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  Even though the Virgin Mary disappeared a few days ago, he seemed to be suddenly standing at the foot of Leon’s bed, leaning over him, sniffing.

  “You awake?”

  For a first time in a long time Leon actually felt awake. “Sure,” he said “But the show’s over. The Virgin Mary washed away.”

  Oakley laughed. It was a cackle, actually. “And that’s exactly why God invented Photoshop,” he said. “A little digital retouching and I can have Castro himself walking on water.”

  Oakley was a tall lanky man with shock-blue eyes and rubber band arms. “Are you into snake handling? Because if you’re Pentecostal that makes this story front-page material.

  “Or levitating? If you could make something zip around the room that would be great. Bedpan would be impressive. A baby—even better.”

  Every question sounded like a negotiation to Leon. “Look,” Leon said. “Just make something up. Isn’t that what you people do?”

  Oakley’s blue eyes dimmed a few watts. “Those were the good old days,” he said, wistful. “We used to have the corner on the fine art of interpretative journalism. “E.T. Holds Summit with Yetis”—that was my first. It was concise and yet, evocative.”

  A tear glistened in the man’s eye.

  “But now everybody’s doing it: New York Times, Boston Globe, Fox News. They’re muscling in. We’re the ones who created imaginary sources. Where did they get off stealing that one from us?”

  Leon shrugged.

  “They ruined everything. Now, we have to talk to people—actually interview them—speak to them. Company rule. Ethics, they say. But what’s all that talking going to get you? People are weird. It’s scary talking to them. They don’t always tell the truth. They make things up. I didn’t become a journalist so that I could run around and talk to people. I’m just interested in the truth.”

  Oakley shuddered at the thought, and then sat down hard on the edge of Leon’s bed. “In the old days,” he said, “I could just sit at home and create the six-hundred-pound woman who gave birth to triplets after being pregnant for seven years. But these days, I have to find one. And they’re usually not very nice people. And sometimes they’re downright cranky. And rude. No manners at all. And I still have to talk to them.

  “It’s horrible. This used to be a gentleman’s profession.”

  Leon was starting to feel sorry for Oakley until lunch arrived and the man snatched Leon’s drumstick and began to eat it.

  “So, here’s the deal,” Oakley said, chewing. “I don’t mean to break your balls over this miracle thing, but New Year’s Eve is tomorrow and we want to give the public a sense of hope for the New Year, don’t we?” As he spoke, bits of chicken tumbled from his lips. “I mean, a great hopeful story means a bonus for me and a shot in the arm for everybody in general.”

  Oakley then picked up the corn muffin from Leon’s tray. Swallowed it in two bites. Washed it down with the chocolate milk.

  “I was going to drink that,” Leon whined. He really wanted that chocolate milk.

  Oakley looked at the tray. “There’s still some Waldorf salad. Look there’s apples, walnuts, coconut, and mayo. Looks good.”

  He picked up a spoon and offered some to Leon. “Come on,” he said. “Open wide. Open your little hangar. I’m coming in for a landing.”

  Then he made a pretty convincing airplane sound, but Leon wasn’t buying it.

  “That’s okay,” Leon said. “I’m not hungry right now.”

  So Oakley ate it.

  “So here’s the deal,” he said; a flake of coconut hung on his lip. “I’ll be back about 3 P.M. with a camera. Maybe you can just lay hands on somebody and cure them. How about Gator Sam, that football kid? Tough break for that badass pecker, don’t you think? We keep in touch. I was the one who dubbed him “Gator Sam.”

  “Great story. ‘The kid that nobody wanted’ beats the crap out of a gator. Americana at its finest. But now look at him. Golden Boy turned golden loser—maybe you could just lay hands on him so I can write him into the story. I’ll paint the Virgin back on the window and I’ll write something like ‘Even the miraculous Bee-Jesus couldn’t cure Gator Sam—so he needs the public’s help.’”

  Oakley was on a roll.

  “Cash will be pouring in for Gator Sam. What do you think? I think they’ll eat it up in Des Moines.”

  While Mr. Oakley seemed to be perfectly capable of having both sides of this conversation on his own, he actually did notice that Leon looked less than enthusiastic.

