DOC TOOK THE FREEWAY OUT. THE EASTBOUND LANES TEEMED with VW buses in jittering paisleys, primer-coated street hemis, woodies of authentic Dearborn pine, TV-star-piloted Porsches, Cadillacs carrying dentists to extramarital trysts, windowless vans with lurid teen dramas in progress inside, pickups with mattresses full of country cousins from the San Joaquin, all wheeling along together down into these great horizonless fields of housing, under the power transmission lines, everybody’s radios lasing on the same couple of AM stations, under a sky like watered milk, and the white bombardment of a sun smogged into only a smear of probability, out in whose light you began to wonder if anything you’d call psychedelic could ever happen, or if—bummer!—all this time it had really been going on up north.
Beginning on Artesia, signs directed Doc to Channel View Estates, A Michael Wolfmann Concept. There were the expected local couples who couldn’t wait to have a look at the next OPPOS, as Aunt Reet tended to call most tract houses of her acquaintance. Now and then at the edges of the windshield, Doc spotted black pedestrians, bewildered as Tariq must have been, maybe also looking for the old neighborhood, for rooms lived in day after day, solid as the axes of space, now taken away into commotion and ruin.
The development stretched into the haze and the soft smell of the fog component of smog, and of desert beneath the pavement-model units nearer the road, finished homes farther in, and just visible beyond them the skeletons of new construction, expanding into the unincorporated wastes. Doc drove past the gate till he got to a patch of empty contractor hardpan with street signs already in but the streets not yet paved. He parked at what would be the corner of Kaufman and Broad and walked back.
Commanding filtered views of an all-but-neglected branch of the Dominguez Flood Control Channel forgotten and cut off by miles of fill, regrading, trash of industrial ventures that had either won or failed, these homes were more or less Spanish Colonial with not-necessarily-load-bearing little balconies and red-tile roofs, meant to suggest higher-priced towns like San Clemente or Santa Barbara, though so far there wasn’t a shade tree in sight.
Close to what would be the front gate of Channel View Estates, Doc found a makeshift miniplaza put there basically for the construction folks, with a liquor store, a take-out sandwich place with a lunch counter, a beer bar where you could shoot some pool, and a massage parlor called Chick Planet, in front of which he saw a row of carefully looked-after motorcycles, parked with military precision. This seemed the most likely place for him to find a cadre of badasses. Plus, if they were all here at the moment, then chances were Mickey was, too. On the further assumption that the owners of these bikes were here for recreation and not waiting inside drawn up in formation prepared to kick Doe’s ass, he breathed deeply, surrounded himself with a white light, and stepped in the front door.
"Hi, I’m Jade?" A bubbly young Asian lady in a turquoise cheongsam handed him a laminated menu of services. "And please take note of today’s Pussy-Eater’s Special, which is good all day till closing time?"
"Mmm, not that $14.95 ain’t a totally groovy price, but I’m really trying to locate this guy who works for Mr. Wolfmann?"
"Far out. Does he eat pussy?"
"Well, Jade, you’d know better’n me, fella named Glen?"
"Oh sure, Glen comes in here, they all do. You got a cigarette for me?" He tapped her out an unfiltered Kool. "Ooh, lockup style. Not much eating pussy in there, huh?"
"Glen and I were both in Chino around the same time .: Have you seen him today?"
"Till about one minute ago, when everybody suddenly split. Is there something weird going on? Are you a cop?"
"Let’s see." Doc inspected his feet. "Nah … wrong shoes."
"Reason I ask is, is if you were a cop, you’d be entitled to a free preview of our Pussy-Eater’s Special?"
"How about a licensed PI? Would that—"
"Hey, Bambi!" Out through the bead curtains, as if on a time-out from a beach volleyball game, strode this blonde in a turquoise and orange Day-Glo bikini.
"Oboy,’ Doc said. "Where do we—"
"Not you, Bong Brain," Bambi muttered. Jade was already reaching for that bikini.
"Oh," he said. "Huh … see, is what I thought is, here? where it says ‘Pussy-Eater’s Special’? is what that means is, is that—"
Well … neither girl seemed to be paying him much attention anymore, though out of politeness Doc thought he should keep watching for a while, till finally they disappeared down behind the reception desk, and he wandered away figuring to have a look around. Out into the hallway, from someplace ahead, seeped indigo light and frequencies even darker, along with string-heavy music from half a generation ago from LPs compiled to accompany bachelor-pad fucking.
