that’s all sport. This is the future of our art. Besides, if I were out there checking out every landfill for Indian Burial Grounds and digging my nose into snowbanks for lost hikers, I wouldn’t be here developing software and making a killing on my GeoMagic Toolkit CDs.” Slow Bob points to a stack of disks sitting in a crooked pile on a monitor.
He opens his eyes, swivels his chair a bit to face me, without moving his embedded feet. He points, says, “That beach is a terrible, terrible place.”
I ask him what he means.
“Murder’s what I mean,” Slow Bob says. “That beach’s seen its fair share of blood before. What you’re going to do to your buddy, it ain’t the first time, is all I’m saying. The place has a funk to it. The way truck-stop restrooms do. Locker rooms. This beach has a bad aura. Most people, probably running around in the sand, sunbathing, fishing, whatever, they don’t even sense it. Cursed, is what it is.”
“Can you see what happened?” I ask.
Slow Bob coughs. “That’ll cost you fifty.”
Belle shakes her head, digs into her purse, pulls out two twenties and a ten. She hands it over, says, “Better be worth it.”
“’Course it will.”
This scrawny, pale man reaches down, grabs his energy drink, pops it open, and ignores the spill of fizz before downing a mouthful that gets most of his shirt wet. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and then, to me, Slow Bob says, “Maybe ten years ago, maybe not that long, there was a kid swimming in the reservoir. It was winter. Kid was swimming hard. He was freezing. This kid’s mom was yelling at him from the beach, right there where you will do your thing. No one else nearby, just these two out in the freeze of it.”
“Jimi,” I say. I think back to how Vauxhall told me the story. How it was the thing that really stuck in my mind, it might have been one of many abusive things Jimi’s mom did, but it was one that haunted Jimi. One that haunted Vauxhall.
“This kid, little guy, skinny like me,” Slow Bob says, “he just can’t take it anymore. The bitch on the beach, screaming at him, smacking at him when he gets out of the water all red like a lobster from the cold. This shaking boy, he decides right then and there that he won’t take it anymore. Whatever this woman had done to him it had been bad enough that the kid cracked. He grabbed a rock. His mom was screaming, top of her lungs, calling him horrible names, embarrassing names, and he hit her. Just plunked the rock down on top of her head.”
We are all silent. Slow Bob closes his eyes. There is much motion under the lids.
He says, quieter, even slower, “What happened next was kind of funny. Funny not like in the ha-ha way but in the uncanny way. You know the word ‘uncanny’? That’s what this was like. The mom, she just stood there with this crazy, confused look on her face. The rock hit her head and her shouting stopped and then, just a trickle of blood. Tiny trickle. Stopped yelling, looked up at her kid with this look of just total shock and confusion, and then she keeled over. Time she hit the snow she was dead as the rock that hit her. The kid, he was a calculating type, he pushed, dug into the snow with his already numb fingers, grabbed some more rocks, stuffed them in his mom’s yellow parka, and pushed her out under the ice.”
I look to Belle. Her eyes are probably as wide as mine.
“Killed his mom,” I say softly.
Slow Bob opens his eyes, turns back to the flickering screens in front of him, says, “That woman sank like she had been made of rock all the time. And to add to the surprising nature of this little story, she was never found. Probably getting her bones gnawed on by catfish right this moment.”
“What about the kid?” I ask. “What happened to him next?”
Slow Bob shrugs. “He left the beach. Rest, I don’t see.”
Learning that Jimi is a murderer, honestly, it doesn’t faze me. I’m not surprised either. If anything, I was expecting it. Not this exactly, not him having sunk his mom in the reservoir, but knowing my feelings were justified feels right. It’s satisfying. First thought is: Jimi’s a danger. Vauxhall needs to stay away from him. And the follow- up: How come she didn’t know this earlier? Or did she?
“Anything else?” Slow Bob growls.
“Yeah,” I say. “There’s another thing. A guy in a mask. He’s following me around in my visions. Past and future. It’s like he can-”
“Time travel?” Slow Bob asks.
“Yeah.”
Bob laughs. “Sure. But he can’t do that. Impossible. Nah, he’s just getting into your head. Into other people’s heads. Anything you’ve seen, it turns to memory instantly. Almost even before you’ve seen it. And then it gets filed away. He’s able to get into there, this guy. What you need to do is stop thinking so linearly.”
“But how can I figure out who he is? Why he’s there?”
Slow Bob says, “Dunno that. Why he’s there is easy. Most likely it’s a thrill thing. That’s the most common reason. Then again, could be he wants to tell you something. Could be he’s desperate. How do I know?”
“All right,” I say. “Last question. Do you think I can change what will happen?”
Slow Bob looks over to Belle. The look on his face, it’s pretty much what you’d expect. It’s the old is-this-guy- a-nut-job-or-what? look. Then he turns back to me and says, “Can you change the orbit of the moon? Rhetorical question. Grandpa Razor’s the best of us. He set down the rules for a reason. You don’t try and break them. Not for anything.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say, all dismissive. “But either I do or I don’t. Can’t have two futures, right?” I don’t give him time to answer. “Look, Slow Bob, I need to see Grandpa Razor.”
Belle shakes her head. She mouths, Not a good idea.
Slow Bob rolls his eyes. “Can’t,” he says.
“For sure I can,” I say. “I’m betting you could find anyone.”
“Again,” Belle says. “Probably not a good idea. He’s a last resort.”
“I’m sure he’s already expecting me,” I say to both of them.
Slow Bob says, “I’ve only ever met Grandpa Razor twice. Last time was years ago. I suspect he’s slowed down a bit, but for a long time he was the scariest thing around. Back in the early eighties, and this is just to give you an example of what kind of cat he is, people were talking about him eating someone. Said he’d had the best visions he’d ever seen. Ate some guy, an old junkie, over the course of five months. Ate every bit too. Started with the knuckles was how it went. Ended with the ears.”
“Bullshit,” Belle says.
“You don’t get out much, Bob. Besides, we’re not interested in boogie man stories,” I say. “Grandpa Razor’s been calling me, I know he’s just waiting for me to stop by. You tell me where he is and if I get eaten, no skin off your back. You warned me, right? For this thing to end, for me, I have to see him and I have to know what he knows.”
Slow Bob smiles slowly.
“He’s in the Esquire Hotel, penthouse. Good luck.”
TEN
“The best thing you ever did,” Belle says, “is quit.”
We’re in the foyer at the Esquire Hotel and already a handful of junkies have walked up to us to beg for change. This place, it’s the last place you want to be at night. During the day, from what I’ve heard, it’s even worse. The carpets were rust colored once and possibly plush, now they’re gray and they’ve got holes in them the size of sewer covers. In the corners, under the decaying furniture, up the stairs, are chewed-up sunflower seeds, cigarette butts, beer bottles, crack vials, condoms, and rafts of different colored hair. The lights flicker. Even the sun seems to flicker the way it comes through the thick shades. The graffiti of the hand, the divination symbol, it’s all over this place. In fact: I saw the hand sign spray-painted on two buildings on our way down here.
“How’s that?” I ask as we head to the elevators.
I’m ignoring the junkies. I’m ignoring the prostitutes. I’m pretending I’m somewhere else. Belle, oddly enough, does not seem uncomfortable.
Belle says, “I can see it in you. You’re changed. Used to be you had this air about you; people who were willing,
