Odd Thomas - Страница 44

I sat in an armchair and went through the contents of the wallet that I'd taken off Robertson's body. Credit cards, driver's license, a library card…

The only unusual item was a plain black plastic card featuring nothing but a line of blind-embossed dots that I could feel with my fingertips and see clearly in angled light. They looked like this:

The dots were raised on one side of the card, depressed on the other. Although it might have been coded data that could be read by some kind of machine, I assumed that it was a line of tangible type, otherwise known as Braille.

Considering that he had not been blind, I couldn't imagine why Robertson would have carried a card bearing a statement in Braille.

Neither could I imagine why any blind person would have kept such an item in his wallet.

I sat in the armchair, slowly sliding a thumb across the dots, then the tip of a forefinger. They were only bumps in the plastic, unreadable to me, but the more that I traced their patterns, the more disquieted I became.

"What's that?"

"Usually they come without the bumps. Instead they have little symbols printed on them. Like a series of crosses or images of the Holy Virgin."

"Not this one."

"You're supposed to say a repetitive prayer, like an Our Father or a Hail Mary, as you move your finger from symbol to symbol."

"So it's like a convenient form of a rosary you can carry in your wallet?"

"Yeah. Worry beads." Sliding her fingertips back and forth over the raised dots, she said, "But they're not only used by Christians. In fact, they began as a New Age thing."

"What're those like?"

"I've seen them with rows of bells, Buddhas, peace signs, dogs or cats if you want to direct your meditative energy toward the achievement of rights for animals, or rows of planet Earths so you can meditate for a better environment."

"Is this one for blind people?" I wondered.

"No. Not at all."

She held the card against her forehead for a moment, like a mentalist reading the contents of a note through a sealed envelope.

I don't know why she did this, and I decided not to ask.

Tracing the dots again, she said, 'About a quarter of the cards are Braille like this. What you're supposed to do is press a finger to the dots and meditate on each letter."

"But what does it say?"

As she continued to finger the card, a frown took possession of her face as gradually as an image rising out of the murk on Polaroid film. "I don't read Braille. But they say different things, this and that, a few inspirational words. A mantra to focus your energy. It's printed on the package the card comes in."

"I don't have the package."

"Or you can also order a custom imprint, your personal mantra, anything you want. This is the first black one I've ever seen."

"What color are they usually?" I asked.

"White, gold, silver, the blue of the sky lots of times green for the environmentalist mantras."

Her frown had fully developed.

She returned the card to me.

With evident distaste, she stared at the fingers with which she had traced the dots.

"Where'd you say you found this?" she asked.

"Downstairs in the lobby, on the floor," I lied.

From behind the counter, she picked up a bottle of Purell. She squirted a gob of the clear gel onto her left palm, put the bottle down, and vigorously rubbed her hands together, sanitizing them.

"If I were you, I'd get rid of that," she said as she rubbed. "And the sooner the better."

She had used so much Purell that I could smell the ethyl alcohol evaporating.

"Get rid of it-why?" I asked.

"It's got negative energy. Bad mojo. It'll bring wickedness down on you."

I wondered which school of nursing she had attended.

"I'll throw it in the trash," I promised.

The freckles on her face seemed to have grown brighter, burning like sprinkles of cayenne pepper. "Don't throw it away here."

"All right," I said, "I won't."

"Not anywhere in the hospital," she said. "Take a drive out in the desert, where there's nobody around, drive fast, throw it out the window, let the wind take it."

"That sounds like a good plan."

Her hands were dry and sanitized. Her frown had evaporated along with the alcohol gel. She smiled. "I hope I've been of some help."

"You've been great."

I took the meditation card out of the hospital, into the waning night, but not for a drive in the desert.

FORTY-THREE

THE STUDIOS OF KPMC RADIO, VOICE OF THE MARAVILLA Valley, are on Main Street, in the heart of Pico Mundo, in a three-story brick Georgian townhouse, between two Victorian edifices housing the law offices of Knacker amp; Hisscus and the Good Day Bakery.

