Editor’s note: Jim Union’s Christian name is Richard Schlong, and he was once a private eye; kidnapped by his former nemesis, Kaufman (now known as “K.”), and subjected to plastic surgery, Richard has now become an agent for an agency that doesn’t exist–operating under the name: Jim Union.

“I don’t like the look of that place.”

“Yuck! Looks like a chum pail,” my car responded.

I shouldn’t call her “my car.” Sure, she had a 289, but she also had Scarlett Johansson’s voice, and — giving her the benefit of the doubt — a better brain.

She looked like a navy 1964 Ford Fairlane. Her name was KAT. I didn’t know what it stood for, but she stood for free love and revving the most out of life. I’d never had a finer traveling companion. Bob Dylan was up there, but I wouldn’t call those rides “fine.”

Anyway, here we were, KAT and I, in Arkansas, just before sundown.

I pointed to Nana’s Grill & Diner. “What about that one?”

“Ooh, the coffee is free!” KAT squealed.

“Alright, don’t misfire on me. We’ll check it out.”

We pulled into the lot. An elderly couple hobbled out. The old woman had tubes in her nose and pink sweatpants.

KAT said, “Cream with three sugars, please.”

“Now, KAT…”

“Don’t ‘Now KAT’ me!”

“You know it’s not good for you. You were designed to intake organic, fair trade, black coffee.”

“So were you!”

She had me there. The radio buzzed. I said, “Hold that thought.”

“It’s K.,” KAT said.

“Surprise.” I hit the radio.

K’s nasal English accent wafted through the radio like a cigarette lit after being left in the rain. “W-what’s that?”

I paused. “What’s what?”

“Could’ve sworn I just heard something about a…” He paused for a few seconds. “…unforseen event.”

KAT said, “You mean a surprise?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“I was referring to how unsurprising it was that it was you who was calling on the top-secret car radio phone, K.,” I said.

A moment’s silence.

K. said, “Wouldn’t happen to be some sort of bird, would it?”

I scowled. “What?”

K.’s voice trembled. “Awfully frightened of birds, old chap.”

“I hear you,” I said. “I’m not a fan either –”

“Those… terrible little eyes–”

“The way they move their friggin’ necks–”

“I don’t like when they crap on me,” KAT offered.

K. got down to business.

“We’re sending you to Little Rock,” he said. “There’s someone new.”

I lit a cigarette. “News flash, K.”

“Nude flash?”

I continued, “There’s someone new everyone second.”

KAT gave a grunted sigh and said, “You know what he means.”

I opened the door. “We’re gonna need that coffee.”

20 minutes later we were on the interstate and roaring toward Little Rock. Well, not roaring: K’s gadgeteer had retrofitted KAT with a clear, quiet, green engine, Neil Young-style. She purred like a kitten. She was an automotive Audrey Hepburn.

“So it’s not the Fat Chef,” I said.

“Of course not,” K. said. “He’s safely ensconced in our morgue.”

“Pig in a blanket,” I quipped. KAT giggled. I affectionately caressed the stick shift.

“Fine joke, Union. Excellent work. Now here’s what we know about our antagonist: he smokes, he’s middle-aged, he wears suits, he likes shadows, he has a gas problem.”

“Where’ll we find him?”

“There’s a Chevron station, on the west end of town…”

K. gave us the address. KAT memorized it. You know the stereotype about women being good with directions? Imagine a female car.

I said, “Why is this smoking man a threat?”

“Frankly,” K. said, “because he smokes near gasoline.”

There were a few beats of my heart in surprised silence, a few thousand revolutions in KAT’s engine.

KAT said, “Really?”

“‘Fraid we’re a bit inspiration-destitute this time around, chaps,” K. admitted.

This was a southern adventure as charmless as the southern adventure Bond movie, “Live and Let Die,” in which Roger Moore’s 007 was uncharacteristically sadistic in his pursuit of racist stereotypes.

“I haven’t seen that one,” KAT said, as we took the rollercoaster-sloping exit into Little Rock.

“You’re missing nothing,” I said. “Except maybe Jane Seymour.”

I added, “Can you even watch movies?”

“Of course!” KAT beamed.

“We should go to a drive-in sometime.”

Little Rock isn’t little, nor does it rock. It’s like someone took a chunk of Detroit and added breathing room. The air I was breathing outside the Chevron station was as fresh as Jim Morrison’s arteries after he moved to Paris. The sun was going down like Morrison’s cholesterol never did.

I glanced to my right. A middle-aged man in a suit had come up beside KAT. He was smoking a cigarette.

“Agent Mulder?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well dammit,” he said. He took another puff, staring into my eyes. His stare was two hot embers. He smoked while he did it. Then he turned and walked back toward the convenience store.

“That must be him!” KAT said.

“You think?”

“Yes. Look what he’s doing!”

The smoking man was opening his arms, leaping forward and hugging himself, as if trying to catch an insect in an embrace.

“What the hell is he doing?”

“He loves the shadows!” KAT said.

“Dammit, KAT, you’re right. It is him.”

The smoking man wandered over by a gasoline station. He said, “Hmph.”

He dropped the cigarette.

The place exploded.