Rolling

Bones

Jon D. Gold rollingbonesnovel.com

Copyright 20122014, by Jon D. Gold All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 978-0615962139 (Barking Cow Enterprises, Inc.) ISBN-10: 0615962130

acknowledgments and thanks

(in no particular order)

Wikipedia.com, please consider making an annual donation, this is one of the most important information resources on the planet

the distillers of Glenfiddich, Drambuie, & Bulliet Rye Plato

Ron Horton and the 2002 Ovid Bowling League

Ethan Vaughan Robert Hunter

Patti Smith Blaise Pascal

Jena Tietze Frank Maier, for whom they invented the phrase sui

generis Sunnyside Up Caf, Corvallis, OR

Conor Gold, baker of record

Casey Gold, proofreader extraordinaire

Mary Gold, my lovely and devoted spousal unit And foremost: all of humanity, past and present, for making up the most absurd stories and pretending theyre real, solely for my amusement.

dedication This work is dedicated to my 16 year-old self. This is what you were looking for, dummy.

Men rarely managed to dream up a god superior to themselves. Most gods have the manners and morals of a spoiled child.

Robert A. Heinlein

The earth is a world The world is a ball A ball in a game with no rules at all

~The Game Echo and the Bunnymen

~ 1 ~

Prologue

Apparently, death is black. Blacker than there are words to describe, but at least as black as my soul if I had one.

But. There was the dimmest glow on the horizonjust a

pinprick of light in the otherwise Stygian blackness, as if it were the very genesis of light. It was a vague sidereal blossom from a singular star. The indistinct glow waxed and waned like it was winking at me in acknowledgment of some secret of the cosmos I was not yet privy to. They always say don't go into the light, but really, the alterna-tive is to make friends with the dark. What kind of choice is that? Fuck convention, I headed toward the light.

What was I doing before I died? I concentrated on coaxing back the memories. Images bubbled up through the soup of my minds eye like my brain was on a slow boil. A dwarf girl emerged from the murk, then fell back. Bacchus, the god of wine, came to the surface, rode the bubble like his tortoise, and slipped back under. A man with a gun did a log roll as the current pushed him up and then dragged him down. Jesus popped up, bobbing at the surface, and then the clarity of my death smacked me in the face: ninety-nine foot tall Jesus playing toss-the-detective. Thats how it ended, but that wasnt how it started.

I tried to think further back. What came before Jesus? Moroni? The billionaire? He had something to do with this. I just cant remember what. But it didnt start with him either. Benny the Bug and his two henchmen? Was that the beginning?

No.

Rolling Bones

~ 2 ~

I was at a loss. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe it never happened at all, or maybe I was misremembering. How reliable is the memory of a dead man anyway?

The amorphous glow began to take form as the distance closed. It grew in size and appeared to come from a doorway, a portal of some kind. Its hard edges flashed and sparked, throwing off photons that cared nothing for the traditional linear properties of light as they zigged hither and zagged yon. A tinkle of sound, almost like laughter, followed after them. They made me think of children at a fair as they skipped away.

Wait. A fair? That reminded me of someone else. What was her name? Jones. Something Jones. Roller Coaster Jones? No, that wasnt it. Something like it though. Bumper Car Jones? Amusement Park Jones? Carnival Jones? Maybe. No. Wait. Merry-Go-Round Jones? Yeah, that was it, Calliope. Calliope Jones. This was all her fault. I suddenly remembered everything. It started with a dame.

Why does it always start with a dame?

~ 3 ~

Chapter 1

Plastic Jesus

Ive lost God, Agnes Goracke said to me with a bereaved look in her eyes. They were the palest blue, washed out from too many tears in her painful go-round in this life. She was wearing an ancient house smock over her plain dress, as faded as her irises.

I glanced around her sparse apartment. Threadbare furniture and little of it. Dusty Kodachrome pictures of several shining children, but nothing recent to reflect their lives as adults. Her Hells Kitchen apartment reeked of loneliness with subtle undertones of bitter disappoint-ment, while the three deadbolts and Fox police lock on the door bespoke a person living with fear. Such locks would not keep out the danger that comes from within, but right now, wrapped in her fear of the without, the last thing she needed to feel was that God had abandoned her.

Im sorry, Mrs. Goracke. I summoned false empathy and compassion through my hangover haze and tried to give sincere voice to my words, to imbue them with the feelings they are supposed to convey, but that I did not possess.

There are times when we all feel that way. I said, trying to convince myself as much as her. Life is not always easy. Feeling that you no longer have Gods love is natural when life is hard or youre alone.

I reached out to hug her because I think I saw someone do that in a movie once.

She slapped my arms away. What are you doing? Dont touch me! Are you a rapist? I have pepper spray. She was brandishing a canister from the pocket of her house dress. She backed away from me while she fiddled with the safety.

Please. Dont. I held up my hands in surrender. I was merely trying to comfort you. You seem distraught.

Rolling Bones

~ 4 ~

Of course Im distraught. My God is missing. Look! She pointed pointedly at the cross on her wall. It was your basic plastic crucifix, about nine inches high, INRI inscribed across the horizontal bar. There was painted blood dabbed around the spikes for the hands and crossed ankles. It was manufactured with plenty of lead and irony in the godless country of China.

The crucifix was mounted on the wall about a foot above a Depression era bookcase that was filled with various tchotchkes and books, a small tea dish of orphan buttons, a worn leather autograph book from grade school, a wedding picture taken in the 1950s before God was dead and life was full of the unending promise of the Modern Age, a pair of tarnished, bronze bookends in the shape of unicorns, some old reading glasses; the humble flotsam and jetsam left in the wake of a hard life. The sum of it was the sad remainder of a complex equation that has a different answer for each of us.

I turned my gaze back to the crucifix. The unusual thing about this particular crucifix is that the body of Christ had up and walked away. I stepped closer and focused on the painted blood. I marveled how the Chinese got the color just right, gory red with a hint of ochre. It glistened. I touched a finger to it. It was sticky. I wasnt expecting that. There was a miniscule dark splotch on the wall just underneath. I touched that too. Also sticky. I held the finger under my nose and smelled the fresh coppery odor of human blood. Then I noticed another small drop on the top of the bookcase, surrounded by several tiny footprints in the dust. Curious.

Well, I said, pushing back my trilby to scratch my forehead. This is new.