  “Okay. Look,” Oakley said, “I’ll be honest with you. I like the kid and the kid needs our help. This shithole of a hospital won’t give him a leg for free. And the university told him to kiss off because he was drunk and never bought any of the student health insurance. They’re cold, man. They took his brand-new Firebird, filled it full of his stuff, called a car transport service, and delivered it here to the hospital parking lot. How’s that for icy? He was officially thrown out. Washed up. It’s over. Kid was golden on the field, an angel in cleats—a royal SOB off. But nobody’s perfect, so let’s give the kid a break.

  “So, you in?”

  Leon cleared his throat, which Oakley took as yes. So he slapped Leon on the back. “Great. Great,” Oakley said. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

  “By the way, get a sponge bath while I’m gone, okay? Nobody likes to see their savior looking like he’s been drug through a swamp. Doesn’t sell covers.”

  The door slammed behind him.

  “But I was drug through the swamp.” Leon whined.

  That’s when it came to him. I am Leon Pettit of Whale Harbor, Florida. I am the owner of the American Dream recreational vehicle worth about two hundred and fifty Clevelands, which do not dance and do not wear small sad dogs on their heads—but equate to two hundred and fifty thousand spendable American dollars.

  It was, as they say, a breakthrough.

  And then Sam rolled in.

  “You got a pair of pants I could borrow?” Leon asked. “And how about your car, too?”

  Chapter 26

  As Mama Po had always predicted, Leon arrived late for his own funeral.

  When he pulled into Whale Harbor it was just after 2 P.M. Leon was surprised to see cars at Lucky’s RV Round-Up. Not just one car, but dozens. The lot was nearly filled. There was a sign out front that read “Funereal Bar-be-que. 2 P.M.” It was in Bender’s handwriting. The letters were perfectly square and appropriately somber. The air was thick with the fragrance of wood smoke and pig fat. Bob the Round-Up Cowboy was tossing his lasso out and coming up short, but laughing.

  Leon was laughing, too. Happy to be so loved. Happy that there was barbecue. Happy that his mandarin orange 1975 El Dorado was parked in front of Lucky’s. Somehow, it was spared from the fire.

  Thank God, Leon thought. Pimp Daddy Caddy is safe.

  As was the Dream—it winked in the sunlight.

  “You wait here,” Leon told Sam and ran over to the RV as if it were a long-lost friend. There were tears in his eyes, and two hundred and fifty thousand Grover Clevelands dancing in his head, when he took the keys from behind the front tire where he left them. Everything seemed to be just as he had left it. The driver’s door still opened with a whoosh.

  “Shh, now,” he said and took a quick check of the tiny freezer. The ice was still there. On the king-sized bed the little mouse pillows still smelled like lavender. The bedspread was rumpled, just the way he left it. So, with a quick hand, he smoothed it. It felt lumpy. He hadn’t noticed that before.

  “Like bricks or something,” he thought and pulled up the mattress.

  “Dang,” he said. It was all he could think to say.

  There was $350,000, still in bank wrappers and neatly arranged in a large space-age vinyl bag, taped to the bottom of the bed.

  At any minute, Leon expected a hairy Grover Cleveland to appear in a tutu, arabesque-ing like a fat flamingo. But it was not a dream. Or residual hospital drugs. It was cash,
and plenty of it.

  “Dang.”

  At that moment, Leon felt a certain kinship with the bag. Felt as if the air had been sucked out of him, too. He looked out the window. The entire town appeared to be inside Lucky’s. Leon waved at Sam. Sam frowned. Leon wanted to count the money, roll in it, but there was no time. Pretty soon the event would be over and everybody would be eating tiny barbecue sandwiches.

  Leon kissed the bag. “Later,” he whispered, amazed that all he had to do to get this lucky was die.

  Had he known this earlier, he would have blown himself up years ago.

  Leon then took off the XXXL T-shirt he borrowed from Sam and wrapped it around the money. Stuffed them both into the tiny washing machine. It’ll be safe there, he thinks, nobody likes dirty laundry. Nobody will touch it.

  Inside of Lucky’s, there was plenty of beer. Kegs lined the showroom. Tables were filled with an assortment of salads, pies, and cakes. The showroom was crowded, every folding chair in town taken. People really wanted to get together and drink a few beers in Leon’s honor. Tell a few lies. Barbecue a pig.

