Aftershock & Others (21 page)

He shrugs. “Maybe. The tape is ashes now, so she won’t get a second chance. And if she did hear the Answer, she hasn’t used it, or figured out its power. You have to be pretty smart or pretty lucky to catch on.”

Preferring to place myself in the former category, I say, “It wasn’t all that hard. But why do you call it the Answer?”

“What do you call it?”

“I’ve been calling it ‘the word.’ I guess I could be more specific and call it ‘the Win Word.’”

He sneers. “You think this is just about winning? You idiot. That word is the
Answer
—the
best
answer to any question asked. The listener hears the most appropriate, most profitable, all-around
best
response. And that’s power, Michael Moulton. Power that’s too big for the likes of you.”

“Just a minute now. I can see how that worked with my broker, but I wasn’t answering questions when I was betting the ponies or playing roulette. I was telling people.”

The sneer deepens. “Horses…roulette…” He shakes his head in disgust. “Like driving a Maserati to the local 7-Eleven for a quart of milk. All right, I’ll say this slowly so you’ll get it: The Answer works with all sorts of questions, including
implied
questions. And what is the implied question when you walk up to a betting window or sit down at a gaming table? It’s ‘How much do you want to bet on what?’ When you say ten bucks on Phony Baloney, you’re answering that question.”

“Oh, right.”

He steps closer and stands over me. “I hope you enjoyed your little fling with the Answer. You can keep whatever money you made, but that’s it for you.”

“Hey, if you think I’m giving up a gold mine like that, you’re nuts.”

“I had a feeling you’d say something like that.”

He reaches into his suit coat pocket and pulls out a pistol. I don’t know what kind it is and don’t care. All I know is that its silenced muzzle is pointing in my face.

“Hey! Wait!”

“Good-bye, Michael Moulton. I was hoping to be able to reason with you, but you’re too big an asshole for that. You don’t leave me any choice.”

I see the way the gun wavers in his hand, I hear the quaver in his voice as he keeps talking without shooting, and I flash that this sort of thing is all new to him and he’s almost as scared as I am right now.

So I move. I leap up, grab the gun barrel, and push it upward, twisting it with everything I’ve got. Nickleby yelps as the gun goes off with a
phut!
The backs of his legs catch the edge of the coffee table and we go down. I land on him hard, knocking the wind out of him, and suddenly I’ve got the gun all to myself.

I get to my feet and now I’m pointing it at him. And then he makes a noise that sounds like a sob.

“Damn it! Damn it to hell! Go ahead and shoot. I’ll be a dead man anyway if you go on using the Answer. And so will you.”

I consider this. He doesn’t seem to be lying. But he doesn’t seem to be thinking either.

“I don’t think we need funeral plans yet. I mean, why should we be afraid of this Order? We have the word—the Answer. All we have to do is threaten to tell the world about it. Tell them we’ll record it on a million tapes—we’ll put it on every one of those videotapes you’re peddling. Hell, we’ll buy air time and broadcast it by satellite. They make one wrong move and the whole damn world will have the Answer. What’ll
that
do to their agenda?”

He looks up at me bleakly. “You can’t record it. You can’t tell anybody. You can’t even write it down.”

“Bullshit.”

This may be a trick so I keep the pistol trained on him while I grab the pen and pad from the phone. I write out the word. I can’t believe my eyes. Instead of the Answer I’ve written gibberish: COPPE.

“What the hell?”

I try again, this time block printing. No difference—COPPE again.

Nickleby’s on his feet now, but he doesn’t try to get any closer.

“Believe me,” he says, more composed now, “I’ve tried everything. You can speak the Answer into the finest recording equipment in the world till you’re blue in the face and you’ll hear gibberish.”

“Then I’ll simply tell it to everybody I know!”

“And what do you think they’ll hear? If they’ve got a question on their mind, they’ll hear the best possible answer. If not, they’ll hear gibberish. What they
won’t
hear is the Answer itself.”

“Then how’d these Order guys get it onto your tape?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. They have ways of doing all sorts of things—like finding out when somebody unauthorized uses the Answer. Maybe they know every time
anybody
uses the Answer. That’s why you’ve got to stop.”