See, she said with vindication in her voice. I told you.

When did you last see him? Last night. Before going to bed. Could I trouble you, please, for a glass of water? Its no bother. She padded off to the kitchen, her

house slippers flapping on the wood floor. I needed her

Rolling Bones

~ 5 ~

gone so I could examine the scene without her watching me. To be honest, I also needed the water to quell the steady throb of youre-a-fucking-idiot just above my temples. What did I do last night?

I took the LED torch from my pocket and turned it on. It was easier to see the footprints under its bright light. I followed them across the top of the bookshelf to the front edge where I could see that the dust had been disturbed by tiny hands and feet on each successive shelf all the way down to the floor. Unfortunately, Mrs. Goracke kept a reasonably clean home and the dust ended just a few inches out from the case. The last footprint pointed toward the center of the sitting room.

I turned off the torch and put it back in my pocket just as Mrs. Goracke was flapping back with my water. I thanked her, took down the whole glass in one long gulp, and asked if we might sit. She nodded her assent and then sat in the armchair, catty-corner to the couch. I walked around the coffee table and plopped down on the settee. There was a distinct but muffled crack, like the snap of a bone. Great. This poor woman is having an existential crisis, and I break her couch.

Oh, Id forgotten about the neighbor children, she said.

I wondered if I was about to see the body of a child stashed under the cushions because she ran out of room in her freezer. She didnt look the type, casually holding her pepper spray, but they hardly ever do: Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Joel Rifkin.

I put down the water glass, stood up, and lifted the seat cushion. Easter egg. Crushed. Shards of pink plastic surrounded the little pastel foil wrapped chocolate prizes from within, now revealed, no longer hidden, no longer secret. I had the germ of an answer sprouting before my bloodshot minds eye. Agnes Goracke was about to say something else, but I held up my hand to silently shush her.

Is today Thursday? I asked. Yes it is.

Rolling Bones

~ 6 ~

Is it Maundy Thursday? Why, I suppose it must be. Does that mean

something, Mr. Ryan? Yes it does. It means that tomorrow is Good Friday and

now we have a motive. I rubbed my chin as I muttered to myself, Where would I go? Where would I go?

Mr. Ryan? What do you mean by Where would you go?

Please, Mrs. Goracke. Im trying to figure out where I would go if I didnt want to be crucified.

Im afraid I dont understand at all. I know, but you dont have to understand. Please, let

me do my job. I started pacing the room. Where would I go? Where

would you go, for that matter? Where would anybody go? There was an obvious answer here that I wasnt seeing. My head was fairly pounding which did not help. What did I do last night? Dammit, Ryan, concentrate. Jesus has slunk off in the night and tomorrow is Good Friday, the most important day in Christendom. Without tomorrow, Christianity doesnt even exist. My temples throbbed. Why does this seem so hard? Could I still be a little drunk?

I paused my pacing and closed my eyes to compose myself. My minds eye flashed on the unicorn bookends. What the hell? Wait. ...Theres somethingthere was something about unicorns back in the cob-webbed haze of my memory. If only this hangover wasnt blocking my way into that dusty corner. Unicorns. Focus! Early Christians co-opted unicorns from pagan mythology. Why? Why would they do that? Oh yeah, only a virgin can attract a unicorn. The virgin is Mary and the unicorn represents Christ. Theres that series of medieval tapestries hanging in the Cloisters, The Unicorn Hunt. The unicorn is hunted down and killed but in the final panel he is alive in captivity.

Why am I thinking about this? This is pointless. Im an idiot. My toe itches. I wish I knew how my brain worked. What the hell does Maundy mean anyway? Did I pick up my other suit from the dry cleaners yesterday? Get back on track, you moron. Unicorn bookends? As if thats useful. Where would I go? One does not simply go into hiding in this situation. There

Rolling Bones

~ 7 ~

is purpose here. There is willful intent. This isnt just running from, this is also running to something. Where would I go? Unicorns? Why does my stupid brain keep circling around to the stupid bookends? Did my subconscious see something that my forebrain missed?

I asked Mrs. Goracke to get me another glass of water. I took out my flashlight once more and pointed it at the shelf with the unicorns. The footprints on that shelf detoured to the bookends and then came back to the edge to continue the downward climb. A question asked itself in my head: What is the bookend to Easter?

And then I knew exactly where I would go if I were a spoiled and petulant

Mr. Ryan, are you quite alright? Youre mumbling about a great many nonsensical things. She had returned with my glass of water.

I looked Agnes Goracke in the eye and said, Mommy.

I assure you I am not your mother, Mr. Ryan. She raised her canister of pepper spray, lest I try to embrace her once more.

Where do you store your holiday decorations? On the top shelf of the pantry closet. Why? Please wait here. I went to the kitchen closet and took down a box

marked Christmas. There was the tiniest smear of blood where the tape at the edge had been lifted. I opened my pocket shiv and sliced through the tape on top. I removed strings of lights and dusty popcorn garlands, then pulled out the layer of used wrapping paper and smaller boxes of glass ornaments packed in excelsior.

At the very bottom was a tabletop crche. The baby Jesus had been tossed aside while crucified adult Jesus, in his diaper, lay splayed across the infants crib, limbs spilling over the sides. Blood oozed from his five wounds. His crown of thorns was pulled down over his forehead like a baseball cap. He looked like the town drunk passed out in the church manger at Christmas. His eyes were

Rolling Bones

~ 8 ~

closed and his mother was kneeling beside him: the unicorn and the virgin.

Well, well, I said. Guess who found Jesus? That got no response. Not in the mood for jokes, huh? Still nothing. I began to sing softly:

I dont care if it rains or freezes Long as I got my plastic Jesus Sittin on the dashboard of my car

I dont care if it hails or snows In the dark my Jesus glows

Nothing. Youre a tough cookie to crack, Jesus. Silence. It is said that you cannot wake the man who pretends

to be sleeping. That got to him. He opened an eye to the merest slit to

peek at me through the thorns of his crown. In case you didnt get my drift, Jew boy, I was talking

to you. He opened both eyes fully and glared at me, pushing

back his crown. Lets go Nazarene. I poked his plastic ribs with my

finger. Time to return to the wall. Hide and seek is over. Youve got a job to do and there are no days off.