  Trot had made the arrangements. “Best friends,” everyone said. Which was true, but Trot also wanted to keep an eye on Jesus—or Dr. Ricardo Garcia as Trot now knew the man’s name to be. Funerals are a good way to see who’s hiding something. Trot still wasn’t convinced that Leon’s death was an accident. But until the medical examiner could run the DNA, that was more or less the official assumption.

  “Next week,” the ME promised.

  Next week felt too late. Trot suspects that if Jesus showed up on Christmas Eve—as did the Dream—he may make a move tonight, on New Year’s Eve. Sheet-fella has a flare for the dramatic, he thought, and wants to keeps a close eye on him. A “Funereal Bar-be-que,” as Bender called it, seemed the perfect excuse.

  Jimmy Ray and Jesus arrived together. They were both wearing coal black suits. Both looked like men who stopped by on their way to a better class of gathering—all Saks Fifth Avenue savvy and smiling. Trot wondered if Jimmy Ray knew that his new Jesus pal was a doctor. An insane doctor, but a medical man nonetheless. Trot made a note to pull Jimmy Ray aside and talk to him a little. Figure out what Doctor Jesus has been up to all these days.

  So at 2 P.M. the Funereal Bar-be-que had begun. In the front row, Carlotta and Dagmar sat down together. The sight gave Trot pause.

  How can they do that?

  It wasn’t easy. When Dagmar first saw Carlotta she didn’t know how to feel or what to think. But Carlotta looked so alone sitting by herself in the back of the room with nobody to talk to. Dagmar couldn’t have it.

  “It’s only right,” she said and took Carlotta by the arm. “We’ll sit together.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  When the service began the two leaned into each other, shoulders touching, like sisters. Tried not to cry.

  “My girl has a good heart,” Jimmy Ray whispered to Jesus.

  Jesus nodded. “A heart worthy of salvation.”

  Something about the way Jesus said that gave Jimmy Ray pause.

  Trot planned a service, of sorts. He wanted to keep it simple, just something that spoke to the essence of Leon’s life, but he wasn’t quite sure what that would be, so he made sure there was plenty of beer. Bender offered to officiate.

  “It will be my finest hour,” he said and came wearing his best blue Hawaiian print shirt with a tie that featured a single hula girl captured middance, her hands over her eyes. He was the embodiment of Waikiki sorrow.

  Bender had never given a eulogy before. He’d spent all night crafting it and was quite proud that he managed to tie together Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night,” along with a snippet of Dante’s Inferno, in Italian, and his own philosophy of life.

  After he spoke, Jimmy Ray and the Blind Brothers’ Blues Band planned to play the Eagles’ “Tequila Sunrise,” Leon’s favorite song. They didn’t know the song. Figured they’d just give it a go since most of the band, along with most of America, knew the chorus.

  “We’ll just go down and dirty it like Johnny Lee Hooker would do,” Jimmy Ray said. “Lots of harmonica, lots of bass.”

  In honor of this musical interlude Bender’s hair was now a sunrise of watermelon and mango Jell-O. Looked radioactive.

  Since there wasn’t a body to view, Trot took Leon’s melted wraparound sunglasses and placed them on a folding chair with a sign that read “Leon,” just in case somebody thought it was trash.

  Dagmar placed a handful of magnolia blossoms next to the chair. Carlotta, a passion fruit flower crown.

  So now, about a half an hour into the event, the Funereal Bar-be-que is, as Jimmy Ray leans over and whispers to Jesus, “roasting and toasting.”

  Bender, with his tequila sunrise hair, had already recited Dylan Thomas, spoken Italian, and was now barking like a loopy golden retriever.

  “You may ask why I bark at a time such as this,” he says to the fifty or so assembled. “I have recently come to barking because I believe it is a form of prayer. I bark to honor my inner dog.”

  Then he barks again. This time it’s a dark poodle of a rumble.

  “You see, we are loved and nourished by mysterious hands, the hands of our master—be it God, Buddha, Shiva—whatever the name—they got your kibbles. They got your bits.”

  The crowd nods.

  “Can somebody give me a bark?” Bender asks.

  Carlotta lets out a tentative yip.

  “That’s good,” Bender says. “Cocker spaniel?”