In this last hour of darkness, lights were on in the kitchen of the bakery. When I got out of the car, the street smelled of bread fresh from the oven, cinnamon buns, and lemon strudel.

No bodachs were in sight.

The lower floors of KPMC house the business offices. Broadcast studios are on the third level.

Stan "Spanky" Lufmunder was the engineer on duty. Harry Beamis, who managed to survive in the radio business without a nickname, was the producer of 'All Night with Shamus Cocobolo."

I made faces at them through the triple-insulated view window between the third-floor hall and their electronic aerie.

After conveying by hand gestures that I should copulate with myself, they gave me the okay sign, and I continued along the hall to the door to the broadcast booth.

From the speaker in the hallway, at low volume, issued "String of Pearls," by the immortal Glenn Miller, the platter that Shamus was currently spinning on the air.

The music actually originated from a CD, but on his show, Shamus uses the slang of the 1930s and '40s.

Harry Beamis alerted him, so when I entered the booth, Shamus took off his headphones, tuned up the on-air feed just enough to stay on track with it, and said, "Hey, Wizard, welcome to my Pico Mundo."

To Shamus, I am the Wizard of Odd, or Wizard for short.

He said, "Why don't you smell like peach shampoo?"

"The only soap I had was unscented Neutrogena."

He frowned. "It's not over between you and the goddess, is it?"

"It's only just begun," I assured him.

"Glad to hear it."

The foam-cone walls mellowed our voices, smoothed rough edges.

The lenses of his dark glasses were the blue of old Milk of Magnesia bottles. His skin was so black that it, too, seemed to have a blue tint.

I reached in front of him and put down the meditation card, snapping it sharply against the countertop to intrigue him.

He played cool, didn't pick it up right away. "I plan to come by the Grille after the show, chow down on a heart-stopping pile of fried shaved ham, shoestring onions, and biscuits in gravy"

As I circled the microphone island, sat on a stool opposite him, and pushed the other mike aside on its flexible arm, I said, "I won't be cooking this morning. Got the day off."

"What do you do on a day off-go out there and moon around at the tire store?"

"I thought I might go bowling."

"You're one wild party animal, Wizard. I don't know how your lady keeps up with you."

The Miller tune wrapped. Shamus leaned into the mike and let ad-libbed patter dance off his tongue, cuing back-to-back cuts of Benny Goodman's "One O'clock Jump" and Duke Ellington's "Take the A Train."

I like to listen to Shamus on the air and off. He has a voice that makes Barry White and James Earl Jones sound like carnival barkers with strep throat. To radio people, he's the Velvet Tongue.

From 1:00 a.m. to 6:00, every day but Sunday, Shamus spins what he calls "the music that won the big war," and recounts tales of the night life of that long-ago age.

The other nineteen hours of the day, KPMC eschews music in favor of talk radio. Management would prefer to shut down during those five least-listened hours, but their broadcast license requires them to serve the community 24/7.

This situation gives Shamus the freedom to do anything he wants, and what he wants is to immerse himself and his insomniac listeners in the glories of the Big Band era. In those days, he says, the music was real, and life was more grounded in truth, reason, and good will.

The first time I heard this rap, I expressed surprise that he would feel such affinity for an age of active segregation. His answer was, "I'm black, blind, seriously smart, and sensitive. No age would be easy for me. At least the culture had culture then, it had style."

Now he told his audience, "Close your eyes, picture the Duke in his trademark white tux, and join me, Shamus Cocobolo, as I ride that A Train to Harlem."

His mother named him Shamus because she wanted her son to be a police detective. When he went blind at three, a law-enforcement career ceased to be an option. The "Cocobolo" came with his father, straight out of Jamaica.

Picking up the black plastic card, holding it by the top and bottom edges between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he said, "Some stupefyingly stupid bank give you a credit card?"

"I was hoping you could tell me what it says."

He slid one finger across the card, not really reading it, just determining its nature. "Oh, Wizard, surely you don't think I need meditation when I've got Count Basie and Satchmo and Artie Shaw."