Dean Koontz - Tick Tock

She looked at Tommy in a way that no one had ever looked at him before, as though he was green, warty, with a head like a watermelon, and had just stepped out of a flying saucer.

Well, in fact his own mother had looked at him that way when he first talked about being a detective-story writer.

He cleared his throat nervously and said, ‘You’re a pretty good driver.’

Surprisingly she smiled. ‘You really think so?’

‘Actually, you’re terrific.’

‘Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.’

‘Me?’

‘That was some stunt with the Corvette.’

‘Very funny.’

‘You went airborne pretty straight and true, but you just lost control of it in flight.’

‘Sorry about your van.’

‘It comes with the territory,’ she said cryptically.

‘I’ll pay for the repairs.’

‘You’re sweet.’

‘We should stop and get something to block this window.’

‘You don’t need to go straight to a hospital?’

‘I’m okay,’ he assured her. ‘But the rain’s going to ruin your upholstery.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘But-’

‘It’s blue,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘The upholstery.’

‘Yeah, blue. So?’

‘I don’t like blue.’

‘But the damage-’

‘I’m used to it.’

‘You are?’

She said, ‘There’s frequently damage.’

‘There is?’

‘I lead an eventful life.’

‘You do?’

‘I’ve learned to roll with it.’

‘You’re a strange woman,’ he said. She grinned. ‘Thank you.’

He felt disoriented again. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Deliverance,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Deliverance Payne. P-a-y-n-e. It was a hard birth, and my mom has a weird sense of humour.’

He didn’t get it. And then he did. ‘Ah.’

‘People just call me Del.’

‘Del. That’s nice.’

‘What’s your name?

‘Tuong Phan.’ He startled himself. ‘I mean Tommy.’

‘Tuong Tommy?’

‘Tuong nothing. My name’s Tommy Phan.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘You’re a strange man,’ she said, as if that pleased her, as if returning a comptiment.

‘There really is a lot of water coming in this window.’

‘We’ll stop soon.’

‘Where’d you learn to drive like that, Del?’

‘My mom.’

‘Some mother you have.’

‘She’s a hoot. She races stock cars.’

‘Not my mother,’ Tommy said.

‘And power boats. And motorcycles. It has an engine, my mom wants to race it.’

Del braked at a red traffic light.

They were silent for a moment.

Rain poured down as if the sky were a dam and the breast had broken.

Finally Del said, ‘So… back there… That was the doll snake rat-quick little monster thing, huh?’

As they drove, Tommy told Del about the doll on his doorstep, everything up to the moment when it had shorted out the lights in his office. She never gave the slightest indication that she found his story dubious or even, in fact, particularly astonishing. From time to time she said ‘uh-huh’ and ‘hmmmm’ and ‘okay,’ and - two or three times - ‘yeah, that makes sense,’ as if he were telling her about nothing more incredible than what she might have heard on the nightly TV news.

Then he paused in his tale when Del stopped at a twenty-four-hour-a-day supermarket. She insisted on getting a few things to clean the van and close off the shattered window, and at her request, Tommy went shopping with her. He pushed the cart.

So few customers prowled the enormous market that it was almost possible for Tommy to believe that he and Del were in one of those 1950’s science-fiction movies, in which all but a handful of people had vanished from the face of the earth as the result of a mysterious apocalypse that had left buildings and all other works of humanity undisturbed. Flooded with glary light from the overhead fluorescent panels, the long wide aisles were uncannily empty and silent but for the ominous low-pitched hum of the compressors for the refrigerated display cases.

Striding purposefully through these eerie spaces in her white shoes, white uniform, and unzipped black leather jacket, with her wet blond hair slicked straight back and tucked behind her ears, Del Payne looked like a nurse who might also be a Hell’s Angel, equally capable of ministering to a sick man or kicking the ass of a healthy one.

She selected a box of large plastic garbage bags, a wide roll of plumbing tape, a package containing four rolls of paper towels, a packet of razor blades, a tape measure, a bottle of one-gram tablets of vitamin C, a bottle of vitamin-E capsules, and two twelve-ounce bottles of orange juice. From an early-bird display of Christmas decorations, she snatched up a conical, red flannel Santa hat with a fake white fur trim and white pompon.

As they were passing the dairy-and-deli section, she stopped and pointed at a stack of containers in one of the coolers and said, ‘Do you eat tofu?’

Her question seemed so esoteric that Tommy could only repeat it in bafflement, ‘Do I eat tofu?’

‘I asked first.’

‘No. I don’t like tofu.’

‘You should.’

‘Why,’ he asked impatiently, ‘because I’m Asian? I don’t eat with chopsticks, either.’

‘Are you always so sensitive?’

‘I’m not sensitive,’ he said defensively.

‘I didn’t even think about you being Asian until you brought it up,’ she said.

Curiously, he believed her. Though he didn’t know her well, he already knew that she was different from other people, and he was willing to believe that she had just now noticed the slant of his eyes and the burnt-brass shade of his skin.

Chagrined, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was only asking if you ate tofu because if you eat it five times a week or more, then you’ll never have to worry about prostate cancer. It’s a homeopathic preventative.’

He had never met anyone whose conversation was as unpredictable as Del Payne’s. ‘I’m not worried about prostate cancer.’

‘Well, you should be. It’s the third largest cause of death among men. Or maybe fourth. Anyway, for men, it’s right up there with heart disease and crushing beer cans against the forehead.’

‘I’m only thirty. Men don’t get prostate cancer until they’re in their fifties or sixties.’

‘So one day, when you’re forty-nine, you’ll wake up in the morning, and your prostate will be the size of a basketball, and you’ll realize you’re a statistical anomaly, but by then it’ll be too late.’

She plucked a carton of tofu from the cooler and dropped it into the shopping cart.

‘I don’t want it,’ Tommy said.

‘Don’t be silly. You’re never too young to start taking care of yourself.’

She grabbed the front of the cart and pulled it along the aisle, forcing him to keep pace with her, so he didn’t have an opportunity to return the tofu to the cooler.

Hurrying after her, he said, ‘What do you care whether I wake up twenty years from now with a prostate the size of Cleveland?’

‘We’re both human beings, aren’t we? What kind of person would I be if I didn’t care what happens to you?’

‘You don’t really know me,’ he said.

‘Sure I do. You’re Tuong Tommy.’

‘Tommy Phan.’

‘That’s right.’

At the checkout station, Tommy insisted on paying. After all, you wouldn’t have a broken window or all the mess in the van if not for me.’

‘Okay,’ she said, as he took out his wallet, ‘but just because you’re paying for some plumbing tape and paper towels doesn’t mean I have to sleep with you.’