He remained silent and glaring. Im talking to you, asshole. Get up and get back to

your cross. How can you speak with me, human? Oh, so you can talk. Not that I owe you an

explanation but I have certain ... abilities, for lack of a better word.

Abilities?! I am the Savior! His voice thundered. Well, it thundered as much as an eight-inch-high, inarticulate, plastic figurine could thunder.

Please keep your voice down. We don't want to freak out the widow.

Rolling Bones

~ 9 ~

What abilities could you possibly have, he asked with obvious disdain.

Theres a lot more to it than what Im about to tell you. But to keep this simple, all you need to know is that I have no belief in anything that is not part of the observable multiverse. No majik, no astrology, no religion, no ghosts, no luck, no theology, no voodoo, no dogma, no UFOs, no monsters under the bed, no mysticism, no karma, no afterlife, no witch doctors, no superstition, no secret, no eternal soul, no mojo, no laws of attraction, no reincarnation, no heaven, no hell, no fairies, angels, gods or chthonic demons. Nothing, zero, zip, zilch, nada.

He looked at me with defiance, as if his presence belied what I just said.

I believe in nothing, I continued, that offers only faith as a basis for existence. That enables me to simultaneously see the world as it actually is, as well as accept the possibility of all things; exempli gratia, the fact that Im having a mutual conversation with a plastic replica of a dead man who is actively bleeding human blood from the plastic spikes that were torn from his plastic hands and ankles when he abandoned his plastic post on the wall of this poor womans apartment. An act, by the way, which has caused her quite some distress, contrary to the very duty with which you are charged, id est, giving comfort.

He spluttered in protest. Did you just reduce Me and the glory of My Father to mere example and then school me in my responsibilities? He hauled himself up and out of the crib with as much dignified indignation as he could muster.

I chuckled softly. I guess I did. Look, I get it. I really do. Virgin birth, Son of God, King of the Jews, crucifixion, zombie resurrection, I understand where youre coming from

Where Im coming from? He made no effort to hide his incredulity and his anger. If he were as physically large as his ego, then this is where he would stomp my

Rolling Bones

~ 10 ~

puny self beneath his dirty feet. I AM THE SAVIOR, he roared in his tiny loud voice. I DIED FOR YOUR SINS!

Listen pal, you may have died for somebodys sins, but not mine. Im keeping mine for myself. I take full responsibility for my actions, thank you.

His eyes narrowed with anger. It was becoming apparent that cold, hard, fact-based reality wasnt going to cut it. I needed a different strategy. Look, I said in a conciliatory tone. Im not disputing your mythology, its just

Mythology?! he interrupted. His cheeks were flushing red and he was leaning forward slightly with his chest puffed up in battle-ready mode. His fingers retracted into fists.

Ooops, wrong word choice. Oh well, might as well press on. Its just that I dont care, I said, and I mean no disrespect by that. Really, I dont. I pressed my palms together at chest level and bowed slightly. I hoped that showing a little deference after being a hard ass was the way to nudge this situation into the Desired Outcome column.

You can take it on faith, I said, that I have the utmost regard for what you do, but heres the gist of the thing: There are certain rules that apply here that cannot be superceded, circumvented, obviated, or otherwise ignored on a whim because you dont like them anymore.

Jesus crossed his arms. I am the Son of God, he said snootily.

Not if you dont show up for your crucifixion, you aint. Call your lawyer, theres no severability clause in this contract. If we take you out of the deal, the whole of Christianity becomes null and void. Where does that leave two billion of your followers? Up Shit Creek without a deity for a paddle. This is the gig you signed up for, and this is the gig you get to do until the very last one of your believers is good and gone. After that, you can spend the rest of your days doing fuck all with Zeus and that lot. Let me tell you, those kids know how to party.

Rolling Bones

~ 11 ~

That was probably less deference than I intended to show, and in any case, it only strengthened his resolve.

Screw you, Jew boy, he spat. I dont have to do anything you say.

I picked him up and held him at eye level. I could feel anger building within. I dont know if it was the hangover, or his attitude, but my fuse was down to a nubbin.

You dont get it. I said a little too loudly. Is everything alright in there, Mr. Ryan? the widow

called from the parlor. Everything is fine, Mrs. Goracke, almost finished. Everythings fine, Mrs. Goracke, Jesus said in a high

mocking tone. That did it. Anger flashed dark and violent in my

heart. YOU DONT GET TO QUIT! I threw Jesus against the wall with enough force to

crack the plaster. Paint chipped off and fluttered in the air. He bounced off and landed in front of the cast iron radiator.

Mr. Ryan! the widow called from the next room. Oh, gods, what did I do? Plastic Jesus lay motionless on the floor, surrounded

by dust. Jesus? No response. Can you kill a god?

A muffled moan came from the heap that was Jesus. Then he moved. He lifted his head dazedly and looked around. Then he shakily stood up.

Im sorry, I said, and almost meant it. No, it is I who should apologize, he said in a small

voice. I was acting selfishly. Its just.I have grown so weary of this burden inflicted upon me,

Its not an easy gig, I said with empathy that I almost felt.

Three days of H, E, double hockey sticks every year.

Rolling Bones

~ 12 ~

Lets be honest with ourselves about the three days thing, shall we? Its really only two days from Friday morning to Sunday morning.

Sure, he conceded. And the rest of your time is kind of a breeze, soli Deo

gloria. Praise be. Think of what Prometheus had to go through. Having his liver eaten from his living body by a great

eagle? And then having it grow back at night? Lather, rinse, repeat, every day? No, thanks.

Exactly, I said. You get forty-some odd hours of annual pain for saving mankind. All he did was steal fire for mankind, which arguably saved man just as much, I thought to myself. Heat, light and cooked food can also nourish a mans soul.

There is always someone who has it worse, right Jesus? I could see that his mood was lightening. Funny how we take comfort in knowing that someone elses suffering is greater than our own, but I guess thats only human.

Jesus suddenly looked concerned, I dont What? I asked. I dont know what possessed me to do this, he said

pensively. Oh crap, I thought. Now hes feeling contrite. Guilt is a useless emotion.

It doesnt matter why, I said. It only matters that you return to your station.

But Ive made a mistake. There are no mistakes, Jesus. There are only actions

and natural consequences and the opportunity to learn from them.

Consequences! Yes! I should be punished. Sigh. So many centuries of so-called civilization, and

we still havent learned that punishment only teaches that might is right.

