man.”
Jason declined the philosophical argument and drove back to Last Best Chance in
silence.
“Well, if it means anything to you boys, guys are awful broken up over
your alleged demise. Lotta depressed folks in my club these days. Buying plenty
of drinks, though.”
“That’s nice. Hopefully our funerals will be well attended.”
Jason pulled up to the curb in front of the funhouse. Out in the parking lot,
an elastic-legged drunk was supported by two prostitutes.
“Thanks for the smokes, Chance,” Jason told him. “And goodbye
forever.”
Chance nodded at the two of them, stepping out of the Pontiac.
“I’ve heard that one before.” Then he tapped the roof and
walked toward his ramshackle empire. No one was watching them as Jason hit the
gas and pulled away.
“So,” Jason said to his brother, “if the cops had broken up
our meeting with Owney on their own initiative they would have arrested him,
too, which Chance would have heard about by now.”
“Or maybe they weren’t just on to Owney—maybe he did rat on
us,” Whit said. “Maybe the feds offered him starting-out money for
his new church.”
Whit had never been as tight with Owney, perplexed by the many contradictions
between the man’s deeds and his proclaimed holiness. A recent convert to
revolutionary politics, Whit proudly proclaimed himself an atheist, but to
Jason that was just a front for the fact that Whit hadn’t forgiven God
for what He did to Pop. Regardless, anyone who claimed a special relationship
with the Man Upstairs was someone Whit could not understand.
“I just can’t see Owney rolling on us,” Jason said.
“If we assume there even was a rat and that there isn’t some other
explanation, then if it wasn’t Owney, that leaves Brickbat and
Roberts.”
“I wasn’t interested in getting mixed up with them anyway. All I
wanted to know was whether it was safe to try to find Owney and get himin on the next endeavor. My take is maybe, but maybe not.
So let’s avoid the risk and lure Marriner out of retirement
instead.”
“You act like all you’re interested in is doing another endeavor.
Like you couldn’t care less about finding out what happened to us.”
“It’s what I told Chance: I’m not interested in revenge. I
just want to know who to avoid so we can make a score and cash out of this once
and for all.”
Whit looked at Jason incredulously. “You’re saying you don’t
want to figure out what the hell happened to us?”
Jason sighed. As usual, it would be his job to keep them focused. “We can
look into it once we get back on our feet, okay?”
Whit held his hands in front of his face for a moment, staring at them.
He’d been doing that a lot lately, Jason had noticed. “We can still
bleed, you know, if we cut ourselves.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“It hurts, too.”
The stars were still out but they faded as Jason drove back into Lincoln City.
He hadn’t driven with so little fear in weeks—but he did check the
rearview every few minutes, out of habit.
“No one’s following us,” he told his brother. “Being
dead has its advantages.”
V.
D arcy woke amid newspapers, smudges on
her cheek. Her head was a desert scoured by a sandstorm, and she had no memory
of the event or whatever had preceded it, no memory of anything since that
policeman had helped her back to her building. She was in bed, the sun rudely
shouting through the windows, and the first thing she saw when she opened her
eyes was a headline about some FDR speech, and another about the Nazis’
latest grab for power, and another about … Yes, of course. That.
Darcy rose, and was reminded that she should move more slowly. Oh, my. She had
forgotten about hangovers. If she drank in the face of death, what should she
do after she’d stopped drinking? Death didn’t stop, so neither
should the drinking. Sad how easily she slipped into past routines; this was
how she had responded to her mother’s death, and now death was again
chasing
Jason declined the philosophical argument and drove back to Last Best Chance in
silence.
“Well, if it means anything to you boys, guys are awful broken up over
your alleged demise. Lotta depressed folks in my club these days. Buying plenty
of drinks, though.”
“That’s nice. Hopefully our funerals will be well attended.”
Jason pulled up to the curb in front of the funhouse. Out in the parking lot,
an elastic-legged drunk was supported by two prostitutes.
“Thanks for the smokes, Chance,” Jason told him. “And goodbye
forever.”
Chance nodded at the two of them, stepping out of the Pontiac.
“I’ve heard that one before.” Then he tapped the roof and
walked toward his ramshackle empire. No one was watching them as Jason hit the
gas and pulled away.
“So,” Jason said to his brother, “if the cops had broken up
our meeting with Owney on their own initiative they would have arrested him,
too, which Chance would have heard about by now.”
“Or maybe they weren’t just on to Owney—maybe he did rat on
us,” Whit said. “Maybe the feds offered him starting-out money for
his new church.”
Whit had never been as tight with Owney, perplexed by the many contradictions
between the man’s deeds and his proclaimed holiness. A recent convert to
revolutionary politics, Whit proudly proclaimed himself an atheist, but to
Jason that was just a front for the fact that Whit hadn’t forgiven God
for what He did to Pop. Regardless, anyone who claimed a special relationship
with the Man Upstairs was someone Whit could not understand.
“I just can’t see Owney rolling on us,” Jason said.
“If we assume there even was a rat and that there isn’t some other
explanation, then if it wasn’t Owney, that leaves Brickbat and
Roberts.”
“I wasn’t interested in getting mixed up with them anyway. All I
wanted to know was whether it was safe to try to find Owney and get himin on the next endeavor. My take is maybe, but maybe not.
So let’s avoid the risk and lure Marriner out of retirement
instead.”
“You act like all you’re interested in is doing another endeavor.
Like you couldn’t care less about finding out what happened to us.”
“It’s what I told Chance: I’m not interested in revenge. I
just want to know who to avoid so we can make a score and cash out of this once
and for all.”
Whit looked at Jason incredulously. “You’re saying you don’t
want to figure out what the hell happened to us?”
Jason sighed. As usual, it would be his job to keep them focused. “We can
look into it once we get back on our feet, okay?”
Whit held his hands in front of his face for a moment, staring at them.
He’d been doing that a lot lately, Jason had noticed. “We can still
bleed, you know, if we cut ourselves.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“It hurts, too.”
The stars were still out but they faded as Jason drove back into Lincoln City.
He hadn’t driven with so little fear in weeks—but he did check the
rearview every few minutes, out of habit.
“No one’s following us,” he told his brother. “Being
dead has its advantages.”
V.
D arcy woke amid newspapers, smudges on
her cheek. Her head was a desert scoured by a sandstorm, and she had no memory
of the event or whatever had preceded it, no memory of anything since that
policeman had helped her back to her building. She was in bed, the sun rudely
shouting through the windows, and the first thing she saw when she opened her
eyes was a headline about some FDR speech, and another about the Nazis’
latest grab for power, and another about … Yes, of course. That.
Darcy rose, and was reminded that she should move more slowly. Oh, my. She had
forgotten about hangovers. If she drank in the face of death, what should she
do after she’d stopped drinking? Death didn’t stop, so neither
should the drinking. Sad how easily she slipped into past routines; this was
how she had responded to her mother’s death, and now death was again
chasing
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