by Paul Neuhaus
“Something about it being time. About how he was tired.”
Silence hung between us for a moment, then he said, “I wish I’d been there to ask him a few questions. I wonder if it’s part of the bigger pattern.”
“How does a bunch of us fucking off tie in with the restless dead?”
“I told you I don’t know. And it’s not like it was anything concrete. Even my source admitted it was just a feeling.”
“Who was your source? Was it Stephanie?” After Hades had fucked off, Persephone took over as sole proprietress of the Underworld. After a while, she started dating again. Changed her name to Stephanie. Got her tits done. Your typical middle age crisis.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
I shrugged that one off. What did Hermes have to be coy about? “The person who stole Hope was a lady. A black lady with an obvious background in track and field. I chased her for a while, but it was no contest. There was a car waiting for her. She jumped in and that was that. I told the cops, but I don’t think they’re gonna burn any calories on it.”
“None at all.”
“Does that ring any bells with you? Track star thieves, I mean.”
“No, no bells. Did you get a look at whoever was driving the car? That’s where you oughta focus.”
I sighed and took another sip of tea, wishing it was beer. My brain sent a message to my liver: Sorry, no drinking until we get Hope back. My liver sent a message back to my brain: Fuck you, nerd. “No, I didn’t see anything. Ms. Jesse Owens jumped in and they peeled out. It was over before I even understood what happened.”
“How long a distance can you talk to Hope over?”
“I dunno. A dozen yards. Not miles like you were probably hoping.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna lie to you: I got nothing.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one with your ear to the ground?”
He finished the last of his crumb cake. “I’ve got my ear to the ground. I told you everything I know so far. If I were you, I’d go talk to Cassandra.”
Cassandra was an oracle. Maybe the most famous one. “I can’t do that. You know the drill. She’s cursed too. Whatever she predicts is one hundred percent accurate, but no one ever believes her. For months, she said Trump’d win and everybody was like, ‘Yeah, whatever, Cassie’.”
“What about her brother? What’s his name? Helenus?”
“Nuh-uh. He's just 'Helen' now. He came out and tramped off to Fire Island. He doesn’t do the prophecy thing anymore.”
“Okay. How about Pythia?”
“The Oracle of Delphi? Right. Like that snooty bitch’d even talk to me. Thinks her shit don’t stink.”
“Well, come on. I’m running out of seers.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got one.”
“You’ve got a seer? Why didn’t you say so?”
“He just occurred to me. Don’t worry. I’m on it. In the meantime, I don’t need an oracle to tell me I’ve got an assload of trouble.”
Hermes did the grinning thing again. With the eyebrow. “Look, you know me. I can make all this go away, but you gotta hold up your end. The D.A. says you’ve lost your LBC privileges. He also said if you’re caught trouncing janitors anywhere in the world he’s gonna hear about it and reopen his file.”
I sighed. “I hear you.”
“Are you sure, Dora? Historically, you haven’t been much of a team player.”
“I’m sure. I’ll go straight home and get my pom poms out. You’ve never seen anyone with more team spirit.”
He didn’t reply, and his eyes were far away.
“What’re you doing? Having a stroke?”
“No. I was picturing you with your pom poms out.” Hermes was a letch. Hell, all the Olympians were letches.
I snorted. “Yeah. Good. Thanks for the help, Harvey Weinstein.”
I dropped Hermes at a bar next to the highway. He said he had to see a man about a mule. Whatever the fuck that means. It was a long drive back to Malibu—especially since rush hour traffic had kicked in. I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but rush hour traffic in Los Angeles starts about noon and lasts ’til noon the next day. If they’d invented it back in the old days, traffic on the 405 would’ve been one of the Twelve Labors of Hercules. (Inside joke. Google it.)
