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A bearded white guy, probably thirty, came out of the tent holding a long-stemmed pipe. “I’m afraid you can’t park here.” He wore a homburg hat whose brim was trimmed with ball fringe, an open yellow shirt with at least ten necklaces and beads layered on his chest, jodhpurs tucked into high boots, fingerless gloves, and an intricately beaded fanny pack that announced him as JEFE.
“What are you the chief of?” Brian asked. “Police?”
“Sorry. Didn’t catch that reference, I’m afraid.” He spoke with a slight affectation, as if he’d spent a week at a British boarding school.
“Your fanny pack. It says you’re theJEFE.”
He looked down and the affectation disappeared briefly. “Oh. No, I’m Jeff.” He brushed some stems off the fanny pack and sure enough, the JEFE became simply JEFF. “But truly, you can’t park here.” He pointed down the road, the way they’d come. “Parking is limited to the full lot you see before you”—he nodded with his head, the fringe balls on his hat shaking—“and back yonder, along incoming road.”
“We won’t be here long,” Kinnick said. “I just need to find my daughter. It’s kind of an emergency. It’s her kids.”
He felt bad making it sound like Bethany’s children were hurt, or in immediate danger. They were safe and sound with Joanie in the trailer back in Ford, filling up on maple cookies and hot chocolate, Asher no doubt grilling Joanie about Native Americans while the increasingly quiet Leah kept her own adolescent counsel, seeming more and more like the teenaged Bethany of his memory.
Jefe Jeff was still staring at Brian’s Bronco, parked in front of his RUSHROOMRIDESsign. “I’m really not trying to be difficult, but you absolutely need tribal approval to park here.”
“And what tribe is that?” Brian asked. He was already getting agitated.
“Right,” Jeff said, “the Paititi Tribal Council.” He pointed. “Thataway.”
“I have a cousin on the Spokane Tribal Council,” said Brian. “Does that count?”
Looking to keep Brian from getting too worked up, Kinnick cleared his throat. “Do you happen to know where the bands might be staying?”
“There is another campground, near the stages, up the hill.” Jeff pointed through the festival grounds. “Some of the musicians stay up there.”
“What are ‘rushrooms,’ anyway?” Brian asked.
Jeff leaned in and confided, his faint accent disappearing again. “Oh, it’s just regular psilocybin, man,” he said. “I got the name fromLegend of Zelda. I thought it sounded cool. I’m a guide. You know? For trips? Acid. Shrooms. Whatever you want.”
“Do you happen to know where I might find The Boofs?” Kinnick asked.
Jeff scrunched up one eye. “Yeah, I would not do that if I were you. Not at your age.”
“Do what?”
“Boof. But if you do, there are a couple of things you really need to remember.” He looked from Kinnick to Brian and back. “First, donotshare straws. And second, whatever you do, do not reverse the straw. That thing only goes in one way.”
“No,” Kinnick said. “The Boofs is the name of the band I’m looking for. It’s my daughter’s old boyfriend’s band.”
“Oh, oh! I see,” Jeff said. “Clever.”
Kinnick didn’t want to ask the next question, but he knew he had to. “But you might as well tell me, so I stop making an ass of myself—what is it?”
“Boofing? Ah, yes.” Jeff laughed. “Ass of yourself, indeed. Well, it’s having someone blow drugs, usually ketamine or molly water, straight up your butthole.”
“Of course it is.” Brian had to turn away, every preconception confirmed.
“The kids are quite into it,” Jeff said, as if he and Kinnick and Brian were suddenly a group of wizened old peers. “Supposedly it gives you a faster, more direct high.” Again, with the confiding, nonaffected voice. “But between you and me... the day I resort to blowing drugs up my shitter to get off? Well—” He put his hands out, as if—enough said. “But as I am unfamiliar with the particular band of which you speak, perhaps you could go ask the Inkarri. I’m sure he can tell you where to find these Boofs of yours.”
“The—” Kinnick wasn’t sure what he’d just heard.
“Inkarri? He’s like the unofficial mayor of the festival. He’s named for the last leader of the Incas. The real Inkarri’s body was cut up by the Spaniards and spread out for miles, but legend has it that his body will reform itself one day and lead the people to a new paradise.”
“Which is...” Kinnick screwed up his face. “An electronica festival?”
Jeff laughed. “I guess. Here at Paititi, we choose an honorary Inkarri on the first day, and he’s in charge of thePachamama, the grounds, and he runs theRunakuna, the tribal council, inCusco.Paititibeing the last paradise of the Incas.”
“Youdoknow you’re in Canada, right?” Brian said. “Not Peru.”