"It's for you," she said.
"Okay," said Mr. Nancy. "Now, ma'am, you make sure those fries are real crisp now. Think burnt." He walked over to the pay phone. "This is he."
"And what makes you think I'm dumb enough to trust you?" he said.
"I can find it," he said. "I know where it is."
"Yes," he said. "Of course we want it. You know we want it. And I know you want to get rid of it. So don't give me any shit."
He hung up the telephone, came back to the table.
"Who was it?" asked Shadow.
"Didn't say."
"What did they want?"
"They were offerin' us a truce, while they hand over the body."
"They lie," said Czernobog. "They want to lure us in, and then they will kill us. What they did to Wednesday. Is what I always used to do," he added, with gloomy pride.
"It's on neutral territory," said Nancy. "Truly neutral."
Czernobog chuckled. It sounded like a metal ball rattling in a dry skull. "I used to say that also. Come to a neutral place, I would say, and then in the night we would rise up and kill them all. Those were the good days."
Mr. Nancy shrugged. He crunched down on his dark brown french fries, grinned his approval. "Mm-mm. These are fine fries," he said.
"We can't trust those people," said Shadow.
"Listen, I'm older than you and I'm smarter than you and I'm better lookin' than you," said Mr. Nancy, thumping the bottom of the ketchup bottle, blobbing ketchup over his burnt fries. "I can get more p**sy in an afternoon than you'll get in a year. I can dance like an angel, fight like a cornered bear, plan better than a fox, sing like a nightingale…"
"And your point here is…?"
Nancy's brown eyes gazed into Shadow's. "And they need to get rid of the body as much as we need to take it."
Czernobog said, "There is no such neutral place."
"There's one," said Mr. Nancy. "It's the center."
Determining the exact center of anything can be problematic at best. With living things-people, for example, or continents-the problem becomes one of intangibles: What is the center of a man? What is the center of a dream? And in the case of the continental United States, should one count Alaska when one attempts to find the center? Or Hawaii?
As the Twentieth Century began, they made a huge model of the USA, the lower forty-eight states, out of cardboard, and to find the center they balanced it on a pin, until they found the single place it balanced.
As near as anyone could figure it out, the exact center of the continental United States was several miles from Lebanon, Kansas, on Johnny Grib's hog farm. By the 1930s the people of Lebanon were all ready to put a monument up in the middle of the hog farm, but Johnny Grib said that he didn't want millions of tourists coming in and tramping all over and upsetting the hogs, so they put the monument to the geographical center of the United States two miles north of the town. They built a park, and a stone monument to go in the park, and a brass plaque on the monument. They blacktopped the road from the town, and, certain of the influx of tourists waiting to arrive, they even built a motel by the monument. Then they waited.
The tourists did not come. Nobody came.
It's a sad little park, now, with a mobile chapel in it that wouldn't fit a small funeral party, and a motel whose windows look like dead eyes.
"Which is why," concluded Mr. Nancy, as they drove into Humansville, Missouri (pop. 1084), "the exact center of America is a tiny run-down park, an empty church, a pile of stones, and a derelict motel."
"Hog farm," said Czernobog. "You just said that the real center of America was a hog farm."
"This isn't about what is," said Mr. Nancy. "It's about what people think is. It's all imaginary anyway. That's why it's important. People only fight over imaginary things."
"My kind of people?" asked Shadow. "Or your kind of people?"
Nancy said nothing. Czernobog made a noise that might have been a chuckle, might have been a snort.
Shadow tried to get comfortable in the back of the bus. He had only slept a little. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Worse than the feeling he had had in prison, worse than the feeling he had had back when Laura had come to him and told him about the robbery. This was bad. The back of his neck prickled, he felt sick and, several times, in waves, he felt scared.
Mr. Nancy pulled over in Humansville, parked outside a supermarket. Mr. Nancy went inside, and Shadow followed him in. Czernobog waited in the parking lot, smoking his cigarette.
There was a young fair-haired man, little more than a boy, restocking the breakfast cereal shelves.
"Hey," said Mr. Nancy.
"Hey," said the young man. "It's true, isn't it? They killed him?"
"Yes," said Mr. Nancy. "They killed him."
The young man banged several boxes of Cap'n Crunch down on the shelf. "They think they can crush us like cockroaches," he said. He had a tarnished silver bracelet circling his wrist. "We don't crush that easy, do we?"
"No," said Mr. Nancy. "We don't."
"I'll be there, sir," said the young man, his pale blue eyes blazing.
"I know you will, Gwydion," said Mr. Nancy.
Mr. Nancy bought several large bottles of RC Cola, a six-pack of toilet paper, a pack of evil-looking black cigarillos, a bunch of bananas, and a pack of Doublemint chewing gum. "He's a good boy. Came over in the seventh century. Welsh."