I don’t reply. I glance down at the meaningless jumble I’ve written without intending to. Something big at work here. Very Big.

He goes on. “I don’t think it’s too late. My source in the Order told me that if I can silence you—and that doesn’t mean kill you, just stop you from using the Answer—then the Order will let it go. But if you go on using it…well, then, it’s curtains for both of us.”

I’m beginning to believe him.

A note of pleading creeps into his voice. “I’ll set you up. You want money, I’ll give you money. As much as you want. You want to play the market? Call and ask me the best stock to buy—I’ll tell you. You want to play the ponies? I’ll go to the track with you. You want to be rich? I’ll give you a million—two, three, four million a year. Whatever you want.
Just don’t use the Answer yourself!
”

I think about that. All the money I can spend…

What I don’t like about it is I’ll feel like a leech, like I’m being kept.

Then again: All the money I can spend…

“All right. I won’t use the word and we’ll work something out.”

Nickleby stumbles over to the sofa like his knees are weak and slumps onto it. He sounds like he’s gonna sob again.

“Thank you! Oh, thank you! You’ve just saved both our lives!”

“Yeah.”

Right. I’m going to live, I’m going to be rich. So how come I ain’t exactly overcome with joy?

Things go pretty well
for the next few weeks. I don’t drag him to the track or to Atlantic City or anything like that. And when I phone him and ask for a stock tip, he gives me a winner every time. My net worth is skyrocketing. Gary the broker thinks I’m a genius. I’m on my way to financial independence, untold wealth…everything I’ve ever wanted.

But you know what? It’s not the same. Doesn’t come close to what it was like when I was using the Answer myself.

Truth is, I feel like Dennis Nickleby’s goddamn mistress.

But I give myself a daily pep talk, telling myself I can hang in there. And I do hang in there. I’m doing pretty well at playing the melancholy millionaire…

Until I hear on the radio that the next Pick 6 Lotto jackpot is thirty million dollars. Thirty million dollars—with a payout of a million and a half a year for the next twenty years. That’ll do it. If I win that, I won’t need Nickleby anymore. I’ll be my own man again.

Only problem is, I’ll need to use the Answer.

I know I can ask Nickleby for the winning numbers, but that won’t cut it. I need to do this myself. I need to feel that surge of power when I speak the Answer. And then the jackpot will be
my
prize, not Nickleby’s.

Just once…I’ll use the Answer just this once, and then I’ll erase it from my mind and never use it again.

I go driving into the sticks and find this hole-in-the-wall candy store on a secondary road in the woods. There’s a pimply-faced kid running the counter. How the hell is this Order going to know I’ve used the Answer one lousy time out here in Nowheresville?

I hand the kid a buck. “Pick Six please.”

“You wanna Quick Pick?”

No way I want random numbers. I want the
winning
numbers.

“No. I’ll give them to you: COPPE.”

I can’t tell you how good it feels to be able to say that word again…like snapping the reins on my own destiny.

The kid hits a button, then looks up at me. “And?”

“And what?”

“You got to choose six numbers. That’s only one.”

My stomach lurches. Damn. I thought one Answer would provide all six. Something tells me to cut and run, but I press on. I’ve already used the Answer once—might as well go all the way.

I say COPPE five more times. He hands me the pink and white ticket. The winning numbers are 3, 4, 7, 17, 28, 30. When the little numbered Ping-Pong balls pop out of the hopper Monday night, I’ll be free of Dennis Nickleby

So how come I’m not tap dancing back to my car? Why do I feel like I’ve just screwed up…big time?

I stop for dinner
along the way. When I get home I check my answering machine and there’s Nickleby’s voice. He sounds hysterical.

“You stupid bastard! You idiot! You couldn’t be happy with more money than you could ever spend! You had to go and use the Answer again! Damn you to hell, Moulton! An actuator is coming for me! And then he’ll be coming for you! Kiss your ass good-bye, jerk!”

I don’t hesitate. I don’t even grab any clothes. I run out the door, take the elevator to the garage, and get the hell out of there. I start driving in circles, unsure where to go, just sure that I’ve got to keep moving.

Truthfully, I feel like a fool for being so scared. This whole wild story about the Order and impending death is so ridiculous…yet so is that word, the word that gives the right answer to every question. And a genuinely terrified Dennis Nickleby
knew
I’d used it.

