The Dead Have A Thousand Dreams (2 page)

Pines? Pines? Warm pines?
He does searches up the whazoo. He finds an Arkansas utility
company, Ark-Pine, and sees that they’re about to invest in fresh
oil reserves. Warm pines = Arkansas. Filled with liquid = oil
reserves. He buys some Ark-Pine. A week later it goes through the
fucking roof.

He calls again. This time
she refuses. Flat out no. What am I, she says, CNBC?

He goes back to her house,
he offers to buy another picture. This really sets her off. She
says she’s not prostituting herself for anybody. They argue, she
gets angry. She throws a shit-fit tantrum. You want to know
something about the future? she says. You’re going to die. When the
sun stands still, when its rays are at their highest, you’re going
to die.

Wooly knows exactly what
she means. The sun reaches its highest point on the summer
solstice, and it stays that way, it stands still, for the entire
day. He’s going to die on June 21 of this year.

Even Louisa, a sucker for
all things psychic, found it hard to believe he was taking this so
closely to heart.

I’ll tell you why, said
Wooly. Right after Georgiana tells him he’s going to die, she
starts spazzing out. She goes into some kind of conniption right in
front of him. She says
the flames will eat
at the forest
. And the way she says it,
it’s not like he’s hearing it with his ears. It’s like the words
are going in through his skin and rattling around in his
chest.

Then she says
the flesh will tear your house
apart
. And then
men from the south will abandon you
.

Coupla days after, one of
the woodsies, one of the homeless people who live in the Paumanok
woods, starts a fire. Three or four acres are destroyed before the
blaze can be brought under control. It’s not a big fire, and things
like that happen in the Paumanok on an occasional basis, but
shit.
The flames will eat at the
forest
.

Not even a week later,
Wooly’s wife is cooking salmon for dinner one night. He says we
just
had
salmon,
we’ve had it three times this week already. She says it’s good for
your health, you fat fuck, and I’ve already started. He says no
fucking way, I’ve had it up to here with salmon, and they start
having it out, really going at each other until he realizes, holy
hell,
the flesh will tear your house
apart
.

The next day, two of his
best workers, two guys from Ecuador, up and quit on him. They’ve
found new jobs.
Men from the south with
abandon you
.

>>>>>>

“And did I mention this?”
he said. “Did I happen to mention she’s
blind?”

Louisa was puzzled. “A
blind photographer?”

“And a blind prophet.
How’s that for typecasting? And the things she said, it wasn’t just
that they came true, it was the way she
said
them. It wasn’t like I was even
standing there. It was like I was asleep, like I was dreaming, and
this voice was coming to me in the night.”

“I don’t know what to
say.”

“And then, and then what
happens? Somebody takes a shot at me. Somebody drops a death threat
on my doorstep.

“What do the police
say?”

“They scratch their
fucking heads and don’t say a thing. Hidden Lake police? Your
average fudgy turd has more brainpower.”

“So what are you going to
do?”

“What do you think? What
do you
think
I’m
going to do? Considering that I currently don’t want to die? I’m
gonna do everything possible to make sure it doesn’t happen. I
don’t care who says what about when. I hired a security consultant
to protect me. Living in the house, 24/7. Cause if I didn’t, you
know? If I didn’t, this is a sentence I don’t want to
finish.”

Louisa cleared her throat.
Sudden tickle. The
give
moment was upon us.

“And how can we help?” she
said. “What do you want from us?”

“I want you to do a story
on this thing. I want you to bring it into the light of day. The
more people know about it, the less chance of you know
what.”

“
I understand.”

“
I mean who do people
think I am? A fucking Czechoslovakia? They can keep invading me all
the time?”

“We can certainly do a
story.”

“And I want Quinn here to
do it.”

I had to say it. “Why
me?”

Wooly hauled his bulk
closer to the edge of his chair, getting confidential. “Remember
that time you came out to my house?”

“
I’m still
shaking.”

“
You remember we talked a
little? You were trying to talk me down? You told me a little
something about your past.”

“
I remember.”

“
Then you know why. You
got the qualifications I need. You know what I mean.”

“
I know.”

“
Something else. You
remember you used the bathroom in my house?”

Actually I did. He had an
industrial hot-air hand dryer in the guest bathroom. Very homey
touch.

“
Yeah?”

“
You were in there 18
minutes.”

“
You
timed
me?”

“
I time
everybody.”

“
I didn’t realize I was on
the clock.”

“
We’re
all
on the clock. Point is, 18 minutes, it’s a
good
thing. I’m speaking
favorably of it. A person who takes a quick, hurried shit is not to
be trusted.”

“
So, what? I passed the
test?”

“
I’ll
tell you the truth. Most people, when they meet me? It’s not so
good. I tend to rub people 14 wrong ways from the go. But you and
me, I think we have an understanding about certain things. I think
we have a
rapport
, if you will. I think I can trust you.”

>>>>>>

THE CATECHISM OF QUINN
McSHANE

Q: Bathroom habits aside,
what does this lunatic mean by your
qualifications
?

