11/22/63: A Novel (33 page)

“I hear you,” I said. “Thanks for the tip. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor and not hold you to that five when the Yankees win the Series.”

The following day I entered Chaz Frati’s Mermaid Pawn & Loan, where I was confronted by a large, stone-faced lady of perhaps three hundred pounds. She wore a purple dress, Indian beads, and moccasins on her swollen feet. I told her I was interested in discussing a rather large sports-oriented business proposal with Mr. Frati.

“Is that a bet in regular talk?” she asked.

“Are you a cop?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, bringing a Tiparillo out of one dress pocket and lighting it with a Zippo. “I’m J. Edgar Hoover, my son.”

“Well, Mr. Hoover, you got me. I’m talking about a bet.”

“World Series or Tigers football?”

“I’m not from town, and wouldn’t know a Derry Tiger from a Bangor Baboon. It’s baseball.”

The woman stuck her head through a curtained-off doorway at the back of the room, presenting me with what was surely one of central Maine’s largest backsides, and hollered, “Hey Chazzy, come out here. You got a live one.”

Frati came out and kissed the large lady on the cheek. “Thank you, my love.” His sleeves were rolled up, and I could see the mermaid. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. George Amberson’s the name.” I offered my hand. “I’m from Wisconsin, and although my heart’s with the hometown
boys, when it comes to the Series my wallet’s with the Yankees.”

He turned to the shelf behind him, but the large lady already had what he wanted—a scuffed green ledger with PERSONAL LOANS on the front. He opened it and paged to a blank sheet, periodically wetting the tip of his finger. “How much of your wallet are we talking about, cuz?”

“What kind of odds could I get on five hundred to win?”

The fat woman laughed and blew out smoke.

“On the Bombers? Even-up, cuz. Strictly even-up.”

“What kind of odds could I get on five hundred, Yankees in seven?”

He considered, then turned to the large lady. She shook her head, still looking amused. “Won’t go,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, send a telegram and check the line in New York.”

I sighed and drummed my fingers on a glass case filled with watches and rings. “Okay, how about this—five hundred and the Yankees come back from three games to one.”

He laughed. “Some sensayuma, cuz. Just let me consult with the boss.”

He and the large lady (Frati looked like a Tolkien dwarf next to her) consulted in whispers, then he came back to the counter. “If you mean what I think you mean, I’ll take your action at four-to-one. But if the Yankees don’t go down three-to-one and then bounce all the way back, you lose the bundle. I just like to get the terms of the wager straight.”

“Straight as can be,” I said. “And—no offense to either you or your friend—”

“We’re married,” the large lady said, “so don’t call us friends.” And she laughed some more.

“No offense to either you or your wife, but four-to-one doesn’t make it.
Eight
-to-one, though . . . then it’s a nice piece of action for both sides.”

“I’ll give you five-to-one, but that’s where it stops,” Frati said. “For me this is just a sideline. You want Vegas, go to Vegas.”

“Seven,” I said. “Come on, Mr. Frati, work with me on this.”

He and the large lady conferred. Then he came back and offered six-to-one, which I accepted. It was still low odds for such a crazy bet, but I didn’t want to hurt Frati too badly. It was true that he’d set me up for Bill Turcotte, but he’d had his reasons.

Besides, that was in another life.

Back then, baseball was played as it was meant to be played—in bright afternoon sunshine, and on days in the early fall when it still felt like summer. People gathered in front of Benton’s Appliance Store down in the Low Town to watch the games on three twenty-one-inch Zeniths perched on pedestals in the show window. Above them was a sign reading WHY WATCH ON THE STREET WHEN YOU CAN WATCH AT HOME?
EASY CREDIT TERMS!

Ah, yes. Easy credit terms. That was more like the America I had grown up in.

On October first, Milwaukee beat the Yankees one to nothing, behind Warren Spahn. On October second, Milwaukee buried the Bombers, thirteen to five. On the fourth of October, when the Series returned to the Bronx, Don Larsen blanked Milwaukee four-zip, with relief help from Ryne Duren, who had no idea where the ball was going once it left his hand, and consequently scared the living shit out of the batters who had to face him. The perfect closer, in other words.

