Free Basilisk by Graham Masterton

charge. We’re a private contractor, no connection to the zoo.’
    ‘If you think I’m going to pay you to get my own car back, then you’re out of your mind.’
    The tow truck driver shrugged. Then he switched off his engine and picked up a copy of the sports section. ‘Bad Call, Sloppy Ball Costs Phils Against Cubs.’
    Nathan turned away. It took all of his self-control not to pick up the concrete-based sign saying NO PUBLIC PARKING and smash it against the tow truck door.
    Patti came up and said, ‘Hey – they’re, like, towing your car? That’s so not appreciative.’
    Just then, her cellphone played ‘Oops . . . I Did It Again.’ She flipped it open and said, ‘Yes? Who? Really? You’re kidding me! You’re kidding me! OK, then.’
    She came up to Nathan and said, ‘That drink . . . I’ll have to take a rain check. Some seventy-year-old woman in Fishtown has just been arrested for strangling her spaniel. And cooking it. Spaniel cheesesteak, can you imagine?’
    ‘OK, whatever,’ Nathan told her. He wasn’t really listening. He took out his wallet and counted out fifty dollars. He walked back to the tow truck and held the money up in front of the driver’s open window. His hand was shaking. ‘Here you go. Here’s your fifty bucks. I surrender.’
    The driver climbed down from his cab. He took the money and counted it, licking his thumb to separate the bills.
    ‘Do you know what my motto is?’ he said, as he tucked it into his pocket. ‘Never beat your head against a brick wall. You know why? Because it’s brick.’
    Instead of going to Fado’s, Nathan drove home. He was depressed, but he didn’t relish drinking whiskey on his own, staring at his unkempt reflection in the mirror of a noisy Irish bar. Besides, it was raining again, heavily, and he didn’t feel like driving around and around with his windshield wipers flapping, looking for someplace to park.
    As he arrived outside his house, he heard loud music coming from Denver’s bedroom. He opened the front door and it was almost deafening.
    He went upstairs and knocked on Denver’s door. There was no answer, so he opened it. Denver and his friend Stu Wintergreen were standing in the middle of the room, their knees bent, their eyes screwed tight shut, flinging their hair from side to side and thrashing wildly at two invisible guitars.
    Nathan watched them for a while. But then Stu opened his eyes and saw him standing in the doorway. He pushed Denver so hard that Denver almost lost his balance.
    Denver turned around, and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment.
    ‘Who’s this?’ Nathan shouted, over the music.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Who’s this? Which band?’
    Denver looked baffled for a moment, especially since Nathan hadn’t asked him what the hell he was doing out of school.
    ‘Pig Destroyers!’ he shouted back, in his hoarse-teenage voice.
    ‘Pig Destroyers, huh?’
    ‘They’re a deathgrind band from Virginia! This track is called “Rotten Yellow”!’
    ‘I see! They’re pretty good, aren’t they?’ He paused. ‘Pretty loud, anyhow!’
    Stu blinked at him from behind his thick-rimmed eyeglasses. ‘They’re totally awesome!’
    Denver gave him a push, as if to warn him not to be so friendly to his dad. But Nathan said, ‘OK. See you guys later,’ and closed the door.
    So Denver wanted to take a day off school, and jump around in his bedroom pretending to be a Pig Destroyer? Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter any more.
    It stopped raining around three p.m. The sun started to glitter on the pavement outside, and Denver and Stu put on their windbreakers and sneakers to go out. Nathan was sitting on the living-room couch with his laptop and a cold can of pale ale, and Diagnosis Murder was playing on the television with the sound turned off.
    ‘Pops? We’re going over to Stu’s house to play Halo 3 .’
    ‘OK.’
    Denver hesitated. ‘Tell Mom I’ll be back around six, OK?’
    ‘OK.’
    An even longer hesitation. Then