Did you say something? he asked. Nothing that you could hear. What shall be my punishment?

Rolling Bones

~ 13 ~

What about seven hours of snuff film torture followed by about thirty-six hours of being dead, and then zombiehood and deification?

Yes, he agreed, that would be most fitting. Props, bro. He offered me a fist bump and then stepped into my open hand. I carried him back into the living room.

Mrs. Goracke stared in wonder, but then found her voice. How on earth did that happen?

Its an Easter miracle. The important part is that hes back. I affixed Jesus back onto his crucifix and stood back to admire my handiwork. Jesus winked happily at me before reacquiring his customary visage of suffering for your sins.

Thank you, Mr. Ryan. Youre my hero. She looked at me with such gratitude that I could not help but feeldespite my cynicism, or because of itthat I had done something useful for a change.

Im just doing my job, Mrs. Goracke. It was my pleasure to help you. I hope you have a lovely Easter.

I made my way out of Agnes Gorackes apartment and headed down the stairs. I wanted to contemplate why Jesus decided to manifest himself in a cheap plastic crucifix in a pitiful apartment in Hells' Kitchen, but my new BFF, hangover, was clamoring for my attention. I stopped on a landing and swiveled my head from side to side to release the tension I felt there. My neck vertebrae popped several times in a satisfactory way, but it made my hangover feel like church bells ringing in the middle of my brain pan. I tried to shake it off without effect. What the hell did I do last night?

I exited the building into a glorious day of bright morning Manhattan sunshine with smiling pedestrians and chirping birds heralding the new spring, only to find myself in the arms of two no-neck pug uglieslarge men who looked like pro wrestling juice heads. Men for whom gruff is too mild a description. Men for whom Kelloggs Gruff would perhaps make a suitable breakfast cereal.

They wordlessly threw me into the back of a pink SUV at the curb.

~ 14 ~

Chapter 2 Rolling Bones

I landed hard on the bench seat of the SUV and scrambled across it to open the opposite door. I made it through the door just in time for Rock to have hustled around the vehicle to grab me and throw me back in. Hard Place was already sitting in the other seat blocking the way.

Oh well, it was worth a try. At least I discovered that my captors werent completely inept. I made a mental note that partially inept is a trait I could exploit later if the need arose: For example, they did not disable the door locks or check if I was armed. Good to know.

Hard Place laughed. I tink my feelings is hurt. The shamus dont like us. I couldnt shake my suspicion that tinking was not his strong suit. If only I had some evidence. Grammar seemed to be low on his list of skills too. Rock had climbed in on the other side of me and responded with, I dont give a fuck what you tink or who he likes. The doors closed and we pulled into traffic.

Where are we going? I asked brightly, as a Labrador might in the hopes the answer is dog park and not vet. But the only response I got was silence and the overwhelming stench of dirty gym socks, body odor and excess testosterone. I sat between Rock and Hard Place and tried to ignore my overloaded olfactory.

We drove down the West Side to the meatpacking district. The car stopped in front of a gritty little alley where people go to buy drugs, get knifed, robbed or sucked off, and sometimes all four at the same time.1

Next to the alley was a pool hall I recognized. This was definitely worse than the vet.

Oh good, Ive been meaning to brush up on my nine ball. The pug uglies still said nothing while manhandling me into the building. The place was just as I remembered it: dank, dark, and infused with the odor of cheap stogies

1 Be sure to stop by for Twofer Tuesdays.

Rolling Bones

~ 15 ~

that had been smoked when God was young and it was still legal to smoke in public. On top of the old cigar smell was the fragrance of stale beer. Supporting it all was a bottom-note of desperation.

Skylights darkened by decades of neglect kept the dim from escaping, while dust drifted down from the open rafters, making the air hazy with motes that swirled in our wake.

We wended our way around tables that were basking in puddles of light, illuminated like sacrificial alters. The surrounding shadows were crowded with sharks, slackers, and wannabes. The air was charged with the excitement of twenty-dollar-a-ball games that gave me a jolt of adrenaline. The stench of gambling filled the room. Id forgotten how much I missed it. No, I didnt miss it, that was a lie. I craved it. I jonesed for it. I wanted it the way a hormone-addled boy wants to get laid, a junkie wants his fix, or a homeless man wants a rainless night and a meal that didnt come out of a dumpster.

I reflexively reached into my pocket for my talisman. It wasnt there. I checked my other pockets. It wasnt in any of them. I always carry it. What the hell? Maybe I left it in my other suit.

Rock and Hard Place frog marched me to the back. Inside the office, standing nervously in front of the desk, was a half-pint bookie I half knew by the name of Willy. He was in a fresh upper body cast, with his southpaw arm elevated 90 degrees from his body. His shirt collar was ringed with sweat, and I couldnt be sure if I was smelling his fear, or if he had lost control of his bladder just a wee bit.

Willy looked around as he heard us approaching. We stopped just outside the open door to wait. He smiled wanly at me, but worry creased his face like a topographical map of Mordor.

He turned his attention back to the man behind the desk. I hope this settles things between us, Mr. Benjamin. And I further hope you know that I would never welsh on you.

Rolling Bones

~ 16 ~

That is kind of you to say so, Short William. Please, Mr. Benjamin, he said with a jitter. M-m-m-

m-my friends call me W-w-w-willy. As you wish, Short Willy. You could have sharpened a knife on the cold steel

tension in the room. Willy wasnt out of danger yet, and he knew it.

I have stood where Willy stood now, where urine and blood stains, ancient and worn, have darkened the rough pine boards. I also knew the helpless terror Willy was feeling at that moment, like falling to earth from space, knowing your fate is sealed, but waiting interminably for the end.

I took a gamble. I laughed purposefully and loudly. Come on, Bennie. Youve made your point here. The man has kissed your ring, made you whole, and apologized for being late. You dont have to emasculate him as well.

Benjamin Vigorish, AKA Bennie the Bug, stood up, and glared at me through the open door. Dont be a hero, Ryan, he said with gritted teeth. He came around the desk and slapped Willy lightly on the face. I dont know what emasculate means, Bennie said with a sudden smile. But Im just fuckin with him. Ha, ha. Go on, Short Willy, get outta here. Willy turned to leave.