I make a decision and head for the city. I want to be where there’s lots of people. As I crawl through the Saturday night crush in the Lincoln Tunnel I get on my phone. I need a place to stay. Don’t want some fleabag hotel. Want something with brightly lit halls and good security.

The Plaza’s got a room. A suite. Great. I’ll take it.

I leave my car with the doorman, register like a whirlwind, and a few minutes later I’m in a two-room suite with the drapes pulled and the door locked and chained.

And now I can breathe again. But that’s about it. I order room service but I can’t eat. I go to bed but I can’t sleep. So I watch the tube. My eyes are finally glazing over when the reporter breaks in with a new story: Millionaire financial boy-wonder Dennis Nickleby is dead. An apparent suicide, he jumped from the ledge of his Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment earlier this evening. A full investigation has been launched. Details as soon as they are available.

I run to the bathroom and start to retch, but nothing comes up.

The actuator—whatever that is—got him. Just like he said. He’s dead and oh God I’m next! What am I going to
do?

First thing I’ve got to do is calm down. Got to think.

I do that. I make myself sit down. I calm myself. I analyze my situation. What are my assets? I’ve got lots of money, a wallet full of credit cards, and I’m mobile. I can go on the run.

And I’ve got one more thing: the Answer.

Suddenly I’m up and pacing. The Answer! I can use the Answer itself as a defense. Yes! If I have to go to ground, it will guide me to the best place to hide.

Suddenly I’m excited. It’s so obvious.

I throw on my clothes and hurry down to the street. They probably know my car, so I jump into one of the waiting cabs.

“Where to?” says the cabby in a thickly accented voice.

The backseat smells like someone blew lunch here not too long ago. I look at the driver ID card and he’s got some unpronounceable Middle Eastern name.

I say, “COPPE.”

He nods, puts the car in gear, and we’re off.

But where to? I feel like an idiot but I’ve got to ask. I wait till he’s made a few turns, obviously heading for the East Side.

“Where are you taking me?”

“LaGuardia.” He glances over his shoulder through the plastic partition, his expression fierce. “That is what you said, is it not?”

“Yes, yes. Just want to make sure you understood.”

“I understand. I understand very good.”

LaGuardia…I’m flying out of here tonight. A new feeling begins to seep through me: hope. But despite the hope, let me tell you, it’s
très
weird to be traveling at top speed with no idea where you’re going.

As we take the LaGuardia exit off Grand Central Parkway, the driver says, “Which airline?”

“COPPE.”

He nods and we pull in opposite the Continental door. I pay him and hurry to the ticket counter. I tell the pretty black girl there I want first class on the next flight out.

“Out to where, sir?”

Good question.

“COPPE.”

She punches a lot of keys and finally her computer spits out a ticket. She tells me the price. I’m dying to know where I’m going but how can I ask her? I hand over my American Express. She runs it through, I sign, and then she hands me the ticket.

Cheyenne, Wyoming. Not my first choice. Not even on my top-twenty list. But if the Answer tells me that’s the best place to be, that’s where I’m going. Trouble is, the flight doesn’t leave for another three hours.

I’m here. Now what?

The drinks I had at the airport and the extra glasses of Merlot on the flight have left me a little groggy. I wander about the nearly deserted terminal wondering what I do now. I’m in the middle of nowhere—Wyoming, for Christ sake. Where do I go from here?

Easy: Trust the Answer.

I go outside to the taxi area. The fresh air feels good. A taxi pulls into the curb. I grab it.

“Where to, sir?”

This guy’s American. Great.

“COPPE.”

“You got it.”

I try to concentrate on our route as we leave the airport, but I’m not feeling so hot. That’s okay. The Answer’s taking me in the right direction. I trust it. I close my eyes and rest them until I feel the cab come to a halt.

I straighten up and look around. It’s a warehouse district.

“Is this it?”

“You told me 2316 Barrow Street,” the cabby says. He points to a gray door on the other side of the sidewalk. “Here we are.”

I pay him and get out. 2316 Barrow Street. Never heard of it. The area’s deserted, but what else would you expect in a warehouse district on a Sunday morning?