The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (Guide #1)(69)

The actor obliged and lit the cigarette for her. The crazy alien lady took an impressively long drag and blew it in his face.

“What in God’s name happened to you?” Cash asked. “Did you get caught stealing from the firm or something? How did you end up in a place like this?”

“Typical,” she said. “Whenever someone leaves the entertainment industry, everyone still in the entertainment industry sees it as a giant step backward—like some detrimental failure. Would you even believe me if I told you I left because I wanted to?”

“Of course I would,” Cash said. “I just don’t understand why.”

“It’s hard being a rule keeper in an industry that doesn’t have any rules,” Diane said. “It’s enough to drive you crazy. So I left while I still had some of my sanity.”

“So that’s why you moved to the desert to work inside a flying saucer? Because you were sane?” he asked. “I get leaving the industry, but why sell tacky T-shirts instead of practicing a different kind of law?”

“I thought it’d be a hoot and a nice change of pace—and I was right,” she said. “Elmer and Essie’s son, Doug Fitzpatrick, sold it to me before he died. I bought it at a great price—practically stole it from him. And I’ve had a lot more fun here than I would behind a desk at another law firm. I actually wrote a book about all the crazy people I’ve encountered in this place. The television rights were just optioned by Bad Robot, you know, J.J.’s company.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Cash said. “So the move worked out for you. But you still spend your life selling people a lie? Don’t you get tired of it?”

“No, because I don’t see it that way,” Diane said. “People are going to believe whatever they want to—you know that more than anyone. All I’m doing is giving them a place to believe it in. It’s very similar to what you do—you’re just too wrapped up in yourself right now to see the bright side of it.”

Cash grunted. “It’s hard finding the bright side to being the subject of tabloid gossip and criticism on national television.”

“It won’t always be like that,” she said. “Even presidents aren’t criticized and talked about forever. Soon, they’ll get bored with making things up about you and will want you to entertain them again. It’s a vicious cycle of give and take—but that’s show business. You’re crazy to leave but even crazier to stay.”

“It’s still annoying as hell,” Cash said. “I’ve always known people thought I was the character I play on TV—I just never expected to be punished when they figured out I wasn’t.”

“As annoying as it is, you still get to supply an audience with an escape from their troubles,” Diane said. “Take Doug Fitzpatrick, for example. He spent his whole life and all his savings on a silly roadside attraction to celebrate a family legend. Doug knew the UFO crash was bullshit and sacrificed his reputation by telling people it wasn’t—the whole state thought he was a madman. But do you think Doug died feeling like he was a fraud? Do you think he died thinking about all the people who thought he was crazy? No! Doug died thinking about all the joy he had brought to the world. One day, that’s what you’ll focus on, too, not the annoyances that come with it.”

“So I guess it’s safe to say you don’t believe the truth is out there,” Cash said.

“The truth is out there,” Diane corrected him. “But who wants the truth when they have something better to believe in? And with the world in the shape that it’s in, who could blame them?”

Cash tried really hard not to let the words of the crazy UFO lady resonate with him, but she was starting to make sense.

“I might agree with you, but I still think you’re nuts,” he said.

Diane laughed. “I sell shirts that say PROBE ME, I’M IRISH. Do you think I give a shit about what people think? Now come upstairs and get out of this heat. I’ll treat you and your friends to Strawberry Probesicles—on the house.”





Chapter Eighteen

CARNIVORES

At three thirty on Thursday afternoon, Cash’s attitude still hadn’t changed much since they had left the Teepee Inn—not that the others could blame him. As they walked around Dinoworld, all their moods took a turn for the worse. For one, it was so hot in the New Mexico desert they felt like they were being cooked alive. And just like with the world’s biggest rubber-band ball, it was obvious Dinoworld’s website was run by total liars.

After viewing the images on Dinoworld’s home page, the Downers Grove gang was expecting a colorful and primitive biosphere like in Jurassic Park. Instead, the world’s largest collection of proportionate dinosaur statues was a trailer park—literally. For just ten extra dollars with admission, travelers could park their RVs among the large reptiles for the night. The dinosaur statues were so worn-down it was hard to tell them apart from the motor homes parked throughout the site. Even the nicer ones looked more like weathered pi?atas than the giant creatures that once dominated the earth.

“Oh look, it’s a triceratops,” Sam pointed out.

“That’s just a Volkswagen with its hood popped up,” Joey said.

“You know, none of us were here sixty-five million years ago,” Topher said—always ready with a silver lining. “This could be exactly what the real dinosaurs looked like and Steven Spielberg’s the one who got it wrong.”