“I want what you’ve got,” Shackett said.
“What have I got?” I asked.
“The juice.”
“What juice?”
“The stuff makes you psychic.”
“There’s no stuff.”
“What did you call the power? The furniture power?”
“Telekinesis.”
“I want that. I want the juice.”
“I told you—one shot, it’s for life.”
“That was bullshit.”
If only he knew.
No bull was involved.
I can produce it without a bull.
“One shot,” I insisted. “Then they have you.”
“You say the government screwed you?”
“I hate them. They screwed me good.”
“Where is my gun?”
“It’s in my face, sir. May I ask a question?”
“Hell, no.”
I nodded and bit my lip.
He glared at me. “What?”
“Why didn’t the coyotes tear you to pieces?”
“What coyotes?”
“When you let them into the Sunday school.”
“Don’t try to make me think you’re crazy on drugs, Harry.”
“I wouldn’t, sir.”
“That would be as pathetic as the amnesia crap.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My point is, if the government screwed you, then you would have sold out for twenty-five million.”
“They would have killed my family.”
“You’re not married.”
“No. It’s my brother.”
“Who cares about a brother?”
“We’re twins. We’re so close.”
“I don’t buy it, Harry.”
“He’s paraplegic, see.”
“So what?”
“And he has a learning disability.”
“A what?”
“And he lost an eye in the war.”
“What’re you pulling here?”
“Iraq. My other brother, Jamie, he died there.”
“Did that chair just move?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought I saw it move.”
“No, sir.”
“If it moves—”
“Good-bye face. Yes, sir.”
“You’ve got a one-eyed paraplegic brother.”
“Yes, sir. With a learning disability.”
“Does he have a harelip, too?”
“No, sir.”
“The first thing you said was true.”
Astonished, I said, “It was?”
“You know it was.”
“And what first thing was that, sir?”
“That the drug facilitated psychic powers for twelve hours.”
“Twelve to eighteen. Yes, I remember saying that.”
“I thought you would.”
“That’s why you’re the chief of police.”
“Don’t try sucking up to me, Harry.”
“No, sir. That wouldn’t work with you.”
“I’d love to blow your face off.”
“I can feel your passion, sir.”
“You take a pill a day,” he said.
“Yes, sir, a multivitamin.”
“The psychic pill. The tele-what pill.”
“Telekinesis, sir.”
“You take one a day.”
“I guess I have to admit it, sir.”
“Did that inkwell just move?”
“No, sir.”
“Where is my gun?”
“It’s in my face, sir.”
“If that inkwell moves.”
“Good-bye face. Yes, sir.”
We had developed an intricate litany.
You would have thought we were in a Catholic rectory.
“So you have to admit it, do you?”
“Yes, sir. I have to admit it.”
“So you have a supply of the pills.”
“Yes, sir. I have quite a supply.”
“I want those pills.”
“I should warn you, sir.”
“Warn me what?”
“Telekinesis isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Look at my face, Harry.”
“I feel bad about that, sir.”
“Shut up, shithead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think it’s everything it’s cracked up to be.”
One of the redheaded gunmen appeared in the doorway behind Hoss Shackett.
“Oh, Lordy,” I said.
Shackett grinned. Some of his teeth were broken.
Way to go, Mr. Sinatra.
I wished Mr. Sinatra would deal with the redhead.
But he had probably moved on to Paradise. Just my luck.
“You’re in a corner now, aren’t you, Harry?”
“I can’t catch a break.”
The new arrival was the redhead with the methamphetamine teeth.
“Don’t try that trick with me, Harry.”
“What trick, sir?”
“Pretending someone’s behind me.”
“Someone is behind you, sir.”
“So I’ll turn and look, and you’ll go for me.”
“No, sir. He’s a friend of yours, and no friend of mine.”
“Where’s my gun, Harry?”
“It’s in my face, sir.”
“Give me your pills.”
“I don’t have them with me, sir.”
“Where are they?”
“In my pillbox.”
“Where’s your pillbox?”
“Chicago.”
“I’m gonna blow your face off, Harry.”
“Not without those pills, sir.”
“I’ll torture it out of you. Don’t think I won’t.”
“I haven’t mistaken you for a nun, sir.”
“Stop scamming me with the over-the-shoulder look.”
“No reason to scam you, sir. He’s really your buddy.”
The redhead disproved my contention by shooting Hoss Shackett in the head.
I let out an expletive that seemed to have come from the people I had been associating with, not from me, and I staggered back from the dead and toppling chief. Staggering, I fell; and falling, I fell upon the minister’s dead wife.
I heard myself spewing exclamations of disgust and horror as I tried to get off the dead woman, but it seemed as though she grabbed at me, clutched me, and by the time I crawled away from her on my hands and knees, I was gibbering like someone who had barely escaped the House of Usher or any other place of Poe’s creation.
“Get up,” said the redhead.
“I’m trying.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Are you spastic?”
“Are you blind?”
“Don’t speak harshly to me,” he said.
“Do you see all these dead people?”
“Do they bother you—dead people?”
“You have no idea,” I said.
“They are just people, except dead.”
“What—then I’m just a corpse, except alive?”
His smile was ghastly. “Yes, precisely.”
I had invented a neat organizational chart for these people. The redheads were bottom-feeders. Utgard was middle management. Shackett was at or near the top. If I ever hosted a dinner party, I assumed I knew exactly how they should be seated.
Instead, this redhead’s attitude suggested that he not only had the temerity to whack the chief but also the authority. His rotten teeth seemed not to be proof of low status, after all, but perhaps a fashion choice.
“Do you have to point that gun at my head?”
“Would you prefer I point it at your chest?”
“Yes. In fact, yes.”
“You’ll be just as dead either way.”
“But I’ll be a prettier dead this way.”
“It’s loaded with door-busters.”
&nb
sp; “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”
“I didn’t say I was going to kill you.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“Most likely, yes. But one never knows.”
“What do you want from me?” I demanded.
“First, I want to talk to you.”
“This never works out well.”