Its good to see you, Willy, I said as he headed toward the door. Great relief spread across his face as he realized that he would not end this day by sleeping with the fishes.

Thanks, Val, he said. Good to see you too. Then he half-turned to get his perpendicular arm cast through the doorway, and he added in a conspiratorial tone, its good to see anybody.

With Willy gone, Bennie turned to me. Valentine Ryan. What brings you to my little pool hall? He picked up a bronze dollar coin from his desk and was fondling it. Then he flipped it into the air with the expert precision of a man with enough passive income to practice coin-flipping all day if he felt like it. It somersaulted a half-

Rolling Bones

~ 17 ~

dozen times as it went up and then fell back to his open palm with a gentle thwop.

Um, I nodded at Rock and Hard Place, these two assholes brought me.

Ha, ha, he said. Bennie doesnt laugh, he actually says the words, ha,

ha, like a cartoon character with a word bubble over his head. Bennie Vigorish was a fireplug of man in his late 50s who shaves his head, not for any of the aesthetic reasons, but because he likes the feel of a straight razor being drawn across his misshapen scalp. The only evidence he bore of his late-middle years were a slight paunch and the reading glasses he now had to don when making entries in his kill-ya-later notebook.

Youre still a funny guy, Funny Ryan. I try to be, especially when Im being kidnapped. Whoa, hold on there, pal. I brung you in as a

courtesy. Up in the air the coin went, with a bright zing, and then over and over and over till it came back to his hand. Thwop.

Maybe youre confused, Bennie. A courtesy would be a free drink or giving up your seat on the subway for a pregnant lady, not an unsolicited ride against my will in a pink SUV.

Ha, ha. Didja like my new ride? Some Mary Kay saleslady used that to settle her debt.

Yeah, it was swell. She likes the ponies, but they sure dont like her. Why am I here, Bennie? I asked impatiently. Theres that hostility again. I still think maybe you are

unappreciative of the kindness I am showing you. Zing! went the coin into the air, tumbling as it went.

Again, Bennie, precision of language is so important. I can not stress that enough. Kindness, courtesy. These are words you use to express some form of favor or consideration that is being offered to a recipient in this case, me.

You know, Funny Ryan, youre acting an awful lot like a guy what doesnt owe me thirty-seven large.

Rolling Bones

~ 18 ~

Thats cute, Bennie. How could I possibly owe you thirty-seven large? You know I havent gambled in years. Im G.A. straight down the line.

He said nothing, but zinged the coin into the air once more, only instead of straight up, he sent it in a trajectory toward me. It tumbled ass over tea kettle, and I caught it in my hand.

Well, Funny Ryan, the first thing you bet last night was your five-year Gamblers Anonymous medal. I looked at the coin in my hand. My talisman. What. The. Holy. Fuck.

What are you talking about, Bennie? I said with conviction I did not feel, I wasnt in here last night.

Oh yes you was. I got it on the security footage if you care to have a look.

And I was gambling? Oh yes you was. And you were the host of the game I was gambling

on? Oh yes I was. First of all, Bennie, as my goddamn sponsor, you

shouldnt be taking my bets. Second of all, there is no second of all. Youre my godamn sponsor, Bennie! What the hell?!

Bennie turned his palms up and shrugged as if it were all somehow beyond his control. Man comes in here last night with a fat roll of Franklins, insisting that he wants to roll bones in the big craps game, who am I to stop him? It werent no gangster roll neither. I checked it. Hundreds all the way through. Bennie dont turn away no fish whats holding ten Gs in his mitt and wants to gamble.

Did I say where it came from, the ten Gs? No. He paused for half a moment. And I must say,

Funny Ryan, you honestly sound like youre hearing all this for the first time, unlike most of the poor schlubs who end up here and try to lie their way out of it.

I have no memory of this, Bennie. Nothing. I woke today with a monster hangover and no idea of how I got

Rolling Bones

~ 19 ~

it. And youre telling me I dropped ten grand on craps last night, and now Im into you for another thirty-seven?

Thats right, pal. Bennie, you know I dont have ten grand to my

name. Well, kid, now you dont have another thirty-seven

grand to your name to add to the ten you didnt already have.

I winced, not from my hangover, but from the tortured construct of Bennies words, which oddly made sense to me. Is there anything else you can tell me about last night?

You were doing real well for a while. The dice was hot for you like I never seen before. I thought you was cheatin somehow, but they was my dice. You was up at least thirty before your dame took off.

Dame? Was it Betty? No. Some broad I dont know. Never seen her

before. Was she a cooler? Cooler? She was hotter than the bones you was

rolling. You know what I mean. Did someone send her in to

chill my streak? I cant say for positive, but I dont think so. I think

you arrived together, and you seemed to be pretty familiar with her, if you know what I mean. He gave me a lecherous wink. She was with you the whole time you was winning. And she even had a nickname for you.

Nickname? What was it? Bones. Bones? Yeah, thats right. She called you Bones. Does that

mean anything to you, other than you liking to roll bones?

Its an old street name. No ones called me that for many years. Did I have a cute name for her?

Bennie scrunched up his face in concentration. I wanna say it was a candy bar.

Rolling Bones

~ 20 ~

Her name was Candy Bar? This was not incredulity on my part, I was merely seeking clarification. In Bennies world of strippers, hustlers, con artists, barflies, madams, hookers, and mob groupies, a woman named Candy Bar would not necessarily draw the most attention on Girls Night Out.2

No, no, no. But it was like that. Im trying to remember. Its kinda hard, her dcolletage was very distracting.

Benjamin Vigorish, Im surprised at you. What, that I would look at some dames tits? No. That you know the word dcolletage. Bennie the Bug has been around the block a few

times, my young friend. He knows whats what in the world.

But you got nothing on the name? Like I said, it was something about a candy bar. Was it, Mounds? I asked, cupping my hands in a

universal gesture. Ha, ha, kid. Thats a good one. Was it worth thirty-seven large? Ha, ha. No. I sighed heavily. How are we gonna do this, Bennie? The usual way, kid. Whats the vig? Ill give you the family rate, cause youre like a

nephew to me from a brother I never liked, may God rest his chiselin soul. Five percent a week. Thats eighteen hundred and fifty to me every Friday till you pay the principal. You have till the close of business on pay day. Dont be late if you dont want to end up like Short Willy. Dont forget, three strikes and youre out.

