shrugged again.
The guy looked around, stomping his feet to keep them warm and blowing into his cupped hands. His gloves were missing all the fingertips. His breath turned the air into clouds. “I’m Y,” he offered.
But Frankie heard “I’m why?” and he couldn’t answer that.
“Y,” the guy repeated. “Y’s my name.”
Frankie shoved his hands in his pockets. Why’s his name what?
“You know,” the guy persisted. “Y. Like the letter. Like the chromosome. What’s your name?”
“Frank Perdue.” He heard the words of his name come out of his mouth.
“Frank Perdue! You mean like the chicken dude?”
Here we go, Frank thought, gritting his teeth. It usually ended in a fight.
But the creep wasn’t laughing. “Way cool. You his kid or something?”
“No way,” Frank said. “My parents are dead. No relation to the chickens.”
Y nodded. “Too bad. That guy’s a rich motherfucker.” His eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to say something more, but then he stopped. “Sorry about your parents. So you work here or what?”
“I’m the janitor.”
“Awesome. We’ve been waiting for you.”
He pounded on the side of the vehicle. The door opened again, and another guy stepped out. He must have just gotten up, because he was digging his fingers around in his eye sockets behind his glasses. The thick lenses bobbed up and down. A woman followed, wrapped in a long printed skirt and bundled like the others in layers of sweaters. She had wavy brown hair and a silver ring through her nose. “Hey,” she said, smiling.
“Well?” the guy with the glasses asked. “Have we reached an agreement?”
Y shook his head. The guy looked at Frank. “We want your oil.”
“Huh?”
“Your french-fry oil. The old stuff from the deep fryer that you throw away.”
“What for?”
“It’s our fuel, dude. Biodiesel. We run off it.” The guy turned to the vehicle and raised his arm like a used-car salesman in a lot full of cream puffs. “This,” he said, beaming, “is the Spudnik!” He lumbered down the steps and stood next to Frank. “It’s a common diesel engine, modified to run on vegetable oil. Quite elegant, if I do say so myself. Fuel’s free. She gets twenty-one miles to the gallon on the highway, and on the interstates of America you’re never too far from a fuel source. Seems to prefer McDonald’s to KFC, but she’ll run on just about anything, even Dunkin’ Donuts. Been across the country twice now.”
Frank blew air. “Awesome.”
“You said it.”
The guy held out his hand. Frankie shook it.
“Name’s Geek, by the way. Kind of goes without saying. That’s Lilith. You met Y. What’s your name?”
“Frank,” said Frank.
“Not just Frank,” said Y. “Not just any old Frank. This here’s Frank Perdue, but he’s no relation to the chickens.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Geek. “So, Frank Perdue, how about the oil, then?”
“It doesn’t get changed until tomorrow.”
Geek looked at Y, who cocked his head toward the door. Lilith banged on the side of the vehicle. “Char, le rat, s’il tu plaît!”
A matted head poked out, covered with wild black hair that looked like it had been chopped with a hacksaw. Chunks of it curtained a small, pointed face. Dark brows. Large, animal eyes, liquid and quick. Looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old, Frank figured. Spooky.
“This is Char,” said Lilith.
The kid peeled open the seal on a plastic freezer bag and pulled out something fur covered and dead.
“Voilà.”
It swung back and forth from a stiffened tail. Frank watched it, transfixed. He didn’t get it.
“C’est un rat.”
“We’ll dip it in the oil,” said Lilith. “Then you can show your manager. Say you found it in the fryer.”
Frank got it. “Is it frozen?”
“Yeah, but you can defrost it in the microwave.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Char sets traps down by the rail yards.”
“Hey, that’s sick,” Frankie said.
The kid smiled shyly.
Frank hesitated now. “We never had a rat in the fryer before.”
“Hey,” Lilith said. “Rodents happen.”
He led them to the service entrance, unlocked the door, and flicked on the overhead fluorescents. The four of them filed in after him, carrying empty metal drums. Illuminated against the white tile, they looked mangy and sly. Frankie eyed them as he stashed his skateboard in the corner. He looked at the mud on the floor, dislodged from the deeply treaded soles of their combat boots, and he wondered if they were going to freak out and rob him and tie him up and stick him in the freezer, and if they did, would the police be able to trace them from the footprints? He’d heard about cults. Even hippie retards could lose it. They headed straight for the kitchen.
“Hey,” Frank called after them. “Just give me a minute, will ya?” He kept his jacket on and put on his cap. If he was going to get locked in the freezer, he wanted to be in uniform. By the time he got to the kitchen, they were draining the fryers. They even knew where the fresh oil was kept.
“You just go about your chores there,” Geek said. “We’ll take care of this.”
The entire operation took less than half an hour. Frank held the door as Y and Geek hauled out three drums of old fry oil. Lilith followed, carrying two industrial-size wheels of toilet paper and a couple stacks of coffee filters. Char sidled up to Frank and handed him the rat in a Big Mac container.
“Char’s already nuked it for you,” said Geek. “Just tell your boss you made an executive decision.”
Frank looked down at the oily rodent, curled in the hamburger container.
“Thanks, Frank Perdue.” Lilith handed the heavy rolls to Char. She rested her hands on Frank’s shoulders, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Spinning on her steel-toed combat boot, she waved and floated out the door.
“Sure thing,” he said to the empty doorway. He felt the blood, like windburn, redden his face. He heard a noise and spotted Char—the huge, dark eyes watching from behind the curtain of hair, the quizzical smile. Frank scowled and raised his middle finger, flipping the kid the bird, and in response the kid slowly stuck out a slim, red tongue. A silver ball lay on its spongy surface like a shiny offering, then, quick as a wink, the tongue was gone. The kid grinned and slipped out the door, past Geek, who was coming back in.
“You did us a solid, bro,” he said. “We’ll be over in the Kmart lot. Come by after work. Have a meal. Char’s an awesome cook.”
Frankie stood in the doorway like a hostess watching the guests leave the party. He sighed and closed the door. You do someone a favor, he thought, surveying the black boot prints marring the linoleum, and what do you get? A rat in a box and the privilege of cleaning up after. But heading back from school that afternoon, he decided to swing by the Kmart after all. Dudes like that didn’t just show up every