The Oracle Year(5)

Will I get what I want?

How can I get what I want?

Why can’t I get what I want?

The first hundred thousand or so had been printed and now sat piled between some of Will’s instrument cases—basses and guitars standing upright, guarding the questions like sentries.

“Stop reading them, Will,” came a voice from behind him.

“I know. It’s not easy,” Will said.

Will flipped open one of the cases and pulled out a well-worn Fender P-bass. He slung it over his neck and turned to face the rest of the room. Not much to see—a trash-picked coffee table, top like a Spirograph, all interlocked drink rings and long, swirling scratches, standing between some hand-me-down living room furniture. The rest of the apartment was crammed with gear. Instruments, music stands, neatly looped cables, effects pedals, a small set of digital production equipment—more storage unit than living space.

Sitting in the apartment’s sole armchair was Hamza Sheikh. Smiling eyes, tightly cropped hair, extremely white teeth.

“None of those questions matter anymore,” Hamza said. “We got what we needed from them. They’re just noise.”

“I bet they matter to the people who asked,” Will said.

“Can you answer any of them?”

“Not really.”

“Then you don’t have to feel guilty. Those questions were always unanswerable. Don’t beat yourself up just because people want to know things.”

“This isn’t a logic thing,” Will said. “It’s . . . I just feel bad about it. Giving people hope for something I know we won’t ever deliver.”

Hamza looked back down at the laptop he had open on the coffee table, next to sloppy piles of paper, binders he’d assembled full of research on the people they were about to speak to, spreadsheets.

“Get your head on straight,” Hamza said, typing a few updated figures into one of the tables on his screen. “This is the most important day of either of our lives. If we pull this off, you can help anyone you want. Be my guest, brother.”

Will began to play a bassline on the instrument slung around his neck—a four-note repeating pattern.

“I know that one,” Hamza said, not looking up from the keys. “What’s it called?”

“The O’Jays,” Will said. “‘For the Love of Money.’”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Hamza said. “My favorite song. Get over here. It’s almost time.”

Will walked over to the couch and sat down, unslinging the bass and leaning it up against the cushions. He shifted one of the piles of paper on the coffee table, revealing his own laptop—almost as banged up as the table itself—and the Oracle notebook.

Will flipped open the screen of his computer, then took the notebook and held it up, showing it to Hamza like a tent revival preacher presenting a Bible to his flock.

“Before we do this,” Will said. “Let’s talk it through. One last time.”

He lowered the notebook, twisting the cover in his hands.

“You really think this . . . this is it?” he continued. “The reason I was sent these predictions? Just . . . money?”

Hamza took his hands off the keyboard and sighed heavily.

“Okay, Will. One last time.”

He looked up, directly at Will.

“We have an opportunity here like nothing I have ever seen in my life. Big enough that I quit my job to help you—a job at an investment bank that, in a bad year, netted me a quarter mil with bonus. Big enough that I’ve been lying to my wife about why I did that. I’ll put aside the fact we have been each other’s best friend for over ten years, and that I’d expect there would be more trust happening here.”

“Hamza, come on, it’s not—” Will began. Hamza held up a hand, and Will stopped midsentence.

“I will also not mention that you need this so much more than I do. I will not say any of that because, as your good friend, it would be rude. However—”

Hamza reached for the notebook, and Will yanked it back. A pause, as they both processed that particular reflex. Hamza slowly lowered his hand, staring at Will.

“Look,” he said, his voice quiet. “You got the predictions. You trusted me enough to tell me about them. We talked for a long time deciding what to do. This is what we came up with, and it will change both our lives forever. Forever.

“You didn’t get instructions. You didn’t get rules. If you find a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk, did it come to you for a reason? Are you obligated to do one thing or another with that twenty? Fuck no. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it.”

“You always go financial,” Will said.

“That is not a bad thing. In fact, it is a good th—” Hamza stopped, shaking his head. He slapped down the cover of his laptop, setting the coffee table a-wobble again.

“You know what?” he said, standing up. “Forget it. Let’s take the Site down. Let’s just . . . agh.”

Will watched Hamza pace back and forth. He didn’t have much room to work—his path bounced between the entrance to the phone booth kitchen and the bathroom door, about four steps each way.

“You get cold feet now, when, in, oh—”

Hamza pulled out his phone and checked the time, then held it out so Will could see it.