I sighed again. Just shoot me now. That could be arranged too. I was being facetious, Bennie. I dont know what that word means.

2 e.g. Buncha Love, Joy Bang, Randy Pantzaroff, Fellatio Alamode, Madame Fouqueau de Pussy, etc.

Rolling Bones

~ 21 ~

But you know dcolletage? I think I got my priorities straight on this one. It means dont shoot me now. Good, cause you know how it hurts me to kill my

friends. He looked down pensively. Gosh how I miss Sammy. And Ronnie the Fink. And Georgie. And Frankie the Whale. And Otto. And Short Willy.

Short Willys not dead. No. But soon, I think. I feel like I miss him already. Bennie went back around to sit at the desk and took a

small notebook out of his shirt pocket. He put on his glasses and opened to a fresh page to make a notation of this new debt. Trust me, you never want to see your name written down in that little book.

Gimme $528 right now to bring you up to date to Friday.

Why is that? Its my new system that my MBA nephew suggested.

Everybody pays by Friday, debt collection starts on Monday. If your debt starts mid-week, we pro-rate the first weeks payment to Friday. This way everybody gets the weekend off.

Is there an ATM out front still? Bennie smiled. Its right here, kid. He pointed over

his shoulder to the corner. How very accommodating of you. Gotta keep rollin with the times. I also have a Wish

List set up on Amazon if you prefer to make your payment in gift form. Its under the user name, BennieBug, one word. My nephew wants me have a PayPal account with a bank in the Cayman Islands, but I aint convinced yet that they wont roll over for the feds the way the Swiss did.

I made the withdrawal, leaving about seven bucks in my account, and handed it to Bennie.

Alright, kid. That takes care of this week. Next week youll pay me by Friday.

Okay, Bennie, I guess Ill see you next Friday. I took two steps toward the door.

Rolling Bones

~ 22 ~

Kitten, Bennie said suddenly. I turned back. Did you just call me Kitten? He looked at me over the top of his reading specs. No.

The dame. You called her Kitten. How is Kitten anything like a candy bar? You also called her Kitty Kat. Oh, okay. That makes sense. I left the pool hall and headed cross-town toward my

office. I needed to think and figure out how best to proceed; walking was a good way to peddle the mental engine. With the resurrection of the nickname Bones, I was suddenly back in a world of trouble I thought I had left behind long ago. Eighteen hundred and fifty bucks a week was about twice my take-home pay. I needed to figure this shit out fast or it would mean my life. I also needed a drink and the counsel of Dr. berman, my metaphysician. He might be able to help me understand whatever the hell was going on.

I stood at a corner, waiting for the traffic light, when I realized I was still holding the coin in my hand, strictly out of habit. I looked at it and laughed. All the times I spent fondling these stupid things in my weakest moments since Id quit gambling, and Id never even read the thing. On one side it said, One Day At A Time, and on the obverse it had the Serenity Prayer. I guess that everyone needs a little irony in their lives. I flipped the coin into the air like a man of leisure, and let it drop to the street, where it rolled into the storm sewer.

Chapter 3 The Mystery of Anchovy Scotch

Hello, Ms. Friday. I greeted my secretary as I entered my third-floor office.

Good afternoon, Mister Ryan. Must you address me as mister? As long as youre calling me Ms. I was being polite. Youve ogled my breasts, I think were long past

formalities here. That was in a strip club. Youve stuffed my g-string full of Lincoln portraits on

multiple occasions. That was a long time ago. And yet you smile like that when I remind you of it. I wasnt smiling. Oh, right. They call that leering, dont they? Sigh. You win, Friday. I always do, Ryan. You had seventeen calls while you

were out. Are you sure? I dont think Ive had seventeen calls in

all of the past month. Well, nine were from Betty. My ex. But she usually

calls only once or twice when she wants to be a pain in my ass. Nine was excessive even for her. Maybe she was off her OCD meds. This was nine more good reasons why she doesnt have my cell phone number anymore.

And the other eight? Thats the weird thing, Ryan. That case you took this

morning? Mrs. Goracke? Yeah. The one you said sounded very unusual? Yeah, yeah. Theres seven more that sound quite similar. How do you mean similar? That stopped me in my

tracks. Their gods have split.

Rolling Bones

~ 24 ~

Okay, tell me. Friday thumbed through her stack of message forms.

Shiva is missing from a Hindu temple in Brooklyn. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Oh, heres a good one. The angel Moroni has flown off the roof from the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City. Publicly, the church is saying it was taken down for repairs, but there are half a dozen YouTube videos showing it flying off on its own.

If there are seven like that, then that leaves one more. Are you saving the best for last?

After I took the last call, they sent over a car for you. But you sent them away, right? Because I wasnt here,

right? I wondered if Rock and Hard Place had stopped here first before tracking me down at Agnes Gorackes apartment.

Actually, they dropped off a car for you and left. That didnt sound like Bennies henchmen.

I dont have time to go anywhere, Friday. I need a drink, and I need the doctor, preferably at the same time. Can you make that happen?

I dont think so. You may want to take this meeting. What part of drink dont I get to have? That last call came from Michelin P. Zagat. Bullshit. I spoke with him personally. He made the call

himself. I recognized his voice from interviews Ive seen on TV.

Bullshit. Hes every bit as charming as he is handsome. Did I

mention that he sent over a Veyron. Bullshit. Its parked across the street. You may have missed

seeing it when you came up the block because of the crowd of people around it.

Aha! Double bullshit! There hasnt been a parking spot on this block in twenty years.

He also sent a tow truck to make a parking spot. Bugatti made only nine of those cars last year. All of

them were sold in Europe, mostly to Russian kleptocrats.

Rolling Bones

~ 25 ~

He said you would say something like that. She showed me a scrap of paper with her scribbled notes approximating what I just said and denoting the address of his mid-town office.

I harrumphed at her. Im often clever with words that way.

Did you know the Veyron can go from 0 to 60 in 2.46 seconds? she asked, suddenly full of exotic sports car esoterica.

Have you been watching Top Gear on BBC? Mr. Zagat told me. He also said you should just drive

on over to his office as soon as you get back. Though he did warn me about the double clutch. Can you drive a car with a double clutch?

Are you done toying with me, Ms. Friday? I really, really, really just want a drink. That was three reallys in case you lost count.