When I finally got home, I was pissed-off and tired. Being without my old roommate felt odd. For thousands of years, I was dying to get away from the bitch, and now I was having separation anxiety. Not so much like missing a loved one as the itchiness of a phantom limb. I locked the Firebird and walked over to the trailer. Sitting on my step was a package from Fed Ex. I never get packages. People would have to know and care I was alive to send me stuff. I picked it up and it was heavy. Real heavy. I put it back down long enough to unlock the door and then I reclaimed it and went inside.
I half-expected the trailer to be turned over. More and more, I felt I was in a cheap detective story and this was usually the part where the shamus’d return to find his place’d been searched. But, no, things were pretty much as I’d left them. I put the package down on the desk (where Hope usually sits), and I went into the kitchen to find dinner. No lamb kebobs left. Not much of anything. Just some creamsicles. Don’t let anybody tell you different: creamsicles aren’t very filling. Even when you eat an entire box.
With the last of my frozen treats, I sat down behind the desk and pulled the white package toward me. I don’t have girlie nails, so I had to use an open pair of scissors to get the seal off. Inside, were the following items: One copy of The Great Gatsby (slightly used), four commemorative plates from the Kingsbury Walking Dead collection (Rick, Daryl, Negan, and—my favorite—Michonne), one polaroid picture (the contents of which I will not share as they are lewd and possibly incriminating), a pinecone and a handwritten note. It was a package from Pan. A parting gift. I put the plates aside. I flipped through the novel. Nothing unusual about it. No writing anywhere in the margins. Just the lingering scent of satyr. I put that aside too and picked up the note. I must say, Pan had beautiful penmanship. Really surprising given his slovenly appearance. The note said:
“Dora,
Take these trinkets to remember me by. I know you were slumming it with me, but I still think we had a good rapport. Anyway, I had a few laughs.
Watch yourself,
Pan”
Under the signature, there was a single line of verse. At least I think it was verse. I’m not much on poetry. It said: “death will have his day.” Great, Pan. Thanks a lot. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I tucked the note into the pocket of my leather pants and looked around. The sun hadn’t gone down yet. I could probably still hook up with Tiresias if I left right then.
I left right then.
T-money’s Pawn is in one of the shittier parts of Santa Monica. I probably didn’t need to tell you that. Have you ever seen a pawn shop in a neighborhood that wasn’t shitty? I haven’t. Anyway, the name is funny to me, because it sounds so modern, so with-it. The T-money in question is Tiresias, a Greek man who is practically indistinguishable from a cranky old Jew. I parked the Firebird in front and went in. Tiresias looked up at the sound of the little bell and said, “We’re closing in fifteen.” He said it in the same way an oncologist says, “I’m sorry, the cancer is inoperable”.
“I’m not here to look at any of your cheap shit,” I replied. “I’m here to see you... T-money.”
The old man cocked his head and his all-white eyes caught the light. How you run a cash business and be fully blind is beyond me. “Dora? Is that Dora?”
I sighed. “Aren’t you an oracle? Shouldn’t you’ve seen this coming?”
He rapped his knuckle on the glass countertop. His ring made the sound echo. “Don’t be a smart mouth,” he said. “I get visions when I want visions. Otherwise life’s a long series of anticlimaxes.”
He had me there. “I need your help, Ty. I need your gift.”
He “stared” at me for a moment.
“What, you can’t make small talk? I never see you, you live five miles away, then, out of the blue, you’re all like, ‘I need your gift’? What is that?”
I slumped forward. “You know what, Ty? When you’re right, you’re right. I should be more sociable, but I’m in the middle of a ten-year funk. Plus, I’m in crisis mode. Tell you what: you help me and, as soon as I’m out this little pickle, I’ll take you to lunch. Anywhere you wanna go.”
He ignored me completely. “Do you hear from any of the old crowd? How about Pan? You talk to Pan? How’s your collection going? How’s Hope?”
“How’s Hope? Hope is missing. That’s why I’m here.”
That stopped him in his tracks. “Hope is missing?”
“Hope is missing.”
He nodded and turned toward the backroom. “I’ll get my coat.”