I listened to the first part of that game on the radio in my apartment, and watched the last couple of innings with the crowd gathered in front of Benton’s. When it was over, I went into the drugstore and purchased Kaopectate (probably the same giant economy size bottle as on my last trip). Mr. Keene once more asked me if I was suffering a touch of the bug. When I told him that I felt fine, the old bastard looked disappointed. I
did
feel fine, and I didn’t expect that the past would throw me exactly the same Ryne Duren fastballs, but I felt it best to be prepared.

On my way out of the drugstore, my eye was attracted by a display with a sign over it that read TAKE HOME A LITTLE BIT O’ MAINE! There were postcards, inflatable toy lobsters, sweet-smelling bags of soft pine duff, replicas of the town’s Paul Bunyan statue, and small decorative pillows with the Derry Standpipe on them—the Standpipe being a circular tower that held the town’s drinking water. I bought one of these.

“For my nephew in Oklahoma City,” I told Mr. Keene.

The Yankees had won the third game of the Series by the time I pulled into the Texaco station on the Harris Avenue Extension. There was a sign in front of the pumps saying MECHANIC ON DUTY 7 DAYS A WEEK—TRUST YOUR CAR TO THE MAN WHO WEARS THE STAR!

While the pump-jockey filled the tank and washed the Sunliner’s windshield, I wandered into the garage bay, found a mechanic by the name of Randy Baker on duty, and did a little dickering with him. Baker was puzzled, but agreeable to my proposal. Twenty dollars changed hands. He gave me the numbers of both the station and his home. I left with a full tank, a clean windshield, and a satisfied mind. Well . . .
relatively
satisfied. It was impossible to plan for every contingency.

Because of my preparations for the following day, I dropped by The Lamplighter for my evening beer later than usual, but there was no risk of encountering Frank Dunning. It was his day to take his kids to the football game in Orono, and on the way back they were going to stop at the Ninety-Fiver for fried clams and milkshakes.

Chaz Frati was at the bar, sipping rye and water. “You better hope the Braves win tomorrow, or you’re out five hundred,” he said.

They
were
going to win, but I had bigger things on my mind. I’d stay in Derry long enough to collect my three grand from
Mr. Frati, but I intended to finish my real business the following
day. If things went as I hoped, I’d be done in Derry before Milwaukee scored what would prove to be the only run they needed in the sixth inning.

“Well,” I said, ordering a beer and some Lobster Pickin’s, “we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“That’s right, cuz. It’s the joy of the wager. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Nope. Just as long as you won’t be offended if I don’t answer.”

“That’s what I like about you, cuz—that sensayuma. Must be a Wisconsin thing. What I’m curious about is why you’re in our fair city.”

“Real estate. I thought I told you that.”

He leaned close. I could smell Vitalis on his slicked-back hair and Sen-Sen on his breath. “And if I said ‘possible mall site,’ would that be a bingo?”

So we talked for awhile, but you already know that part.

I’ve said I stayed away from The Lamplighter when I thought Frank Dunning might be there because I already knew everything about him that I needed to know. It’s the truth, but not
all
of the truth. I need to make that clear. If I don’t, you’ll never understand why I behaved as I did in Texas.

Imagine coming into a room and seeing a complex, multistory house of cards on the table. Your mission is to knock it over. If that was all, it would be easy, wouldn’t it? A hard stamp of the foot or a big puff of air—the kind you muster when it’s time to blow out all the birthday candles—would be enough to do the job. But that’s
not
all. The thing is, you have to knock that house of cards down at a specific moment in time. Until then, it must stand.

I knew where Dunning was going to be on the afternoon of Sunday, October 5, 1958, and I didn’t want to risk changing his course by so much as a single jot or tittle. Even crossing eyes with him in
The Lamplighter might have done that. You could snort and call me excessively cautious; you could say such a minor matter would be very unlikely to knock events off-course. But the past is as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. Or a house of cards.

I had come back to Derry to knock Frank Dunning’s house of cards down, but until then I had to protect it.

I bade Chaz Frati goodnight and went back to my apartment. My bottle of Kaopectate was in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and my new souvenir pillow with the Standpipe embroidered on it in gold thread was on the kitchen table. I took a knife from the silverware drawer and carefully cut the pillow along a diagonal. I put my revolver inside, shoving it deep into the stuffing.