She smiled smugly at me from behind her sexy librarian specs and held aloft a key with the Bugatti logo. I walked around her desk and pulled the cord to raise the blinds on the window. A small cloud of dust puffed into my face as the slats pancaked together. Three stories down and across the street, gleaming in the midday sun amid a crush of gawkers, was a $2.6 million dollar automobile with 1200 horsepower and a top speed of 268 miles per hour. I snatched the dangling key from Fridays grasp and went out the door.

* * *

An assistant escorted me into the Park Avenue office of Michelin P. Zagat, the richest man in the history of the world. A man whose fortune dwarfed the combined hoards of those who used to hold that title: Croesus, the Rockefellers, the Waltons, the Sultan of Brunei, Bill Gates, Carlos Slim, et alii.

The vast room was paneled in exotic hardwoods, with crown molding, and wainscoting inlaid with Beaux arts sunbursts. It looked like a 19th century Explorers Club, minus the mounted trophy heads, but filled with trophies

Rolling Bones

~ 26 ~

of other kinds: a crate of mummified penguin eggs from Shackletons abandoned Antarctic cabin, a porthole from the Titanic, a hobnailed boot from the Hillary expedition up Everest, a stone Mayan calendar wheel, Roman spear points, a velociraptor skeleton, Crusader armor, and dozens of other doodads and souvenirs plucked and pilfered from historic locales around the globeMachu Pichu, Ankor Wat, Pompeii, Giza, Nazca, the Gobi. They represented tens of millions of dollars spent acquiring them and they were quite a contrast to the meager belongings I had seen that morning in the widow Gorackes apartment.

Zagat wasnt there, so I took a seat in an overstuffed leather arm chair that made me feel woefully underdressed without a smoldering calabash pipe, brandy snifter, and muttonchops. I was just starting to wonder where I might find some brandy, and maybe a pith helmet, when Zagat emerged from behind a swinging bookcase that concealed a private bath. He was every bit as dashing as his public persona. Full head of white hair at 62, trim little goatee, chicly wrinkled black linen oxford shirt untucked into his designer jeans, antique triangular Hamilton watch on his wrist, and a pair of pebble grain Italian loafers. No socks, the universal calling card of a major d-bag.

Theyre stingray, he said, crossing the room to shake hands.

What? My shoes. I noticed you looking at them. Theyre

made of stingray leather. Oh, I didnt In fact, they are made from the very stingray that

killed Steve Irwin. Wait, what? I was diving with Steve on that expedition. He was

joking around, making fun of himself, hamming up his Australian accent, saying, You never want to touch a stingray like this. And then, bam! Stinger to the heart. Poor bastard. He died instantly. I killed the animal with

Rolling Bones

~ 27 ~

my knife right then and there. Then I had these shoes made.

Thats quite a story. Some would say it was fate that he died in such a

manner. Zagat was looking me over to gauge my reaction. I put

up my poker face and said nothing. Do you believe in fate, Mr. Ryan? I believe in nothing, Mr. Zagat. I know that what a

person chooses to believe becomes their personal truth. I have no interest in limiting myself to any one truth.

So your personal truth is nothingness? In a manner of speaking. Nothingness can also be

everythingness. Are you going all Eastern mystical on me? When you choose one belief you exclude all other

possibilities. To believe in one thing can make you blind to everything else.

What a curious perspective you have on the world, Mr. Ryan.

To some, perhaps, but I can tell you one thing that I believe.

What is that, Mr. Ryan? I believe that you did not offer me the wheel of your

multimillion-dollar automobile just so we could discuss my particular weltanschauung.

No, indeed not. Did you enjoy driving it? I did not take you up on your offer, sir. I left the car at

the curb where it was parked and took a cab over here. I produced the key and taxi receipt from my pocket and handed them both to him.

Why is that? I dont like feeling beholden to anyone. Hmmm. Indulge me in something. Tell me what you

know about me, Mr. Ryan. Professionally, you started an investment company

that has bankrolled every major tech corporation in a generation. You put up seed money for Gates, Jobs, Ellison, Dell, Zuckerberg, Branson, Case, Musk, Bezos,

Rolling Bones

~ 28 ~

Omidyar, Yang and Brin. You were there when no one else would take their calls. As a consequence, you own vast chunks of the most successful tech companies on the planet and are an order of magnitude wealthier than all of those guys combined. When Warren Buffet needs investment advice, or Golden Sacks needs to bridge a few billion dollars to make their margin calls, they both call you.

He smiled his approval at my recitation. Is that the extent of what you know about me?

Well, if your personal mythology is to be believed, you are the only man to solo climb K2, which you did when you were 21 or 22. You completed a polar circumnavigation of the world when you were 24. Youve won the Grand Prix at LeMans, the Tour de France, and the Paris-Dakar rally. You told Steven Jobs to build an MP3 player and then a phone, your only book won a Pulitzer, and you beat Ken Jennings in Celebrity Jeopardy.

He smiled again, a greasy, self-satisfied little smile that made me feel dirty, but I continued anyway.

Tabloid rumor would have us believe that you were once in a secret plural marriage with Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jennifer Aniston, and Jennifer Connelly, and I think I read in Scientific American last month that you discovered the Higgs boson in your belly button lint.

Well said, sir, he laughed. Im also sure you did not bring me here to recite your

curriculum vitae just for a cheap ego boost when you could more easily go vanity surfing on Google.

No, indeed not, Mr. Ryan. I did not ask you here for ego gratification.

What is it that you need of me, Mr. Zagat? I require your services, Mr. Ryan, as an existential

detective. Thats what I do best. That was a lie. Im a better

gambler than detective. I asked if you believe in fate, and you said you do not.

I most assuredly do believe in fate, Mr. Ryan. I asked you

Rolling Bones

~ 29 ~

to summarize my accomplishments because I wanted to make sure you understood the extent of my achievements. What you may not know about my success is that it is the equivalent of pitching a perfect game.

You mean I mean, I have never had a failure. Let me stress the

word, never. Every endeavor of mine has been successful. Every school Ive attended, every company Ive bought, every deal Ive made, every woman Ive approached, every wacky idea indulged, every feat of derring-do attempted. There are no hash marks in the Loss Column of my life. I do not know what it means to fail at something. Life has never said no to me.

Im guessing theres an until coming. Yes, he said, exhaling the heavy sigh of existential

depression usually reserved for grocery clerks with graduate degrees and unfinished novels.