Nobody was around. It felt like maybe there had been, till Doc showed up. The place was also turning out to be bigger inside than out. There were black-light suites with fluorescent rock ‘n’ roll posters and mirrored ceilings and vibrating water beds. Strobe lights blinked, incense cones sent ribbons of musk-scented smoke ceilingward, and carpeting of artificial angora shag in a variety of tones including oxblood and teal, not always limited to floor surfaces, beckoned alluringly.
As he neared the back of the establishment, Doc began to hear a lot of screaming from outside, along with a massed thundering of Harleys. "Uh-oh. What’s this?"
He didn’t find out. Maybe it was all the exotic sensory input that caused Doc about then to swoon abruptly and lose an unknown amount of his day. Perhaps striking some ordinary object on the way down accounted for the painful lump he found on his head when at length he awoke. Faster, anyhow, than the staff on Medical Center can say "subdural hematoma," Doc dug how the unhip Muzak was silent, plus no Jade, no Bambi, and he was lying on the cement Hoor of a space he didn’t recognize, though the same could not be said for what he now ID’d, far overhead, like a bad-luck planet in today’s horoscope, as the evilly twinkling face of Detective Lieutenant Bigfoot Bjornsen, LAPD.
"CONGRATULATIONS, HIPPIE SCUM," Bigfoot greeted Doc in his all-too-familiar 30-weight voice, "and welcome to a world of inconvenience. Yes, this time it appears you have finally managed to stumble into something too real and deep to hallucinate your worthless hippie ass out of." He was holding, and now and then taking bites from, his trademark chocolate-covered frozen banana.
"Howdy, Bigfoot. Can I have a bite?"
"Sure can, but you’ll have to wait, we left the rottweiler back at the station."
"No rush. And … and where are we at the moment, again?"
”At Channel View Estates, on a future home site where elements of some wholesome family will quite soon be gathering night after night, to gaze tubeward, gobble their nutritious snacks, perhaps after the kids are in bed even attempt some pro creational foreplay, little appreciating that once, on this very spot, an infamous perpetrator lay in a drugged stupor, babbling incoherently at the homicide detective, since risen to eminence, who apprehended him."
They were still within sight of the front gate. Through a maze of stapled-together framing, Doc made out in the afternoon light a blurry vista of streets full of newly poured foundations awaiting houses to go on top of them, trenches for sewer and utility lines, sawhorse barricades with lights blinking even in the daytime, precast storm drains, piles of fill, bulldozers and backhoes.
"Without wishing to seem impatient," the Lieutenant continued, "any time you feel you’d like to join us, we would so like to chat." Uniformed toadies crept about, chuckling in appreciation.
"Bigfoot, I don’t know what happened. Last I recall I was in that massage parlor over there? Asian chick named Jade? and her Anglo friend Bambi?"
"Wishful figments of a brain pickled in cannabis fumes, no doubt," theorized Detective Bjornsen.
"But, like, I didn’t do it? Whatever it is?"
"Sure." Bigfoot stared, snacking amusedly on his frozen banana, as Doc went through the wearisome chore of getting vertical again, followed by details to be worked out such as remaining that way, trying to walk, so forth. Which was about when he caught sight of a medical examiner’s crew with a bloodstreaked human body supine on a gurney, settled into itself like an uncooked holiday turkey, face covered with a cheap cop-issue blanket. Things kept falling out of its pants pockets. Cops had to go scramble in the dirt to retrieve them. Doc found himself freaking out, in terms of his stomach and whatever.
Bigfoot Bjornsen smirked. "Yes, I can almost pity your civilian distress-though if you had been more of a man and less of a ball-less hippie draft dodger, who knows, you might have seen enough over in the ‘Nam to share even my own sense of professional ennui at the sight of one more, what we call, stiff, to be dealt with."
"Who is it?" Doc nodding at the corpse.
"Was, Sportello. Here on Earth we say ‘was.’ Meet Glen Charlock, whom you were asking for by name only hours ago, witnesses will swear to that. Forgetful dope fiends should be more cautious about whom they choose to act out their wacko fantasies upon. Furthermore, on the face of it, you have chosen to ice a personal bodyguard of the rather well-connected Mickey Wolfmann. Name ring a bell? or in your case shake a tambourine? Ah,but here’s our ride."