While he was gone, I looked around the store. For a pawnshop, it was remarkably well-kept. Everything was neat and orderly. Dusting was done on a regular basis. Tiresias was way older than me and blind as a bat, yet he was living better than I was. I was about to admonish myself, when something caught my eye. It was a replica of Gene Simmons’ bass guitar. The one that looks like a battle axe. As soon as I saw it, I was in love. I reached out to touch and felt a static charge. The charge went through my body and, right away, I wanted to rock n’ roll all night and party ever’y day. I couldn’t play the bass, I had no intention of learning to play the bass, yet I wanted that bass. I reached up and flipped over the tag. One hundred and seventy-five bones. Too rich for my blood.
Ty came back wearing a simple brown jacket and a fisherman’s cap. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll close up a few minutes early. There’s a park nearby.”
I heard him, but I was still somewhere in Detroit Rock City. “I want that bass,” I heard myself say.
“The Cort Style Axe Bass Guitar. That one’s a replica, of course. I’ve seen that exact article on eBay for north of three hundred, so that one’s a steal. You want I should hold it for you?”
I wanted to say yes, but I didn’t have the scratch. Also, I was wondering how it was an old blind man was surfing eBay. “No, I don’t have the money,” I said, sounding more glum than I intended.
“Call me when you do,” he said, flipping over his “Open” sign. “I’ll take it down off the wall.” Then he went outside and waited for me to join him. Once I was outside too, he locked the door.
“My car’s just behind you,” I said.
“No, no driving. Where I wanna go is at the end of the block. We’ll walk. Take my elbow.”
I did as he asked and tried to guide him. Most of the time, he was guiding me. At last we came to a tiny park with a big tree and some benches. We took the bench right under the tree and birds were chirping above us. If I hadn’t been afraid of getting shat upon, I’d’ve called it “idyllic”. Once we were seated, Ty said, “Tell me about Hope. Don’t leave out a thing.”
I started with the night before, I told him about Pan, I told him about Long Beach, I told him about Hermes getting me out, I told him about the package with the commemorative plates, I told him about walking into his shop ten minutes before. That brought us up to date.
“You’ve had a busy day and a half.”
“Busier than I like it, yeah.”
He wagged a finger at me. “Don’t be such a gloomy Gus. Adventures are good for us. They’re a line of demarcation. A change. Losing Hope could be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Yeah, or—and I don’t mean to be a gloomy Gus again—whoever stole my pithos could open it and re-release all the worst Evils Zeus and his buddies could dream up.”
His shoulders slumped, and he thought for a moment. “I’ll grant you,” he said. “That could suck. But let’s get crackin’. You’ve come to the right place. Signs and portents are my stock in trade. I mean apart from exchanging cash for goods and services. You said Pan sent you a note. Did you say there was a line of verse at the bottom...?”
“I think it was a line of verse. Poetry’s not my thing. Do you know poetry?”
“Some. Mostly Homer—for obvious reasons. And Shakespeare. That limey knew his way around a sonnet. What was the line?”
It was only five words, so it wasn’t like I had trouble committing it to memory. “Death will have his day,” I said.
“Ha!” he said. He rapped again with his ring. This time against my forehead. It hurt. “That’s Shakespeare, dummy. Richard the Second. Not one of my favorite plays, honestly. It’s about a king who makes a bunch of bad decisions, is deposed and then murdered. Very... Shakespearean.”
“Weird. Did Pan strike you as the theater type?”
Ty shrugged. “He didn’t necessarily strike me as the commemorative plate type, so who can say?”
“You think he was trying to tell me something?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“What was he trying to tell me?”
“Search me. I don’t know why he couldn’t just say, ‘Oh, by the way, Dora, there’s a bad man gonna steal Hope, so watch out for that’. Would’ve saved you a lot of time.”
“Out of everything I just told you, do you have any thoughts? Any insights?”
“Sure, I have insights. My number one takeaway is if you commit suicide I’m never gonna speak to you again.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I said darkly. It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about right then.
