I opened the door of the Mercedes and got in. Man, that smell. It’s leather, but not just leather. You know how, in Monopoly, there’s a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card? When you’re rich enough to afford a car that smells like Mr. Sharpton’s gray Mercedes, you must have a Get-Out-of-Everything-Free card.
I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out and said, “This is eventual.”
Mr. Sharpton laughed, his clean-shaven cheeks gleaming in the dashboard lights. He didn’t ask what I meant; he knew. “Everything’s eventual, Dink,” he said. “Or can be, for the right person.”
“You think so?”
“Know so.” Not a shred of doubt in his voice.
“I like your tie,” I said. I said it just to be saying something, but it was true, too. The tie wasn’t what I’d call eventual, but it was good.
You know those ties that are printed all over with skulls or dinosaurs or little golf-clubs, stuff like that? Mr. Sharpton’s was printed all over with swords, a firm hand holding each one up.
He laughed and ran a hand down it, kind of stroking it. “It’s my lucky tie,” he said. “When I put it on, I feel like King Arthur.” The smile died off his face, little by little, and I realized he wasn’t joking.
“King Arthur, out gathering the best men there ever were. Knights to sit with him at the Round Table and remake the world.”
That gave me a chill, but I tried not to show it. “What do you want with me, Art? Help you hunt for the Holy Grail, or whatever they call it?”
“A tie doesn’t make a man a king,” he said. “I know that, in case you were wondering.”
I shifted, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to put you down—”
“It doesn’t matter, Dink. Really. The answer to your question is I’m two parts headhunter, two parts talent scout, and four parts walking, talking destiny. Cigarette?”
228
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
“I don’t smoke.”
“That’s good, you’ll live longer. Cigarettes are killers. Why else would people call them coffin-nails?”
“You got me,” I said.
“I hope so,” Mr. Sharpton said, lighting up. “I most sincerely hope so. You’re top-shelf goods, Dink. I doubt if you believe that, but it’s true.”
“What’s this offer you were talking about?”
“Tell me what happened to Skipper Brannigan.”
Kabam, my worst fear come true. He couldn’t know, nobody could, but somehow he did. I only sat there feeling numb, my head pound-ing, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like it was glued there.
“Come on, tell me.” His voice seemed to be coming in from far away, like on a shortwave radio late at night.
I got my tongue back where it belonged. It took an effort, but I managed. “I didn’t do anything.” My own voice seemed to be coming through on that same shitty shortwave band. “Skipper had an accident, that’s all. He was driving home and he went off the road.
His car rolled over and went into Lockerby Stream. They found water in his lungs, so I guess he drowned, at least technically, but it was in the paper that he probably would have died, anyway. Most of his head got torn off in the rollover, or that’s what people say. And some people say it wasn’t an accident, that he killed himself, but I don’t buy that. Skipper was . . . he was getting too much fun out of life to kill himself.”
“Yes. You were part of his fun, weren’t you?”
I didn’t say anything, but my lips were trembling and there were tears in my eyes.
Mr. Sharpton reached over and put his hand on my arm. It was the kind of thing you’d expect to get from an old guy like him, sitting with him in his big German car in a deserted parking lot, but I knew when he touched me that it wasn’t like that, he wasn’t hitting on me.
It was good to be touched the way he touched me. Until then, I didn’t know how sad I was. Sometimes you don’t, because it’s just, I don’t know, all around. I put my head down. I didn’t start bawling or any-229