"Hey—my car … "
"Like its owner, well on the way to impoundment."
"Pretty cold, Bigfoot, even for you."
"Come come, Sporrello, you know we’ll be more than happy to give you a lift. Watch your head."
"Watch my … How ‘m I spoze to do that, man?"
THEY DIDN’T GO downtown but, for reasons of cop protocol forever obscure to Doc, only as far as the Compton station, where they pulled in to the lot and paused next to a battered ’68 El Camino. Bigfoot got out of the black-and-white and went back and opened the trunk. "Here, Sportello—come and give me a hand with this."
"What, excuse me, the fuck," Doc inquired, "is it?"
"Bobwire," replied Bigfoot. ”An eighty-rod spool of authenticated Glidden four-point galvanized. You want to take that side?"
Thing weighed about a hundred pounds. The cop who’d been driving sat and watched them lift it out of the trunk and stash it in the bed of the El Camino, which Doc recalled was Bigfoot’s ride.
"Livestock problems out where you live, Bigfoot?"
"Oh, you’d never use this wire for actual fence, are you crazy, this is seventy years old, mint condition-"
"Wait. You … collect … barbed wire."
Well yes, as it turned out, along with spurs, harness, cowboy sombreros, saloon paintings, sheriffs’ stars, bullet molds, all kinds of Wild West paraphernalia. "That is, if you don’t object, Sportello."
"Whoa easy there Jolly Rancher, ain’t looking for no drawdown ‘th no bobwire collector, man’s own business what he puts in his pickup ain’t it."
"I should hope so," Bigfoot sniffed. "Come on, let’s go inside and see if there’s a cubicle open."
Doc’s history with Bigfoot, beginning with minor drug episodes, stop-and-frisks up and down Sepulveda, and repeated front-door repairs, had escalated a couple of years ago with the Lunchwater case, one more of the squalid matrimonials that were occupying Doc’s time back then. The husband, a tax accountant who thought he’d score some quality surveillance on the cheap, had hired Doc to keep an eye on his wife. After a couple days of stakeouts at the boyfriend’s house Doc decided to go up on the roof and have a closer look through a skylight at the bedroom below, where the activities proved to be so routine—hanky maybe, not much panky—that he decided to light a joint to pass the time, taking one from his pocket, in the dark, more soporific than he had intended. Before long he had fallen asleep and half rolled, half slid down the shallow pitch of the red-tile roof, coming to rest with his head in the gutter, where he then managed to sleep through the events which followed, including hubby’s arrival, considerable screaming, and gunfire loud enough to get the neighbors to call the police. Bigfoot, who happened to be out in a prowl car nearby, showed up to find the husband and the b.f. slain and the wife attractively tousled and sobbing, and gazing at the .22 in her hand as if it was the first time she’d seen one. Doc, up on the roof, was still snoring away.
Fast-forward to Compton, the present day. "What concerns us," Bigfoot was trying to explain, "is this, what we in Homicide like to call, ‘pattern’? Here’s the second time we know of that you’ve been discovered sleeping at the scene of a major crime and unable—dare I suggest ‘unwilling’?—to furnish us any details."
"Lot of leaves and twigs and shit in my hair," Doc seemed to recall. Bigfoot nodded encouragingly. ”And … there was a fire truck with a ladder? which is how I must’ve got down off the roof?" They looked at each other for a while.
"I was thinking more like earlier today," Bigfoot with a touch of impatience. "Channel View Estates, Chick Planet Massage, sort of thing."
"Oh. Well, I was unconscious, man."
"Yes. Yes but before that, when you and Glen Charlock had your fatal encounter … when would you say that was, exactly, in the sequence of events?"
"I told you, the first time I ever saw him, is he was dead."
"His associates, then. How many of them were you already acquainted with?"
"Not normally guys I’d hang with, totally wrong drug profile, too many reds, too much speed."
"Potheads, you’re so exclusive. Would you say you took offense at Glen’s preference for barbiturates and amphetamines?"
"Yeah, I was planning to report him to the Dope Fiend Standards and Ethics Committee."
"Yes, now your ex-girlfriend Shasta Fay Hepworth is a known intimate of Glen’s employer, Mickey Wolfmann. Do you think Glen and Shasta were … you know … " He made a loose fist and slid the middle finger of his other hand back and forth in it for what seemed to Doc way too long. "How did that make you feel, here you are still carrying the torch, and there she is in the company of all those Nazi lowlifes?"
