NOS4A2(117)

Vic swallowed the last of her coffee, put the cup in the sink, and stepped out the back door.

She had the backyard to herself. She walked through the dew-cool grass to the carriage house and looked through the window.

Lou was asleep on the floor, beside the motorcycle. The bike was in pieces, side covers off, chain hanging loose. Lou had a canvas tarp folded under his head as a makeshift pillow. His hands were covered in grease. There were black fingerprints on his cheek where he had touched his face in sleep.

“He’s been working in there all night,” said a voice from behind her.

Daltry had followed her out onto the lawn. His mouth was open in a grin to show a gold tooth. He had a cigarette in one hand.

“I’ve seen ’at. Plenty of times. ’S how people react when they feel helpless. You wouldn’t believe how many women will knit while they’re waiting in the emergency room to see if their kid is going to make it through lifesaving surgery. When you feel helpless, you’ll do just about any old thing to shut off your head.”

“Yeah,” Vic said. “That’s right. He’s a mechanic. It’s what he’s got instead of knitting. Can I have a cigarette?”

She thought it might steady her, smooth out her nerves.

“I didn’t see any ashtrays in the house,” he said. He pawed a package of Marlboros from his crummy coat, shook one out for her.

“I quit for my son,” she said.

He nodded, didn’t reply to that. He came up with a lighter, a big brass Zippo, with a cartoon of some kind stamped on the side. He flicked the starter, and it made crunchy noises and spit sparks.

“Almost out of fuel,” he said.

She took it from him and gave it a flick, and a little yellow flame wavered from the tip. She lit her smoke and shut her eyes and inhaled. It was like sliding into a warm bath. She looked up, sighing, and considered the cartoon on the side of the lighter. Popeye threw a punch. KABLOOEY, it said, in a burst of yellow shockwaves.

“You know what surprises me?” he asked while she pulled another long drag off the cigarette and filled her lungs with sweet smoke. “That no one has seen your big old Rolls-Royce. How does a car like that escape notice, is what I wonder. Ain’t you surprised no one has seen it?”

He watched her with bright, almost happy eyes.

“No,” she said, and it was the truth.

“No,” Daltry repeated. “You aren’t. Why is that, you think?”

“Because Manx is good at not being seen.”

Daltry turned his head and gazed out at the water. “It’s something. Two men in a 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith. I checked an online database. You know there are fewer than four hundred Rolls-Royce Wraiths left in the entire world? There’s fewer than a hundred in the whole country. That’s a rare goddamn car. And the only person to see him is you. You must feel like you’re going crazy.”

“I’m not crazy,” Vic said. “I’m scared. There’s a difference.”

“I guess you’d know,” Daltry said. He dropped his cigarette in the grass and ground it out with his toe.

He had disappeared back inside the house before Vic realized she was still holding his lighter.





The House of Sleep


BING’S YARD WAS FULL OF TINFOIL FLOWERS, BRIGHTLY COLORED and spinning in the morning sunlight.

The house was a little pink cake of a place, with white trim and nodding lilies. It was a place where a kindly old woman would invite a child in for gingerbread cookies, lock him in a cage, fatten him for weeks, and finally stick him in the oven. It was the House of Sleep. Wayne felt sleepy just watching the foil flowers spin.

Up the hill from Bing Partridge’s house was a church that had nearly burned to the ground. Almost nothing of it remained except for the front fa?ade, with its high pointed steeple, tall white doors, and sooty stained-glass windows. The back side of the church was a caved-in debris field of charred rafters and blackened concrete. There was a sign out front, one of those boards with movable letters, so the pastor could let people know the service schedule. Someone had been fooling with the letters, though, had written a message that probably did not accurately represent the views of the congregation. It read:

THE NEW AMERICAN

FAITH TABERNACLE

GOD BURNED ALIVE

ONLY DEV1LS NOW

The wind rose in the huge old oaks, framing the parking lot around the scorched ruin of the church. Wayne could smell char, even with the windows rolled up.

NOS4A2 turned and eased up the driveway, toward a detached garage. Bing squirmed, digging in his pocket, and produced a remote control. The door rolled up, and the car rolled in.

The garage was a hollowed-out block of cement, cool and shady inside, with a smell of oil and iron. The metal odor came from the tanks. There were half a dozen green tanks in the garage—tall, rust-flecked cylinders with red stenciling on the side: FLAMMABLE and CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE and SEVOFLURANE. They were lined up like soldiers of some alien robot army awaiting inspection. Beyond the rows was a narrow staircase climbing to a second-floor loft.

“Oh, boy, time for breakfast,” Bing said. He looked at Charlie Manx. “I will make you the best breakfast you ever ate. Cross my heart and hope to die. The best. Just say what you want.”

“I want some time alone, Bing,” Manx said. “I want some time to rest my head. If I am not very hungry, it is probably because I am full up with all your prattle. Now, there are a lot of empty calories.”