TWENTY-SEVEN

“What do you know about economics, Ricky?”

Branch, Doolan, and I were in a back room at the mansion, an enclosed glass-walled porch. Poised on the edge of a purple leather settee, Branch was in a mauve Brioni suit, silk ascot, suede loafers, his gelled hair massed like a storm cloud above his forehead. A tic worked overtime on his jawline.

I was stone-faced, camping on a plush couch, my kicks tracking dirt into the two-ply merino wool carpet. My cashmere coat was liberally spattered with mud from the street. I was miserable about that. Good clothes were high maintenance, really stressful.

“Not a whole lot.”

“This is an era of permanent scarcity,” Branch dithered on. “But nowadays there are new markets on the Pacific Rim. Beijing. Singapore. Hong Kong. Seoul. Vancouver. How long they’ll last, nobody knows, because the contamination in San Francisco is putting a jinx on things. We need to fix that.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“The mayoral race. Ronnie Shmalker has to win.”

“What if it’s the other guy?”

Branch let his eyes do the talking. He didn’t want my best prediction. He wanted one tailor-made, something like his suit. The bullet said: set this jive ass sucker straight. All the money in the universe couldn’t buy the future. It was free. Whether you wanted it or not.

“It doesn’t work like that, Branch.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Predictions. What if I told you economics has nothing to do with the truth.”

“Shut your mouth. I’m not paying you for the damn truth.”

“So when do I get some paper?”

“When you make the right prediction.”

“The one you want.”

“You got it. Ricky? What race are you? I can’t tell.”

“My dad was white and I don’t know what my mom was.”

“What does that make you?”

“I’m whatever the fuck you want me to be.”

Doolan was beached on a velveteen divan in the room’s far corner, partly listening to Branch and me, paying closer attention to the radiation infection tunneling in his gorge. The morphine he was taking for it didn’t even dent the pain. On top of that, he’d heard Heller had gotten kneecapped by the Honduran dealer. It was only a matter of time before 2-Time got his. Doolan wanted to be somewhere else when that happened. He had enough on his hands chaperoning me.

I wonder if Doolan forgives the contamination for killing him. Can I forgive Frank Blake for shooting me? My left leg is lame. You tell my leg about forgiveness, and it will tell you to kiss off. I’m dirty in cashmere. When the day ends, I’ll be down the hill at Eternal Gratitude. Don’t talk to me about forgiveness, not now.