Lights Out

“The crime that happened had nothing to do with me,” Eddie said. “That’s where I need your help.”

“Help you do what?”

“Find a hospice,” Eddie said.

“Where people go to die?”

“Is there another kind? The problem is I don’t know which one this person is in.”

“Are you going to do something to him?”

“Would that make sense?”

Pause. Then Pinchas started laughing. Eddie laughed too. Pinchas turned to the computer, switched it on. “What kind of hospice?” he said, tapping the keys. “AIDS, cancer, normal dying?”

“We’ll have to try them all.”

Ten minutes later, Pinchas tore off a two-page printout and handed it to Eddie. He picked up the phone and dialed St. Sebastian’s Home, the first one on the list.

Eddie: “I’m trying to find an old friend of mine who’s not well. I thought he might be with you.”

Woman: “What’s his name?”

Eddie: “JFK. That’s what he called himself.”

Woman: “I’ll need his real name.”

Eddie: “I don’t know it.”

Woman: “Sorry.”

Eddie went through similar conversations eight times. The ninth time, a man answered. “The Caring Place,” he said.

Eddie went through his spiel.

“Do you mean Mr. Kidd, by any chance?” asked the man.

“Possibly.”

“We had a Junior Fairbanks Kidd,” said the man. “At least that’s what it said on his passport.”

“A Bahamian passport?” asked Eddie.

“That’s right.”

“You said had.”

“Mr. Kidd left last week.”

“Where did he go?”

“He said he was going home.”

“Does that mean he was better?”

“Better? More reconciled, perhaps. More in tune with the end rhythms of his life.”

Eddie hung up.

Pinchas was watching him from under the bill of his Twins cap. “You’ve seen the world, haven’t you?” he said.

“Parts.”

“That’s why you’re interested in ‘The Mariner.’ All that sailing.”

Eddie shook his head. “I’m interested in it …” He paused. Why? An answer came: “because it’s a beautiful thing that doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t make sense?”

“Because the punishment doesn’t fit the crime. How can it when the nature of the crime’s a mystery?”

The boy looked puzzled. “Have you read the Bible?” he asked. “I’m talking about the Old Testament.”

“No.”

“That’s why you can ask a question like that.”

They looked at each other for a few moments. Eddie laid the printout on the desk. “What do I owe you?”

“For what?”

“The computer time.”

“Not a thing.”

Pinchas took off the Twins cap, put on the skullcap. He was rewrapping the Twins cap in tissue paper when Eddie left.

25

Now when Eddie walked into the suite, Jack was there, pacing by the window, smoking a cigarette. He wore a double-breasted suit, a white shirt, and a silk tie, but his feet were bare.

“It’s you,” he said. “Where’d you fuck off to?”

“Just taking a virtual-reality check,” Eddie said. “Not my thing.”

Jack nodded, but absent, blank. He paced, glanced out the window, let cigarette ash flutter down to the rug.

“What’s wrong?” Eddie said.

“Nothing.”

Eddie noticed that Jack’s feet, once high-arched and strong, had changed. They were almost flat now, and the toenails were thick and yellowed with fungus.

“I don’t believe you,” Eddie said.

Jack rounded on him. “Nothing’s wrong that you can help with. Let’s put it that way.”

Eddie nodded. He took out what was left of the $350 and laid it on the TV. “I’ll send you the clothes.” He moved toward the door.

Jack bounded toward him, spun him around, held him by the shoulders. He was still strong.

“I don’t need any shit from you, bro.”

For a moment Eddie just stood there, like a rabbit mesmerized by a predator, like an inmate who knew the pecking order. Then he raised his hands, placed them on Jack’s chest, and pushed him away. Not too hard-Jack was his brother; but he didn’t want to be handled.

Not too hard, maybe, but it was hard enough to send Jack to the floor. He bounced up, came at Eddie with his hand raised for a backswing across the face. Eddie was tired of that; he caught Jack’s wrist in midair and held it. Jack wasn’t like Raleigh. He was much stronger, much tougher. Still, he couldn’t move his arm at all. When he saw that, he showed he was much smarter too-the resistance went out of him completely and at once.

Eddie released him. Jack gave him a long look. “You’ve changed.”

“That’s a pretty stupid thing to say.”

“I know. Shit. I can’t think straight.” Jack rubbed his forehead with the heels of both palms, as though that might unscramble whatever was going on inside.

“What’s the trouble?” Eddie said.

Jack sighed, turned to the window, glanced out. “When’s this fucking rain going to stop?” He picked his smoldering cigarette out of an ashtray and started pacing again. He took powerful strides, three or four one way, three or four back. Rain made spidery streaks on the window, arpeggios to his rhythm section. “Money trouble, Eddie. What other kind of trouble is there?”

Eddie knew lots. “You’re talking about Windward Financial?”

“What else?”

“I thought it could be your personal money or something.”