He snorted. “You asked me my opinion. I never said my opinions had value. Now my visions...That’s another story.”
I rubbed my hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere! Could you, Tiresias, give me some of that voodoo you do?”
“Why do you think I brought you to the park?” he replied. I didn’t know what that meant at first, but then I remembered a T-money Fun Fact: He got his visions from the songs of birds.
Ty took off his hat and put it on his lap. A breeze from the direction of the ocean caught his shock of white hair and I thought, in the that moment, Jeeze, this guy looks exactly like Doc Brown from Back to the Future. Only, you know, with fucked-up eyes. He cocked one ear upward toward the top of the tree and listened intently. Not only did I not talk, I willed the rustling leaves to quiet down and give the old man some room. It felt like we were sitting there forever only I’m sure it was no more than a few minutes. I really wanted to know what was going on inside Ty’s head. Had he stepped into a pocket dimension with purple skies where birds wore monocles and little hats and spoke to him in the King’s English? I doubted it, but that would sure as fuck be cool. Finally, he took a deep breath and sat back up.
“Well, what’d you find out?” I asked.
He looked toward me and put his hat back on. “What’d I find out? You’ve never talked to a seer before, have you? It’s not like getting an annual report. There’s no hand-out; there’re no charts and graphs.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Here... Here’s what the birds told me: ‘Listen for the liar’.”
“‘Listen for the liar’? That’s... cryptic.”
“You say ‘cryptic’, I say ‘poetic’. That’s the way it works. Prophecies are meant as nudges, not as roadmaps.”
I made several biting motions in rapid succession because it was the only thing I could think of to do. “Yeah, but there’s nudges and there’s nudges. I... don’t know what I’m doing any better now than I did before.”
Again, he wagged his finger at me. “Ah, but you’re thinking, is that fair to say?”
“Of course, it’s fair to say, but I was thinking before that. I was thinking, ‘I wonder where Hope’s at’. Now I’m thinking, ‘I wonder where Hope’s at, and who’s this liar dude?’ How about you, what do you make of it?”
“Again, you’re misunderstanding the whole seer thing. I’m in the declaration business, not the interpretation business. You know just as well as I do prophecies are a tricky business. You know who got a
perfectly good prophecy? Oedipus. He got a perfectly good prophecy, and yet he still fucked his mother and killed his father. If he’d managed to work it out ahead of time, Sigmund Freud woulda been out of business.”
I slumped on the bench. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
He shrugged. “It is what it is. Are you mad at me?”
I thought for a moment and realized I wasn’t mad at all, just confused. “No, I’m not mad. I’m still good for lunch.”
He stood and held out a hand to help me up. “Good. You find Hope, and then we’ll have a lunch. There’s a lady down the street makes a dynamite tamale.”
“Tamales? I thought you’d want Greek.”
He grinned at me as we walked out of the park. “Greek? That’s so racist. Just because I’m Greek, I gotta have Greek food?”
When we got back onto the sidewalk, I dredged up something I’d always meant to ask him. “Hey, can I ask you a personal question?”
“What’m I, made of glass? Of course, you can ask me a question.”
“It’s just that there’s different rumors, and I was curious... You weren’t born blind, right? I heard you lost your sight because the gods didn’t like you giving away their secrets. I also heard you walked in on Athena when she was bathing, and she took away your sight.”
The old man laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. “It’s the second one. Only... you haven’t gotten it quite right.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I walked in on Athena when she was taking a dump.”
There’s one you won’t read in Edith Hamilton’s Mythology. I joined him in his laughter. “That is classic.”
“You want solid, clear advice from me? Here it is: never walk in on a goddess while she’s making a doody.”
I walked him back to the pawn shop (he lived above it). Before he left me, he took my hand. “Two things,” he said. “Number one: sometimes prophecies have odd after effects. Heroes are haunted by portents and signs.”
“Well, no problem there,” I replied. “I’m not a hero.”
