by J. R. Rain
“No,” I said. “It’s not, dammit.” I was used to these kinds of double-talk answers. Jack seemed particularly efficient at this. “Make a million dollars appear. I don’t even have to keep it. Just make it appear.”
“And that would prove to you that I’m God?”
“Sure.”
“Is it God you seek, or a genie?”
“Genie would be nice, too.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks.”
We were quiet. Jack silently sipped his coffee. Not even a slurp.
“You haven’t been around for a while,” he said.
“Have you missed me?”
“Yes.”
“You have been waiting for me?” I asked, mildly shocked. It had been, perhaps, four months since I’d last visited with him.
“Yes,” he said.
“How did you know I was here today?” I asked.
He grinned.
“There’s something to be said for being omniscient, Jim.”
“I bet,” I said. “Anyway, I haven’t worked on a case in a while. That is, a real case.”
“You only come when you’re working on a case?”
“Something like that,” I said. “You would prefer I came more often?”
He looked at me from over his non-steaming cup of coffee.
“Yes,” he said simply, and I found his answer oddly touching. “So am I to assume you are working on a case now?”
“You are God,” I said. “You can assume anything you want.”
“So is that a yes?”
I sighed.
“I’m working on a case, yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Don’t you already know?” I asked. “Hell, don’t you already know who killed the girl?”
He looked at me long and hard, unblinking, his face impassive. There was dirt in the corner of his eyes, and along the border of his scalp, where his roots met his forehead. He stank of something unknown and rotten and definitely foul.
You’re insane, I told myself for the hundredth time. Utterly insane to even remotely entertain the idea that this might be—
“Yes,” he said. “I do know who killed the girl.”
My breath caught in my throat.
“Then tell me.”
“You already know, my son.”
We had discussed such matters before. Jack seemed to think I knew things that I didn’t really know. He also seemed to think that time meant nothing to me and that I could sort of shift back and forth through it as I wished. I kindly let Jack know that I thought it all sounded like bullshit.
For now, I said, “I can assure you, Jack, that I most certainly do not know who killed her—and I most don’t want to get into that time-is-an-illusion horseshit, either. It makes my fucking head hurt, and you know it. Do you want to make my fucking head hurt, Jack?”
“Are you quite done?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, sitting back, taking a swig from my fourth or maybe fifth Coke.
He watched me quietly while I drank, then said, “Although you do know who killed the girl, but choose to deny the basic laws that govern your existence—in particular, time—I will give you the answer now if you so desire.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Really.”
“You know who killed Amanda Peterson?” I wasn’t sure what my tone was: disbelief, curious, awe, maybe even a little fear. There are no secrets with God.
“Indeed,” said Jack.
“But I haven’t even discussed the case with you.”
“I know.”
“So why did you ask me to discuss the case with you?”
“It’s called small talk, Jim. Try it sometime.” And Jack winked at me.
I took in some air. These conversations were always like this. Circular. Infuriating. Often illuminating. Sometimes silly. But most often than not, just plain insane.
“Fine,” I said, “write it down and I’ll keep it in my wallet.”
“Until?”
“Until the case is over. We’ll see if we came to the same conclusions.”
“Oh, we will.”
“You’re sure?”
“Always.”
I often keep a pen above my ear, and as luck would have it, there was one there now. Jack tore off a piece of my tray liner, wrote something down on it, folded it up neatly and handed pen and paper to me. I deftly slipped the pen back over my ear, was briefly tempted to unfold the paper, but promptly shoved it in my wallet, behind an old condom.
“So how is Amanda?” I asked. Amanda being the murdered girl on my case, of course.
“She is happy.”
“But she was slaughtered just a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, but she is with me now.”
“This is fucking weird,” I said.
“It’s as weird as you want it to be,” said the bum in front of me. I saw that his coffee was nearly done.
“Want another coffee?”
“Heavens, no. It’ll keep me up all night.”
“I thought God never sleeps.”
He looked up at me and grinned, showing a row of coffee stained teeth.
“Why, whoever told you that?”
“I’ll be back,” I said. “And it won’t be four months this time.”
And as I left, sipping from my large plastic cup, I noticed for the first time the Monopoly guy on the side of the cup, holding in his fist a single million dollar bill.
I looked over at Jack, but he had gotten up and was currently talking with someone else, oblivious to me.
About the Author:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
