I stood in an unfamiliar room, the walls moodily lighted with wall-washers that revealed a series of Gregorio Montejo paintings. It was a reception of some kind, and people were milling about. One was Squisher Spritzer, in a blue blazer with brass buttons and wearing a cream silk ascot. On him it looked like a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree. Officer Loftis was working out in spandex tights over by an hors d‘oeuvres table. Seeing me, she flashed a seductive smile. Grady Stinson was examining the paintings with a lorgnette, though he needn’t have bothered; these canvases were strictly from hunger. Oblivious to it all, Maxwell Moses was sitting in a corner, chewing the end of a pencil. He said, “I need a word for ‘fool.’”
“You’re looking at him,” I said.
But he wasn’t. He had his attention on the Times crossword puzzle. “Seven letters.”
“Buffoon,” said someone else, who stepped from the throng. It was a young Ed St. Onge in a tasteful suit. “Or dead man,” he added.
I swam back up to the air and daylight of a world I seemed to remember, though when I blinked it into sharper focus, I saw that it wasn’t the world I’d been in. I was inside a nasty-smelling vehicle, a panel
van. If well-being was unconsciousness about the self, as Phoebe’s coworker Janelle believed, I definitely wasn’t well. There were enough aches in my head to make five masochists smile; unfortunately there weren’t any around to share with. I recognized the smell as vomit. I was alone, my hands shackled to the steering wheel. Through the van’s dusty windows I saw that I was in an industrial yard, behind a stack of what looked like large boilers, bleeding rust at the rivets. Beyond them I could make out a smokestack and trees, and a field fading off into junked cars. It might’ve been the east end of town, though that was a guess; I could’ve been in Delaware. A wire fence, overgrown with dying vines, blocked any view beyond.
At a scrape of metal behind me I turned my throbbing head to see one of the van’s rear doors open and Spritzer appear. He reached inside and took hold of a large tank of bottled gas that was lying on the bed. It grated over the floor as he pulled it out. A label on the tank said it was from Acme Rental. Spritzer noticed me and ducked his head to peer in. “Oh, you’re feeling better,” he said.
“Says you.”
He shouldered the tank and slammed the door. In a moment he came around to the driver’s side, where I sat. He wasn’t wearing an ascot. “You were breathing okay when we waltzed you outta your place, so I wasn’t too worried, but you got sick on yourself. You got a headache, I betcha.”
“When you’re done throwing bouquets, maybe you can get me the hell out of these shackles, and out of here. Where are we?”
“It’s your town, you tell me.”
Which I took to mean he didn’t know. Hackett would’ve picked the place, and I didn’t waste time asking for a road map. Up close to Spritzer, I could feel heat and smell the wintergreen tang of old liniment coming from him. It smelled better than my shirt. He unlocked the handcuffs. I climbed out, wobbling only slightly I rubbed circulation back into my wrists. Piled on the ground nearby were a second tank of bottled gas and the hoses and nozzles for several acetylene torches. There was an egg on the back of my head that belonged in a museum.
“I had to tag you and let you sit out a couple dances, so Louie could go talk to Sonders in peace.”
“In the hospital?”
“Wherever. With you hounding around, that ain’t easy.”
“I was sitting in my office. You came to me.” I realized it was pointless arguing with him. “Anyway, you wasted time if it’s about getting Pop to sell. He won’t.”
He showed yellow picket-fence teeth. “You figure he’s got much choice?”
It caught me off guard. Then I remembered the article in the Wall Street Journal, and I felt a ripple of anxiety. “What’s this stuff for?”
“Once we get the show, we keep what’s good and dismantle and sell the rest for scrap.”
“What about the people who work for Pop?”
“Tough shit, wouldn’t you say?”
My lips felt cracked and dry. “So Gordon Gekko was right.”
“Who’s he?”
“Someone you and your partner would understand.”
His flat black eyes worked me over for a moment. “Yeah, well, wish I had the time, but we gotta get back. Your shitbox is over there.” I saw my car parked near the rusty boilers, saw a man get out of it, and recognized Ray Embry.
“Keys are in it,” Embry said as he approached. “No funny stuff.”
“That coming from you?”
“This wasn’t my idea,” he murmured, and got into the van, with Squisher Spritzer at the wheel.
As I followed their lingering dust trail, I briefly tried to find sense in things, but they weren’t any clearer than my dream had been.