The bus meandered first to the west and then to the north. Spring faded back into the dead end of winter. Kansas was the cheerless gray of lonesome clouds, empty windows, and lost hearts. Shadow had become adept at hunting for radio stations, negotiating between Mr. Nancy, who liked talk radio and dance music, and Czernobog, who favored classical music, the gloomier the better, leavened with the more extreme evangelical religious stations. For himself, Shadow liked oldies.
Toward the end of the afternoon they stopped, at Czernobog's request, on the outskirts of Cherryvale, Kansas (pop. 2,464). Czernobog led them to a meadow outside the town. There were still traces of snow in the shadows of the trees, and the grass was the color of dirt.
"Wait here," said Czernobog.
He walked, alone, to the center of the meadow. He stood there, in the winds of the end of February, for some time. At first he hung his head, then he began gesticulating.
"He looks like he's talking to someone," said Shadow.
"Ghosts," said Mr. Nancy. "They worshiped him here, over a hundred years ago. They made blood sacrifice to him, libations spilled with the hammer. After a time, the townsfolk figured out why so many of the strangers who passed through the town didn't ever come back. This was where they hid some of the bodies."
Czernobog came back from the middle of the field. His mustache seemed darker now, and there were streaks of black in his gray hair. He smiled, showing his iron tooth. "I feel good, now. Ahh. Some things linger, and blood lingers longest."
They walked back across the meadow to where they had parked the VW bus. Czernobog lit a cigarette, but did not cough. "They did it with the hammer," he said. "Votan, he would talk of the gallows and the spear, but for me, it is one thing…" He reached out a nicotine-colored finger and tapped it, hard, in the center of Shadow's forehead.
"Please don't do that," said Shadow, politely.
"Please don't do that," mimicked Czernobog. "One day I will take my hammer and do much worse than that to you, my friend, remember?"
"Yes," said Shadow. "But if you tap my head again, I'll break your hand."
Czernobog snorted. Then he said, "They should be grateful, the people here. There was such power raised. Even thirty years after they forced my people into hiding, this land, this very land, gave us the greatest movie star of all time. She was the greatest there ever was."
"Judy Garland?" asked Shadow.
Czernobog shook his head curtly.
"He's talking about Louise Brooks," said Mr. Nancy.
Shadow decided not to ask who Louise Brooks was. Instead he said, "So, look, when Wednesday went to talk to them, he did it under a truce."
"Yes."
"And now we're going to get Wednesday's body from them, as a truce."
"Yes."
"And we know that they want me dead or out of the way."
"They want all of us dead," said Nancy.
"So what I don't get is, why do we think they'll play fair this time, when they didn't for Wednesday?"
"That," said Czernobog, "is why we are meeting at the center. Is…" He frowned. "What is the word for it? The opposite of sacred?"
"Profane," said Shadow, without thinking.
"No," said Czernobog. "I mean, when a place is less sacred than any other place. Of negative sacredness. Places where they can build no temples. Places where people will not come, and will leave as soon as they can. Places where gods only walk if they are forced to."
"I don't know," said Shadow. "I don't think there is a word for it."
"All of America has it, a little," said Czernobog. "That is why we are not welcome here. But the center," said Czernobog. "The center is worst. Is like a minefield. We all tread too carefully there to dare break the truce."
They had reached the bus. Czernobog patted Shadow's upper arm. "You don't worry," he said, with gloomy reassurance. "Nobody else is going to kill you. Nobody but me."
Shadow found the center of America at evening that same day, before it was fully dark. It was on a slight hill to the northwest of Lebanon. He drove around the little hillside park, past the tiny mobile chapel and the stone monument, and when Shadow saw the one-story 1950s motel at the edge of the park his heart sank. There was a black Humvee parked in front of it-it looked like a jeep reflected in a fun-house mirror, as squat and pointless and ugly as an armored car. There were no lights on inside the building.
They parked beside the motel, and as they did so, a man in a chauffeur's uniform and cap walked out of the motel and was illuminated by the headlights of the bus. He touched his cap to them, politely, got into the Humvee, and drove off.
"Big car, tiny dick," said Mr. Nancy.
"Do you think they'll even have beds here?" asked Shadow. "It's been days since I slept in a bed. This place looks like it's just waiting to be demolished."
"It's owned by hunters from Texas," said Mr. Nancy. "Come up here once a year. Damned if I know what they're huntin'. It stops the place being condemned and destroyed."
They climbed out of the bus. Waiting for them in front of the motel was a woman Shadow did not recognize. She was perfectly made-up, perfectly coiffed. She reminded him of every newscaster he'd ever seen on morning television sitting in a studio that didn't really resemble a living room.
"Lovely to see you," she said. "Now, you must be Czernobog. I've heard a lot about you. And you're Anansi, always up to mischief, eh? You jolly old man. And you, you must be Shadow. You've certainly led us a merry chase, haven't you?" A hand took his, pressed it firmly, looked him straight in the eye. "I'm Media. Good to meet you. I hope we can get this evening's business done as pleasantly as possible."