In the past month, I have come to experience failure. Ive had multiple deals fall apart in rapid succession. One company I bought went bankrupt. Bankrupt?! As if I am just some poor schmuck like Donald Trump. My impeccable valet resigned after nearly twenty years of service. My proposal to build a private space elevator on public land was rejected by Congress. Congress?! I own those little fuckers! Each and every one of them. And they were cheap too, let me tell you, he said with vehemence. And lastly, a model Ive been dating has recently decided she wants to just be friends. He made little air quotes and rolled his eyes like a teenage girl.

This has been a very trying time for me as you can imagine.

I kept my poker face, but inside I was agog. I was seeing a Master of the Universe, perhaps THE Master of the Universe, reducted to his mortal self.

And even the little things, for example you refused my offer to drive the most exclusive production sports car on the planet. No one ever refuses my generosity.

Thats not the end of the world, Mr. Zagat.

Rolling Bones

~ 30 ~

That is where you are wrong, Mr. Ryan. Even the little things, especially the little things, count here. Did I mention that shes a super model?

Does she come with a cape and have super friends? Michelin P. Zagat glared at me. Ive been getting a lot

of that lately. I apologize for my flippancy, sir. Please, to what do

you attribute this egregious realignment of the planets vis vis your position atop this one?

Isnt it obvious, Mr. Ryan? Im afraid it is not. Something is terribly wrong with fate. Umkay. Soto extend your perfect game baseball

metaphor, youve spent your life batting 1,000 and now that you are batting .987, you think that fate is out of whack?

Yes. Precisely and succinctly. I dont know if you can understand this, Mr. Zagat,

but as a man whose net worth is negative thirty-seven thousand dollars, Im having a little difficulty appreciating your predicament.

I can tell youre a drinking man, Mr. Ryan. What do you drink?

I like rye, if youre offering, and by golly gosh, I sure hope youre offering. But Im also partial to scotch since few people appreciate a good rye anymore.

Imagine yourself a lifelong scotch drinker That doesnt take any imagination at all. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I dont think hes

used to being interrupted either, especially by a wiseass. My interjections providing sure evidence of fates plot to rob him of a perfect life.

Further imagine that there is no finer taste in the world to you than scotch. The nuanced aroma, like dry oak warming in the sun, the smokiness in your mouth, redolent of a peat fire or a pipe full of cherry tobacco, the gentle heat that starts in the back of your throat and then spreads throughout your being, the slightly astringent bouquet that backs up into your sinuses. He took in a

Rolling Bones

~ 31 ~

deep breath and held it for a moment. The way your breathing releases more complex flavors just before you swallow and then the finish of warmth that lingers in your soul, like a memory of lovemaking.

Stop it. Youre killing me here. Ive been needing a drink for the last three hours.

Now imagine that you are served a snifter of the finest 30-year-old single malt scotch which someone has been using to

Yes? Marinate anchovies. Oh. Oh, you are a terrible, terrible person. As a

human being, I think I actually hate you. Not knowing about the anchovies, you take a drink of

this scotch. Oh, the humanity. Henceforth, Mr. Ryan, whenever you are served

scotch, your favorite libation in all the world, all you can taste is the oily gaminess of cold anchovies, as if youve been kissing a dead fish.

You are not my favorite person. If youve ruined scotch for me, then Ill. Ill probably have to find something else to drink. But I wont be happy about it.

The world, Mr. Ryan, now tastes like anchovy scotch to me and I want you to figure out how to put it back the way it was, when scotch was pure, and I was batting a thousand.

Mr. Zagat, even if I could restore the world to what you think its former self was, I dont think you can untaste the anchovies.

I shall deal with that, Mr. Ryan, when you prove successful.

I am sorry to say, sir, that I will not be successful in this endeavor.

Why is that? Because I do not accept your proposal. I will not take

this commission. I dont understand. Is my case not compelling? Its compelling enough.

Rolling Bones

~ 32 ~

Then what? Is this some kind of economic justice thing? You think I already have plenty of money and success, therefore you dont need to help me?

Nope, not that. Or is it that you have some objection to my politics,

my womanizing, my celebrity, or my business dealings? Mr. Zagat, I can assure you that I begrudge neither

your wealth nor your success, and Im entirely agnostic about your character, politics, and lifestyle. I would have no problem taking your money to help you.

What is it then, man? Tell me. I will not take this case because there is no case. There

is nothing wrong with fate. You have only had a few minor setbacks. Thats how life works for everyone else.

I am decidedly not everyone else. I know you believe that. So, the hero refuses the call to action. As a man who makes his way through the world by

parsing mythology, Im familiar with the work of Joseph Campbell. I can assure you that I am not the hero, Mr. Zagat, and there is nothing here to refuse.

But surely Having a cold streak, even for the first time in your

life, does not an existential crisis make. You are only psyching yourself out here. If you believe you are having bad luck, then that is what you have. If you believe that your fate has changed, then it has, but only because you believe it has changed. In either case, nothing has changed except your perception of events.

He said nothing but looked at me with the profound bewilderment of a man who has never been refused anything. I wondered what that must feel like.

Whatever you believe about yourself, Mr. Zagat, becomes your personal truth writ small.

I must say that is deeply cynical, Mr. Ryan. It is not cynical, Mr. Zagat. Its just what the worlds

saggy, pockmarked rump looks like with its frilly knickers pulled down. We may wish it to be more callipygous, but

Rolling Bones

~ 33 ~

it is not, which is why we cover it up with pretty stories in the first place.

I did not mean cynical in general. I meant cynical about me. Nothing about my life is writ small.

I smiled. Keep believing that, sir, and you will be batting a thousand again in short order.

I appreciate your frank advice, Mr. Ryan, and your honesty.

There are customary ways to show appreciation, Mr. Zagat.

Of course, you need to be compensated for your time.

Thirty-seven thousand dollars ought to cover it. Ms. Friday informed me that your rate is $1,000 a

day. Yes, but we have an exclusive offer today for the

richest man on the planet. He handed me an envelope. Here is a check for

$2,000, Mr. Ryan. I am sure that will cover any expenses and inconveniences you may have had. Thank you for your time.

Fair enough, Mr. Zagat. Please feel free to call upon me again should you require my services for anything else.

Prologue