I wasn’t sure I’d sleep, but I did, and soundly.
Do your best and let God do the rest
is just one of many sayings Christy dragged back from her AA meetings. I don’t know if there’s a God or not—for Jake Epping, the jury’s still out on that one—but when I went to bed that night, I was pretty sure I’d done my best. All I could do now was get some sleep and hope my best was enough.

There was no stomach flu. This time I awoke at first light with the most paralyzing headache of my life. A migraine, I supposed. I didn’t know for sure, because I’d never had one. Looking into even dim light produced a sick, rolling thud from the nape of my neck to the base of my sinuses. My eyes gushed senseless tears.

I got up (even that hurt), put on a pair of cheap sunglasses I’d picked up on my trip north to Derry, and took five aspirin. They helped just enough for me to be able to get dressed and into my
overcoat. Which I would need; the morning was chilly and gray, threatening rain. In a way, that was a plus. I’m not sure I could have survived in sunlight.

I needed a shave, but skipped it; I thought standing under a bright light—one doubled in the bathroom mirror—might cause my brains simply to disintegrate. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through this day, so I didn’t try.
One step at a time,
I told myself as I walked slowly down the stairs. I was clutching the railing with one hand and my souvenir pillow with the other. I must have looked like an overgrown child with a teddy bear.
One step at a ti—

The banister snapped.

For a moment I tilted forward, head thudding, hands waving wildly in the air. I dropped the pillow (the gun inside clunked) and clawed at the wall above my head. In the last second before my tilt would have become a bone-breaking tumble, my fingers clutched one of the old-fashioned wall sconces screwed into the plaster. It pulled free, but the electrical wire held just long enough for me to regain my balance.

I sat down on the steps with my throbbing head on my knees. The pain pulsed in sync with the jackhammer beat of my heart. My watering eyes felt too big for their sockets. I could tell you I wanted to creep back to my apartment and give it all up, but that wouldn’t be the truth. The truth was I wanted to die right there on the stairs and have done with it. Are there people who have such headaches not just occasionally but
frequently
? If so, God help them.

There was only one thing that could get me back on my feet, and I forced my aching brains not just to think of it but see it: Tugga Dunning’s face suddenly obliterated as he crawled toward me. His hair and brains leaping into the air.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, yeah, okay.”

I picked up the souvenir pillow and tottered the rest of the way down the stairs. I emerged into an overcast day that seemed as bright as a Sahara afternoon. I felt for my keys. They weren’t there. What I found where they should have been was a
good-sized hole in my right front pants pocket. It hadn’t been there the night before, I was almost sure of that. I turned around in small, jerky steps. The keys were lying on the stoop in a litter of spilled change. I bent down, wincing as a lead weight slid forward inside my head. I picked up the keys and made my way to the Sunliner. And when I tried the ignition, my previously reliable Ford refused to start. There was a click from the solenoid. That was all.

I had prepared for this eventuality; what I hadn’t prepared for was having to drag my poisoned head up the stairs again. Never in my life had I wished so fervently for my Nokia. With it, I could have called from behind the wheel, then just sat quietly with my eyes closed until Randy Baker came.

Somehow, I got back up the stairs, past the broken banister and the light fixture that dangled against the torn plaster like a dead head on a broken neck. There was no answer at the service station—it was early and it was Sunday—so I tried Baker’s home number.

He’s probably dead,
I thought.
Had a heart attack in the middle of the night. Killed by the obdurate past, with Jake Epping as the unindicted co-conspirator.

My mechanic wasn’t dead. He answered on the second ring, voice sleepy, and when I told him my car wouldn’t start, he asked the logical question: “How’d you know yesterday?”

“I’m a good guesser,” I said. “Get here as soon as you can, okay? There’ll be another twenty in it for you, if you can get it going.”

When Baker replaced the battery cable that had mysteriously come loose in the night (maybe at the same moment that hole was appearing in the pocket of my slacks) and the Sunliner still wouldn’t start, he checked the plugs and found two that were badly corroded. He had extras in his large green toolkit, and when they were in place, my chariot roared to life.