The Oracle Year
Charles Soule
Part I
Fall
Chapter 1
Anything can happen, Will Dando thought. In the next five seconds, in the next five years. Anything at all.
He tipped his beer up, finishing the last few swallows. He set about the task of getting the bartender’s attention, which looked like it could be an ordeal. The bar hadn’t been crowded when he’d arrived three or so hours earlier, but it had filled up once the game started—Jets/Raiders.
The Jets were down by three with not much time left on the clock. Will wasn’t ordinarily much for sports. He wasn’t sure he’d ever watched a football game all the way through.
This one was different, though. It was important.
It was important because its outcome was one of a hundred and eight things Will knew that hadn’t happened yet.
The bar was just a dive near his apartment, without much to recommend it other than the base level offered by every bar in the world: drink there and you weren’t (technically) drinking alone. Will had picked the second-best seat in the house—a stool as far away from the door as possible. Unseasonably frigid November gusted in every time anyone came in or out, sweeping along the bar, stirring the little puddles of spilled beer and wadded napkins.
The first-best seat in the house, the stool farthest from the door and the wind, was directly to Will’s left. It was occupied by a truly lovely girl with chestnut-colored, slightly curly hair. She seemed to be a friend of the bartender. She certainly got her refills more quickly than Will did, and a good two out of three seemed to be left off the tab. But there were any number of reasons for that, really. The hair alone.
Will had caught her name—Victoria—and he was considering saying hello to her. He had been considering it, in fact, for most of the past three hours.
His phone buzzed. He looked down—Jorge on the ID, which meant a gig, a good one. Probably a party at some cool venue downtown, for solid money. Even the worst Jorge job was generally a pretty good time, and on occasion they were spectacular. He had hired Will for lingerie fashion shows, postconcert after-parties packed with industry people, no-joke studio session work, even a few opening band tours. Any future Will might have as a working bassist in New York City was tied more or less directly to Jorge Cabrera.
Will tapped the front of his phone, declining the call, just as the bartender finally worked his way down to his end of the bar.
“One more?” he asked, gesturing to Will’s empty beer bottle.
“Yeah,” Will said. “Same again.”
On an impulse, Will turned to his left and smiled at Victoria.
“Get you a drink?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw the bartender pause slightly as he reached into the cooler. Maybe they were more than just friends, then. But so what?
Victoria turned her head to look at Will.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, just friendly enough, no more, “but I know the bartender. I drink for free.”
“Sure, right,” Will said, “but . . . just thinking out loud . . . paid for’s better than free, right?”
Victoria tilted her head slightly.
“That’s okay, thanks.”
She made a point of looking back at the television, about as emphatic a shoot-down as she could give short of changing seats. The bartender returned, skidding a cardboard coaster out in front of Will and slapping a fresh beer down, maybe a bit harder than necessary.
The Raiders scored a touchdown and made the extra point, extending their lead to ten. Groans rolled up from most of the crowd in the bar, including Victoria.
On the bar in front of Will was a black, spiral-bound notebook, the cover creased like an old leather wallet. Spilt coffee had stained the pages along the bottom edge a fungusy brown. Will ran a thumb down one corner, flicking through the pages. He stared at the back of the bar, at the multiple distorted reflections of himself in the bottles lined up on the long shelf. He gripped the notebook, bending it along the creases.
He thought about what he knew, and what he could do with what he knew.
Shots from inside the deli. The Lucky Corner. Two quick, then a pause, then three more, one after another. Then a long break. A held breath. Decisions were being made inside. More shots. A lot of noise. A splash against the front window of the deli, from inside. Dark at the center, tinged red at the edges where it wasn’t as thick and the sunlight could shine through it.
Will toyed with the label on his half-finished beer and considered the beers he’d already had. He thought about good decisions, and bad decisions, and how hard it could be to tell them apart.
Will turned back to Victoria.
“Jets fan?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, still watching the television.
“You want to know who’s going to win this game?” Will said.
“I think I already know,” she said.
“You might be surprised,” Will said. “The Jets will win by four.”
Victoria snorted, which still somehow managed to come out cute.
“Two touchdowns, with two minutes on the clock? Come on. Maybe I should have Sam cut you off.”
“Wait and see,” Will said.
“And how are you so sure? You the Oracle?”
Will hesitated.
“That’s right,” he said.