?" I said. "What's that about?"
Kelly held up a handful of chips. "You know what these are, don't you?"
"No." In the firelight, I could see the faces outlined across the top of the chips.
"They're souls," she said, "from living people in your world."
I just about fell over. "You play for people's souls?"
"Yeah," said Rip, holding out my chip. "But there's no way I should have yours right now."
"Why?" I said.
"'Cuz you're dead!"
"Only living people have chips," said Wal.
"So that means, you're alive," said Rip.
"But I said I was alive."
"Yeah, but when most people say it, they ain't."
Clyde reached into his jacket, pulling a big double-shot .45 Derringer. "Give it here. It's mine."
And like popping corn, everyone drew. Rip went for both Colt Walkers. Wallace reached for his rifle. Earl pulled an automatic. Snyde reached into who-knows-where and came up with a… uh… Thompson submachine gun? A giant, snakey grin spread across his face.
Kelly held up her guitar like a baseball bat.
"Kelly, what're you gonna do with that?" said Wal.
"What?" said Kel, holding it like she was ready for a game of whack-a-mole.
"I told you to bring a gun," Rip said.
"I don't like guns."
"Now what?" said Wal. Guns pointed everywhere.
Earl shrugged. "Maybe we should just start shooting on the count of three."
"I would feel left out," said Kelly.
"Nobody's shooting nobody!" said Rip.
"Speak for yourself," said Clyde, nodding to Snyde.
Snyde pointed the Thompson in Rip's face.
Rip didn't flinch. "The kid's coming with us. Him and his soul."
"Come on, Rip," said Earl, shrugging his big shoulders. "Do you know how much he's worth? An honest-to-goodness Live-one? Complete with a soul."
"Worth's got nothing to do with it," said Rip.
"You know what kinda Memes we'd be with vig like that?" said Earl. "We'd be kings."
"It's not up for discussion, Earl," said Rip.
Earl got tense. That little corner of his eye started to twitch. He wiped his free hand on his purple velvet pants.
"Now, we're all gonna put 'em down at the same time," said Rip, "real slow."
Earl's eyes darted back and forth. He pulled his gun back, closer to his side. That meant he was about to shoot. "Everyone duck!" I yelled, and dove across the blanket. Wallace grabbed me and rolled backward as a purple flame shot from Earl's gun. Rip scrambled back. Kelly gave a powerful grasshopper leap, landing on Earl and knocking his gun away. Wallace grabbed the blanket, giving it a big yank. Everyone tumbled. Chips flew. The rat-tat-tat of Snyde's Thompson made it official.
This was a gun fight.