"Do that some more Bigfoot, I think I’m gettin a hardon."
"Tough little wop monkey, as my man Fatso Judson always sez."
"Case you forgot, Lieutenant, you and me are almost in the same business, except I don’t get that free pass to shoot people all the time and so forth. But if it was me over there in your seat, I guess I’d be acting the same way, maybe start in next with remarks about my mother. Or I guess your mother, because you’d be me …. Have I got that right?"
It wasn’t till the middle of rush hour that they let Doc call his lawyer, Sauncho Smilax. Actually Sauncho worked for a maritime law firm over at the Marina called Hardy, Gridley, and Chatfield, and his resume fell a little short in the criminal area. He and Doc had met by accident one night at the Food Giant up on Sepulveda. Sauncho, then a novice doper who’d just learned about removing seeds and stems, was about to buy a flour sitter when he flashed that the people at the checkout would all know what he wanted the sifter for and call the police. He went into a kind of paranoid freeze, which was when Doc, having an attack of midnight chocolate deficiency, came zooming out of a snack-food aisle and crashed his cart into Sauncho’s.
With the collision, legal reflexes reawakened. "Hey, would it be okay if I put this stuff in with your stuff there, like, for a cover?"
"Sure," Doc said, "but if you’re gonna be paranoid, how about all this
chocolate, man . ?"
"Oh. Then … maybe we’d better put in a few more, you know, like,
innocent-looking items …. "
By the time they got to the checkout, they had somehow acquired an extra hundred dollars’ worth of goods, including half a dozen obligatory boxes of cake mix, a gallon of guacamole and several giant sacks of tortilla chips, a case of store-brand boysenberry soda, most of what was in the Sara Lee frozen-dessert case, lightbulbs and laundry detergent for straight-world cred, and, after what seemed like hours in the International Section, a variety of shrink-wrapped Japanese pickles that looked cool. At some point in this, Sauncho mentioned that he was a lawyer;
"Far out. People are always telling me I need a ‘criminal lawyer,’ which, nothing personal, understand, but—"
"Actually I’m a marine lawyer."
Doc thought about this. "You’re … a Marine who practices law? No, wait—you’re a lawyer who only represents Marines …. "
In the course of getting this all straight, Doc also learned that Sauncho was just out of law school at SC and, like many ex-collegians unable to let go of the old fraternity life, living at the beach—not far from Doc, as a matter of fact.
"Maybe you better give me your card," Doc said. "Can’t ever tell.
Boat hassles, oil spills, something."
Sauncho never officially went on retainer, but after a few late-night panic calls from Doc he did begin to reveal an unexpected talent for dealing with bail bondsmen and deskfolk at cop stations around the Southland, and one day they both realized that he’d become, what they call de facto, Doc’s lawyer.
Sauncho now answered the phone in some agitation. "Doc! Have you got the tube on?"
”All’s I get here’s a three-minute call, Saunch, they’ve got me in Compton, and it’s Bigfoot again."
"Yeah well, I’m watching cartoons here, okay? and this Donald Duck one is really been freaking me out?" Sauncho didn’t have that many people in his life to talk to and had always had Doc figured for an easy mark.
"You have a pen, Saunch? Here’s the processing number, prepare to copy—" Doc started reading him the number, real slowly.
"It’s like Donald and Goofy, right, and they’re out in a life raft, adrift at sea? for what looks like weeks? and what you start noticing after a while, in Donald’s close-ups, is that he has this whisker stubble? like, growing out of his beak? You get the significance of that?"
"If I find a minute to think about it, Saunch, but meantime here comes Bigfoot and he’s got that look, so if you could repeat the number back, OK, and—"
"We’ve always had this image of Donald Duck, we assume it’s how he looks all the time in his normal life, but in fact he’s always had to go in every day and shave his beak. The way I figure, it has to be Daisy. You know, which means, what other grooming demands is that chick laying on him, right?"
Bigfoot stood there whistling some country-western tune through his teeth till Doc, not feeling real hopeful, got off the phone.
