BUDDY COOPER FINDS A WAY by Neil O’Boyle Connelly

Author:Neil O’Boyle Connelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SIMON & SCHUSTER
Published: 2004-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

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The Afterlife According to Snake. Bad Feelings About Penguins.

Beloved Champ. Three Moose. An Unexpected Mourner.

Quinn shows up ten minutes into The Price Is Right, hands me the suit Alix picked out and a pair of oversized sunglasses that he hopes will disguise my identity, though from whom I’m not exactly sure. While he takes care of the release paperwork, I struggle into costume. I’ve had the wounded wing free of the immobilizer a few times, but it costs me five minutes of distilled agony to slip into the white dress shirt. The Percocet does little to dull the throbbing in my shoulder, and I decide to opt for comfort over style, securing the arm back in the Velcro sling before slipping the jacket on, leaving the left sleeve empty. Standing before my bathroom’s tiny mirror, I try on the sunglasses. I look like a one-armed, blind private eye, like someone who’s been searching for clues in all the wrong places.

I lift Brook’s vsaji from the nightstand drawer, the only memento I need to keep of my time in 215. When I slide the healing necklace into my jacket pocket, I find a slip of paper. Unfolding it reveals Alix’s handwriting: In Raleigh tomorrow—Dance. Greenfield Lake, Sunday around 12:00? I could bring Brook.

When Quinn returns, he looks at me in my Stevie Wonder shades, says, “Hey, where’d B. C. go?” and laughs. I leave my hospital room without a good-bye or a backward glance, and Quinn leads me to a gray service elevator that lowers us into the basement. We weave our way through the back of the cafeteria, workers turning to stare as we pass. The muscles in my legs are stiff, but the movement feels good. Finally we cut down a concrete corridor and Quinn opens a door. I step into the cloudy gray day and draw my first breath of nonrecycled air.

“Our chariot awaits,” Quinn says, pointing. Parked amid the ambulances is the same vehicle I pissed on last week—Snake’s hearse, big and black, engine rattling like a getaway car’s.

As we approach I see Hardy’s thick form hunched behind the wheel. Even with the overcast sky, his wheat-colored hair shines. He manages half a smile and a wave. I follow Quinn around back, where he pulls open the long door above the bumper, the one you’d slide the coffin through. He tilts his head and says, “All aboard.”

Peering into the darkness, I see skinny bent legs and a cane. Snake sits in shadow toward the front on a sideways padded seat. I recognize it as one of the red booth cushions from Heaven’s Gate. A thin hand holding a cigarette floats into the slanted light. “Come join me.”

I crawl in and settle down across from Snake. Quinn swings the door shut and drops us into darkness. A few seconds later we rumble off. Daylight leaks around the black curtains masking the windows, so as my eyes adjust I can make out Snake’s hand lifting and falling from his mouth.

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