“You’re a bastard,” she said. “You know that?”

  “Tell me I’m wrong, then.”

  “No,” she said. “No, you’re not wrong.”

  “You know what art is, really?” said Vic. “It’s what you do because you want to, not because you have to.”

  And that kind of closed out the conversation. There were some matters still to be resolved, like what Vic would do next, who he’d become, how he would cover his tracks. But he wasn’t worried about that. As he saw it, he’d been reincarnated without the hassle of having to die, and would happily go where the wind blew him next. Sure he was giving up his brand—Mirplo!—but figured that was a small enough price to pay for getting Allie and me back on the snuke. I guess you call that friendship.

  Woody’s plans were more prosaic. He was going down to Phoenix to hustle golf with Honey. They didn’t really have to, considering the money they’d just made, but they’d do it anyhow. Maybe just to stay sharp. Or maybe because Vic’s right: Art’s what you do because you want to, not because you have to.

  So it looks like I’m going to stay an artist. And we all know what kind.

  36

  Jackalope Prologue

  Much later, I found out about this:

  It’s a cool morning in June. Vic Mirplo, starting artist, has dropped in to see his good friends Radar Hoverlander and Allie Quinn in their Santa Fe home. He’s been worried about them lately. At first he thought it was just noise, all this talk about embracing the straight life. But now they’ve got this adobe abode and catalogs from trade schools—hell, there’s no telling where this nonsense might lead. They’re on the verge of squandering their gift, and that, Vic reckons, is not to be allowed. He wants to talk sense to them, but they’re both so stubborn, he fears he’ll have to show, not tell.

  Radar and Allie aren’t home, but there’s a postcard stuck in their door, a funny one with a picture of a jackalope. Mirplo reads the message scrawled on the back.

  Saw you on YouTube, son.

  What do you say to a grift?

  There’s a phone number, too.

  It’s worth a shot, thinks Vic.

  He pockets the postcard and reaches for his phone.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my agent, Betsy Amster, who kept the faith, and my new and formidable editor, Christine Kopprasch, who directed traffic with grace and aplomb. Sometimes the puzzle seemed more like a ticking time bomb, but we clipped the right wires in the end. Thanks always to my wife, Maxx Duffy, there through thick, thin, and all points in between. Thanks to everyone who loved The California Roll and took the time to tell me so; you inspired me in dark days. And thanks to the scoundrels and scalawags of the real world, who never run out of inventive new grist for my mill.

  Remember, folks, if it seems too good to be true, it is.

  About the Author

  JOHN VORHAUS wears many hats: novelist, poker expert, international creative consultant. When not basking in the sunshine of his California home, he travels the world, teaching and training writers. He swears by Radar’s words: “Love what you do. If you don’t love it, you won’t do it well.” Visit him online at www.johnvorhaus.com.

 

 

  John Vorhaus, The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel

 

 

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