"Now then, where were we," Bigfoot pretending to look through some notes. "While suspect—that’s you—is having his alleged midday nap, so necessary to the hippie lifestyle, some sort of incident occurs in the vicinity of Channel View Estates. Firearms are discharged. When the dust settles, we find one Glen Charlock deceased. More compellingly for LAPD, the man Charlock was supposed to be guarding, Michael Z. Wolfmann, has vanished, giving local law enforcement less than twenty-four hours before the feds call it a kidnapping and come in to fuck everything up. Perhaps, Sportello, you could help to forestall this by providing the names of the other members of your cult? That would be ever so helpful to us here in Homicide, as well as the chance of a break for you when that 01′ trial date rolls around?"
"The L.A. Times has referred to me more than once as a Renaissance detective," said Bigfoot modestly, "which means that I am many things-but one thing I am not is stupid, and purely out of noblesse oblige I now extend this assumption to cover you as well. No one, in fact, would ever have been stupid enough to try this alone. Which therefore suggests some kind of a Mansonoid conspiracy, wouldn’t you agree?"
After no more than an hour of this sort of thing, to Doe’s surprise, Sauncho actually showed up at the door and started right in with Bigfoot.
"Lieutenant, you know you don’t have any case here, so if you’re going to charge him, you better. Otherwise—"
"Sauncho," Doc hollered, "will you dummy up, remember who this is, how sensitive he gets— Bigfoot, don’t mind him, he watches too many courtroom dramas—"
”As a matter of fact," Detective Bjornsen with the fixed and sinister stare he used to express geniality, "we probably could to trial, but with our luck the jury pool’d be ninety-nine percent hippie freaks, plus some longhair sympathizer of a DDA who’d go and fuck the case all up anyway." take this all the way
"Sure, unless you could get the venue changed," mused Sauncho, "like, Orange County might be—"
"Saunch, which one of us are you working for, again?"
"I wouldn’t call it work, Doc, clients pay me for work."
"We’re only detaining him for his own good," Bigfoot explained.
"He’s closely connected with a high-profile homicide and possible kidnapping, and who’s to say he himself won’t be next? Maybe this’ll turn out to be one of those perpetrators who specially like to murder hippies, though if Sportello’s on their list, I might have a conflict of interest."
”Aww, Bigfoot, you don’t mean that …. If I got knocked off? think of all your time and trouble finding somebody else to hassle."
"What trouble? I go out the door, get in the unit, head up any block, before I know it, I’m driving through some giant damn herd le than the last." of you hippie freaks, each more roustab
"This is embarrassing," said Sauncho. "Maybe you two should find somewhere besides an interrogation cubicle."
The local news came on and everybody went out to the squad room to watch. There on the screen was Channel View Estates-a forlorn-looking view of the miniplaza, occupied by an armored division’s worth of cop vehicles parked every which way with their lights all going, and cops sitting on fenders drinking coffee, and, in close-up, Bigfoot Bjornsen, hair Aqua-Netted against the Santa Anas, explaining, " … apparently a party of civilians, on some training exercise in anti-guerrilla warfare. They may have assumed that this construction site, not yet being open for occupancy, was deserted enough to provide a realistic setting for what we must assume was only a harmless patriotic scenario." The Japanese-American cutie with the microphone turned fullface to the camera and continued, "Tragically, however, live ammunition somehow found its way into these war games, and tonight one ex-prison inmate lies slain while prominent construction mogul Michael Wolfmann has mysteriously vanished. Police have detained a number of suspects for questioning."
Break for commercial. "Wait a minute," said Detective Bjornsen, as if to himself. "This has just given me an idea. Sportello, I believe I shall kick you after all." Doc flinched, but then remembered this was also cop slang for "release." Bigfoot’s thinking on this being that, if he cut Doc loose, it might attract the attention of the real perpetrators. Plus giving him an excuse to keep tailing Doc in case there was something Doc wasn’t telling him.
"Come along, Sportello, let’s take a ride."
”I’m gonna watch the tube here for a while," Sauncho said. "Remember, Doc, this was like fifteen billable minutes."
"Thanks, Saunch. Put it on my tab?"
Bigfoot checked out a semi-obvious Plymouth with little E-for-Exempt symbols on the plates, and they went blasting through the remnants of rush hour up to the Hollywood Freeway and presently over the Cahuenga Pass and down into the Valley.
"What’s this?" Doc said after a while.
