To his credit, Foot-Long laughed and said, “Man, I owe you for that.”

Falkirk wished he hadn’t said such a thing, not because he gave a shit about hurting Frankfurt’s feelings, but because it might be mistaken for camaraderie, might suggest he was one of them. He was not. He was singular. He’d known he was better than all of them, better than the ruck of humanity, had known it for twenty-one years, ever since he was fifteen, when he murdered a classmate at boarding school and got away with it, attracting no suspicion whatsoever.

Without further comment, he stepped out of the motor home and walked to a black Suburban parked nearby. Vince Canker sat behind the wheel, Louis Wong in the front passenger seat. Both men were eating deli sandwiches, washing them down with beer.

Falkirk slid onto the back seat. “We’re going to move hard on Coltrane. But not for hours yet. Finish your meal. I need to put the best team together and take the bastard when he’s least expecting it. We’ll slam him when he’s sleeping, after midnight.”

Canker, who had the body of a mob enforcer and a face hard enough to break the ram of a junkyard auto compacter, believed that he possessed a low-burning psychic power that one day would suddenly flash brighter. He said, “I got a funny thing going here, like a far voice from the Other Side, from beyond the veil, you know, telling me this here is the night, this here is the time, we find the key tonight.”

Wong swallowed a wad of sandwich. “You heard a voice before.”

“Not this here voice. No. This is another voice.”

“You recognize who it is?”

“It’s real faint, but I think it’s my mother’s voice.”

“Your mother’s dead?”

“She’d have to be, wouldn’t she, if she’s on the Other Side?”

“It’s just you never mentioned she’s dead.”

“It was only a week ago, a shitty thing. Opioids.”

“An overdose, huh? Sorry, man. That’s a tragedy.”

“It is what it is. She wasn’t big on self-control.”

“Only a week on the Other Side and she’s trying to reach you.”

“She was always a talker, never shut up. Death won’t likely change that.”

On his new world, with the key to everything at his service, Falkirk would have a good chance of becoming not only the richest man on the planet but the ruler of all. If he achieved totalitarian power, he would make stupidity a crime, and conversations like that between Canker and Wong would be sufficient evidence to impose the death penalty.

39

In the burnt-orange radiance of the westering sun, the shadows of the tall palm trees reached eastward, from which the night would come, as if welcoming the dark by casting onto its path the images of their fronds.

In one of the rocking chairs on the porch of the sandstone bungalow, Michelle Coltrane sat with her guitar, playing a song she’d written many years earlier, when she entertained dreams of wealth and fame, before she had been mature enough to understand that money and celebrity were not guarantees of happiness. What mattered most in life couldn’t be bought with a pot of gold. That wisdom had come at a terrible price.

She earned a living now by teaching guitar and piano, and she played three nights a week at Johnny’s Beachside, a restaurant and bar. The place wasn’t actually on the beach, but half a block back from it, with no water view, and it was owned by a guy named Norman, who had bought it from Johnny twenty years earlier. No stage was provided for her performance, only a corner between the bar and dining room. Her job wasn’t to wow the crowd, but only to provide soft dinner music. She played mostly other songwriters’ tunes that had made already-famous singers richer, though once or twice in each set, she slipped in one of her own. The gig gave her pleasure even when, at the end of the night, the tip jar contained only one-dollar bills, no fives or tens.

On this balmy April evening, she waited for a gentleman whom she’d invited to dinner. No romance was involved, only friendship. Anyway, by choice she hadn’t shared her bed in more than seven years, for she intuitively knew that such intimacy wouldn’t relieve her loneliness and sorrow, but only make them worse.

As the orange light purpled in the east and crimsoned in the west, he came along the oak-flanked lane, plump and rumpled, his back straight and his white-wreathed head high, with the confident yet jaunty stride of a wise and beloved headmaster of a boy’s school from the era of Goodbye, Mr. Chips. The pattern of his bow tie did not match that of his shirt—in this case, polka dots over stripes—but he so routinely mismatched these items that the effect had to be intentional, a quiet assertion of eccentricity.

He came up the front walk and climbed three of the four porch steps and stopped and regarded her with a kind of amused solemnity. He stood listening to her song for maybe half a minute and then said, “Obviously a composition from your early days, full of verve and charm, but short on grace and lacking all substance.” Although she couldn’t sing for smiling, she continued with her guitar as he finished his critique. “If I were fourteen, I might stand here quite enthralled while you played it yet again. However, I’m sixty-four, and older than my years, so I beg of you to spare me from more of this celebration of young-adult angst while my admiration for your talent is still intact.”

Rising to her feet and propping her guitar in the rocking chair, Michelle said, “You are quite a piece of work, Ed.”

“I have always strived to be such,” he assured her, as they hugged each other.

Although Ed Casper had been visiting for nearly a year and had become dear to her, sometimes—as now—she still wondered that she had, without much hesitation, developed a friendship with a guy who lived in rough circumstances, in a tent among the trees beyond the dead end of Shadow Canyon Lane, who walked into town each day to shower in a public facility.

Of course Ed wasn’t one of the alkies or druggies made homeless by substance abuse, and he wasn’t one with a mental illness that led to an addiction or ensued from it. Neither a hobo impoverished by laziness nor a pitiable vagrant condemned to poverty by a low IQ, he was an uncommon member of the society of the homeless. Some turn of events left him without ambition, robbed him of faith in the future, causing him to seek a life of few possessions, the solace of a clockless existence without appointments or driving purpose.

Ed wouldn’t say what loss might have transformed him. He never seemed to be troubled by depression, and he certainly never indulged in self-pity. Michelle knew, however, that a loss of one kind or another had broken him; because in an instant she’d lost everything that mattered most and, in the losing, had for the first time truly understood the value of what had been taken from her. Whatever else she and Ed Casper might share, the condition of their isolate souls, more insistently haunted than any house could ever be, was what had brought them together in mutual mild melancholy.

“Play something new you’ve written,” he said.

“Maybe later. Right now I need a glass of wine, and you’re always more amusing after a martini.”

They went into the house as the last light of the day bled away and the night rose out of the storied land, like spirits ascending from the graves of history.

40

Their moods for music were always synchronized, whether Beatles or Beethoven, Glenn Miller or Glenn Gould. This night, they settled on the clear and nimble piano work of David Benoit, his soft jazz rather than anything too progressive.

A three-beet salad followed by pappardelle with scallops in a light saffron sauce was a dinner to be lingered over, accompanied by a dry white wine as bright on the tongue as the music on the ear.

They ate at the kitchen table, for the small house offered no formal dining room. Crackled amber-glass cups, which matched the globes on the porch lamps, held the table candles, fracturing the flames into sinuosities of light and shadow that flowed unceasing across the table and up the walls. In this atmosphere, Ed Casper’s uplit face seemed like that of a mysterious medium or magician with knowledge of real magic rather than tricks.