  She smiles.

  “Anybody a bull mastiff?”

  A couple of huge barks come from the back of the room.

  “King Charles? Beagles? Collies?”

  There are assorted barks and yips, which only serves to encourage the mayor.

  “Sometimes,” he says, “you have to try on one or two barks before you get it right.”

  Then he points at Mrs. Sitwell, who is neither barking nor smiling. “Corgi!” he says to her. “Welsh corgi! Give it a go, Mrs. Sitwell. Unleash your inner corgi!”

  Everyone is watching her. Waiting. So she yaps a snippy little yap like a Pembroke on a bad day.

  Bender is ecstatic. “Wonderful! Everybody bark now! Let us all bark in memory of that old red coonhound Leon who is now sitting at the right hand of his god, whatever or whoever he or she or it may be, getting a gigantic scratch behind the ears.”

  And one by one everyone at the Funereal Bar-be-que joins in. Some are pointers. A couple are pugs.

  It sounds a lot like feeding time at the Humane Society.

  Everybody is so busy barking that nobody notices Leon, who is bruised, shirtless, and wearing pants at least four sizes too large, slip in the side door of the showroom with the lumbering Gator Sam. Sam is wobbly on his crutches, whispers to Leon, “These people are crazy.”

  Leon smiles. “Sweet, ain’t it?”

  He’s locked up the American Dream and can feel the key pressed against his leg. He can’t stop thinking about it—Got to be thousands of shrink-wrapped dollars. Jesus loves me. Really loves me. So he barks that high-pitched frantic “Treed-Me-A-Fat-Opossum-And-Life-Is-Good” bark that only a red coonhound can bark.

  And it feels good, so good that when everyone else is finished, Leon is still barking.

  I’m rich. I’m stinking rich.

  His inner dog is clearly out of control.

  Dagmar is the first to recognize the sound of Leon’s voice, dog that he is.

  When she turns and sees him—his naked chest, Sam’s huge blue jeans tied around his waist, his chin up and yapping—she throws her head back and laughs, mostly out of relief.

  “That crazy son of a bitch,” she says.

  “Leon!” Carlotta shouts and runs to him.

  “Shoot,” Jimmy Ray says.

  Trot, out of reflex, takes out his gun and aims.

  Everyone turns and Leon stops barking, but Sam, always a little slower than most, begins. He’s decided
on an Old English sheepdog. A dense, definitive bark.

  In all the confusion, Jesus slips away.

  Chapter 27

  Over the past two years, Dr. Ricardo Garcia left a trail of bodies that would impress even the most experienced law enforcement officers—if only they knew. But nobody ever suspected the doctor. Many of his victims were patients who were near death anyway, seemed to die in their sleep. The rest were people that nobody missed. Angelo, the male nurse, “The First,” had continually threatened to quit if he didn’t get a raise. So, when he didn’t show up for work, the hospice assumed he’d made good on his threat. And none of his ex-wives seemed to miss him at all.

  “Ten” was a problem, though. “Ten” was the lawyer in charge of Dr. Garcia’s family estate. “Ten” was William David, attorney-at-law and probate specialist.

  The vole-faced man, who never made eye contact, had just helped Dr. Ricardo Garcia’s frail mother sign herself into a nursing home. As a ward of the state, her considerable fortune was under Mr. David’s control. When Dr. Garcia arrived at the home, he was told that his mother did not wish to see him. He called her repeatedly, but she wouldn’t take the calls. So he called the lawyer.

  “Why wasn’t I notified?”

  “Legally, this is none of your business. She committed herself. She was sane. It is her right as an adult,” he said. Then hung up.

  So Dr. Garcia had no choice.

  In retrospect, this was his finest hour. Messy but brilliant. The lawyer’s office was in a rickety old Victorian house with a wraparound porch that overlooked Tampa Bay. No security cameras or guards. Lots of windows. The probate specialist was a habitual man, worked late, and could often be seen going into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee around midnight.

  The plan was simple. The window over the kitchen sink was often left open a crack. All the doctor had to do was lift himself in, put a few drops of fentanyl in the coffeepot, and William David, attorney-at-law and probate specialist, would die. Neatly. Quietly. Quickly.

  Unfortunately, it would not be painful.