”As a courtesy I’m taking you out to the impound garage to get your vehicle. We’ve been over it with the best tools available to forensic science, andexcept for enough cannabis debris to keep an average family of four stoned for a year, you’re clean. No blood or impact evidence we can use. Congratulations."
Doe’s general policy was to try to be groovy about most everything, but when it was his ride in question, California reflexes kicked in. "Congratulate this, Bigfoot."
"I’ve upset you."
"Nobody calls my car a murderer, man?"
"I’m sorry, your car is some kind of … what, pacifist vegetarian?
When bugs come crashing fatally into its windshield, it … it feels remorse? Look, we found it almost on top of Charlock’s body, idling, and tried not to jump to any obvious conclusions. Maybe it intended to give the victim mouth-to-mouth."
"I thought he was shot."
"Whatever, be happy your car’s in the clear, Benzidine doesn’t lie."
"Well yeah … does make me kind of jumpy though, how about you?"
"Not the one with the r in it"-Bigfoot fell for this every time-"oh, but here’s Canoga Park coming up in a few exits, let me just show you something for a minute."
Off the exit ramp, Bigfoot hooked a U-turn without signaling, went back under the freeway and began to climb up into the hills, presently pulling in at a secluded spot that had Shot While Trying to Escape written all over it. Doc began to get nervous, but what Bigfoot had on his mind, it seemed, was job recruitment.
"Nobody can predict a year or two hence, but right now Nixon has the combination to the safe and he’s throwing fistfuls of greenbacks at anything that even looks like local law enforcement. Federal funding beyond the highest number you can think of, which for most hippies is not much further than the number of ounces in a kilo."
"Thirty-five … point … something, everybody knows that—Wait. You, you mean like, Mod Squad, Bigfoot? rat on everybody I ever met, how far back do we go and you still don’t know me any better’n’at?"
"You’d be surprised how many in your own hippie freak community have found our Special Employee disbursements useful. Toward the end of the month in particular."
Doc took a close look at Bigfoot. Jive-ass sideburns, stupid mustache, haircut from a barber college out somewhere on a desolate boulevard far from any current definition of hipness. Right out of the background of some Adam-12 episode, a show which Bigfoot had in fact moonlighted on once or twice. In theory Doc knew that if, for some reason he couldn’t imagine right away, he wanted to see any other Bigfoot, off camera, off duty-even married with kids for all Doc knew, he’d have to look in through and past all that depressing detail. "You married, Bigfoot?"
"Sorry, you’re not my type." He held up his left hand to display a wedding ring. "Know what this is, or don’t they exist on Planet Hippie."
“A-and, you have like, kids?"
"I hope this isn’t some kind of veiled hippie threat."
"Only that … wow, Bigfoot! isn’t it strange, here we both are with this mysterious power to ruin each other’s day, and we don’t even know anything about each other?"
"Really profound, Sportello. Aimless doper’s driveling to be sure, and yet, why, you have just defined the very essence of law enforcement! Well done! I always knew you had potential. So! how about it?"
"Nothing personal, but yours is the last wallet I’d ever want money out of"
"Hey! wake up, it only looks like Happy and Dopey and them skipping around the Magic Kingdom here, what it really is is what we call … ‘Reality’?"
Well, Doc didn’t have the beard, but he was wearing some tire-tread huaraches from south of the border that could pass for biblical, and he began to wonder now how many other innocent brothers and sisters the satanic Detective Bjornsen might’ve led to this high place, his own scenic overlook here, and swept his arm out across the light-stunned city, and offered them everything in it that money could buy. "Don’t tell me you can’t use it. I am aware of the Freak Brothers’ dictum that dope will get you through times of no money better than vice versa, and we could certainly offer compensation in a more, how to put it, inhalable form."
"You mean … "
"Sportello. Try to drag your consciousness out of that old-time hard-boiled dick era, this is the Glass House wave of the future we’re in now. All those downtown evidence rooms got filled up ages ago, now about once every month Property Section has to rent more warehouse space out in deep unincorporated county, bricks and bricks of shit stacked to the roof and spilling out in the parking lot, Acapulco Gold! Panama Red! Michoacan Icepack! numberless kilos of righteous weed, name your figure, just for trivial information we already have anyway. And what you don’t smoke—improbable as that seems—you could always sell."
"Good thing you’re not recruiting for the NCAA, Bigfoot, you’d be in some deep shit."