A:
I used to be a licensed investigator. That’s one of the
things I told him that day at his house. I guess he thinks I know
enough to help him track down whoever’s after him.

Q: How come you’re not an
investigator anymore?

A:
Let’s just say that through the crazy Tao of life, I ended up
in journalism.

Q: More specific,
please?

A:
I lost my investigator’s license. I lost my license, my job,
my wife, my daughter, my life.

Q: How the hell did that
happen?

A:
Mostly because, for the last few years of work, I was stoned
each and every day. Screaming high on crystal meth for like 18
hours a day, easing down on booze for another four, sleep for two
and then right back at it.

Q: Wild guess—you got
busted?

A:
Not for drugs. For manslaughter.

Q: Oh?

A:
I was chasing down this junkie skank who’d snatched his
girlfriend’s son. The girlfriend’s family had hired my agency to
get the boy back. I caught up with the guy the night he broke into
his girlfriend’s house, pulled a gun and threatened to kill her if
she didn’t go back with him. The bullet I put in his thigh knocked
him to the floor and pretty much took him out of commission. But
instead of calling the police at that point, I shot him in the
head.

Q: Why? You were so fucked
up on drugs?

A:
That and something else.

Q: What?

A:
I just didn’t like him.

Q: Sounds a little more
aggravated than manslaughter.

A:
I caught a break. The girlfriend lied to the investigators,
swore the guy was pointing his gun at me when I shot him the last
time. The DA offered a manslaughter plea. I took it.

Q: You told all this to
Wooly?

A:
In abbreviated form. Mostly, we talked about my time in Red
Mountain Correctional, upstate. I told him two good things happened
to me there, once I decided I didn’t want to keep killing myself
any longer, once I decided I wanted to live. I got sober through
the AA meetings up there, I got into zen meditation through the
Prison Dharma Network. For a lapsed Catholic, the two made a nice
getting-God-back combination.

Q: Then what? You saw the
light and became an editor?

A:
Yeah right.
Real Story
was doing something on the Prison Dharma Network.
They wanted to interview me. I asked if I could write my own story.
They liked it, hired me when I got out and I climbed up from
there.

Q: You still straight and
sober?

A:
I’ve stayed clean.

Q: Still trying to become
a good Bhuddist?

A:
More like I’m trying to become a good human being.

Q: How’s that going for
you?

A:
Sometimes it’s not so easy.

>>>>>>

THURSDAY JUNE 14, 11:50
a.m.

MASHED POTATOES AND
KLEENEX

Driving up on Braxton
Road, I could see that Wooly had made an odd addition to the house.
There was a full set of living room furniture—couch, armchairs,
even a pair of floor lamps—sitting in a square right on the front
lawn, about 15 feet from the big double doors. There was even an
ottoman by one of the chairs. And the stuff wasn’t out there to be
thrown away. This was a permanent arrangement—the lamps had wires
running to an outlet sticking out of the ground.

As a design style, you’d
have to call this Prominently Eccentric.

I headed for the doors but
I had to check this displaced living room out first.
Interesting—the furniture was all made of outdoor materials. What
looked like wood was actually cast aluminum. The upholstery was
some heavyweight, waterproof fabric. It was basically outdoor
furniture made to look like indoor.

What the hell would
possess somebody to do this? To make up for the lack of a
porch?

I never got a chance to
find out because a few seconds after I rang the bell I heard
Genevieve Cornell yelling inside, “Well excuse me for THINKING.”
She opened the doors. “Nice to see you again,” she said. “Want some
advice? Never marry a fat white fool.”

“
Something
wrong?”

“
No, he’s just his usual
asshole self.”

She took me through the
house: modern décor, large open spaces, lots of light. The place
had to hold 7,000 square feet.

Wooly was in the kitchen,
digging into a breakfast menu that included two bagels with cream
cheese and lox, a plate of sausage patties, another plate of
scrambled eggs and a bowl of mashed potatoes. He was packing it all
away with gusto, with intense concentration. From the look in his
eyes, you’d think he was doing the
New
York Times
crossword.

“
Your
opinion, Mr. McShane,” said Genevieve. “Your rock bottom opinion.
Isn’t that just a
little
too much food for one disgusting
mouth?”

“
You’ll have to excuse my
wife,” said Wooly. “She’s PMSing all over the place
today.”

“
Oh grow the fuck
up.”

“
I’m
told I have seven days to live, seven days to stay bounded to this
world. I’ll eat what I fucking
want
.”

“
Don’t
talk
about that!” Genevieve began crying. She pulled a Kleenex out
of her pocket. “And
bounded’
s not the right
word.”

“
You’re
coming down on my
grammar
now?”

“
I’m
just trying to tell you… Nickie, have something to eat.
There’s
more
than
enough.”

I spun around. A woman was
standing behind me, a folder in her hand. I’d never heard her come
in. Not a sound.

Wooly made the
introductions, though he didn’t offer any food. Nickie Castillo,
the security consultant he’d hired for full time
protection.

I’d call her a good
looking woman, caramel skin, brown eyes, snow white teeth. Only two
things might make other people disagree—the two scars gouged into
her right cheek.