novel 88 - 25. the road

by nick nelson

part 25 of 25

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night had fallen. joe trudged down the road to the quaintly rustic train station. he carried a paper bag containing the sandwiches and bottles of water the security guard had given him back at the castle. he figured he was about halfway back to the station so he decided to stop and sample the fare. he sat down on a grassy spot beside a bend in the road. as he sat down he felt the letter in his back pocket - the heartfelt handwritten letter he had intended to deliver to sebastian dream. he had asked the security guard if he could leave the letter with him, and the guard had replied - you can leave it, but per my instructions i will just burn it. yes, joe had thought, and have a good laugh reading it before you do. i know your type. so he had kept it. he unwrapped one of the two sandwiches. it seemed to be black forest ham and gouda cheese on a sourdough roll, with some sort of special sauce. it tasted pretty good. joe finished the sandwich and one of the bottles of water. he got up and looked back at the castle, now barely visible beyond the brow of the hill. most of the lights in the castle had gone out, and now a couple more did. just like the lights of my dreams, joe thought. my dreams. and the dreams of all the other chumps and suckers and losers who thought they had a chance. who thought they could catch a break and be given a fair shot at the gold ring - who thought the pay window would stay open after the race was over and the rainbow would never turn gray and there would be a wallet full of greenbacks lying in the gutter of the last street at the edge of town before you hit the desert and the empty sky above the desert would open up and pour down rain just before you died of thirst - yes, he had always believed - always believed. the end

novel 88 - 24. the castle

by nick nelson

part 24 of 25

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the sun was setting as, after a long journey, joe approached the boundary of sebastian dream’s castle in scotland. a security guard appeared from behind a tree. he had a nasty looking weapon of a make joe, who was not a weapons person, could not identify, sling on his shoilder. can i help you? yes, i am a - a correspondent - of mister dream’s. is he expecting you? i did not send him a message telling him i was coming. in that case i can not allow you to proceed. but i know mister dream very well. i have corresponded with him for months. he has helped me out, given me advice. so have thousands of other people. that can not be possible. the guard laughed. mister dream has his ways. suddenly a terrible thought flashed through joe’s mind. does mister dream use robots in his correspondence? that is not for me to say. an even more terrible thought followed the first one. is mister dream himself a robot? you have seen his picture on line, haven’t you? and seen and heard interviews with him?’ yes, and read three biogrophies of him. i liked melissa t casey’s the best. well there you go. now i am going to ask you again to turn around and leave. it is a long way back to the quaintly rustic train station. the guard took a phone off his belt. if you like, i can call and have a snack pack of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of water brought out to you. mister dream is always considerate of his fans. i - i - this is very upsetting. do you want the snack pack and water or not? yes, i suppose so. next

novel 88 - 23. betrayal

by nick nelson

part 23 of 25

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dear joe, thank you for forwarding the chapters of your story about tucker and bradley and the painting. i like them a lot. i like them so much i am going to appropriate them. i willl take it from here. i think this is only fair, after all the encouragement and suggestions i gave you. after all, turnarbout is fair play. i trust you will not take this development in the wrong spirit. i wish you all the best in continuing your stories, both those i suggested to you and any you may come up with yourself. sincerely, your devoted friend, sebastian dream next

novel 88 - 22. murphy

by nick nelson

part 22 of 25

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i didn’t like the sound of that punk’s voice, murphy thought grimly as he went back and sat down in his chair beside the window looking out at the rain. and then it hit him. of course! the punk was just trying to get into the building. he didn’t have any friend in apartment 8 - the guy in apartment 8 probably didn’t have any friends. the punk wanted to get into the building to steal stuff. like murphy’s map! his map of hitler and stalin’s hidden treasure. murphy got up, went over the battered dresser in the corner beside the window, opened the middle drawer and felt under his socks and underwear. whew! the map was still there. to be really sure, he took the manila envelope out from under the underwear and opened it to make sure the real actual map was in it,, not something some thief had substituted. it was the real map all right. i shouldn’t be so paranoid, he thought briefly for the ten thousandth time. murphy went back to the window. the rain had slacked off a bit, but it still soothed his weary soul to look out at it. what was that? did he hear something in the corridor outside? it was hard to tell - one thing about this dump of a building - it was old and the walls were pretty thick. somebody could get murdered or have a satanic ritual in the room next door and you might not hear it. he went over to the door and listened. he could not hear anything but he could feel something. next

novel 88 - 21. desperation

by nick nelson

part 21 of 25

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tucker pressed the button again. nothing. he knew as surely as he knew that he was going to die some day that bradley was gone and had taken the painting - the 230 million dollar painting - with him. but he pressed the button under the mailbox to the left of bradley’s. nothing. he tried the button under the box to the right of bradley’s. yeah? a surly male voice answered almost immediately. um - i wonder if you could help me out? no. get lost. please. i am trying to contact my friend in apartment - in apartment 8. i know he is in there but he wion’t answer. maybe he doesn’t like you any more. not my problem. i am afraid he might have hurt himself. that is not my problem either. bradley gave up. i am sorry i bothered you. the surly voice did not answer. i will try one more thing, bradley thought. he tried the door to the stairs and elevator. it opened! he did not want to use the elevator - the surly man might hear it and he had not liked it anyway when he and bradley had taken it earlier. he began climbing the stairs to the fourth floor. next

novel 88 - 20. bradley

by nick nelson

part 20 of 25

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when bradley took his picture and left his room and started walking, he had no clear idea of where he was going or what he wanted to do. this was the story of his life. * when bradley was a little boy, he did not like television or video games as much as a normal human child, and spent hours staring at the walls or looking out the window wondering what was going to happen to him when he grew up . his high school guidance counselor suggested he become an artist. bradley accepted this, and enrolled in art class. the teacher liked the art he submitted, especially the art produced for him by his older sister, who aspired to become a doctor and had no interset in art herself. bradley learned to copy his sister’s style and his art continued to find favor with his teachers even after his sister left home to go to college and medical school. bradley was admitted to the college of international art and was a star pupil there until he fell in with a bad crowd and took to cloud nine. next to illegal substances, bradley’s biggest problems were women, who would not leave hm alone, and paranoia, which an interdisciplinary counselor suggested he might have inherited from an ancestor in another dimension. in addition to the females who flocked around him like moths around a flame, bradley was also surrounded by coterie of male sycophants and flatterers. among them was a young man who was the laziest student in the class, and the heir to a once vast but now almost completely depleted fortune. his name was tucker underwood. next

novel 88 - 19. second thoughts

by nick nelson

part 19 of 25

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what am i doing? tucker thought morosely, as he trudged through the rain and wind. what am i thinking? i must have let the sight of the painting affect my mind. wrap the painting in newspaper? even under ordinary circumstances? there must be a better way. he had been so afraid he would miss his chance at the painting that all his common sense had gone out the window. he should go back to bradley’s room, tell him he would be back the next day, with a box or whatever to pick up the painting. to seal the deal, he would give bradley his money they had agreed on and then go home and get a good night’s sleep. he turned around to go back to bradley’s building. as soon as he did, all his fears returned. bradley had seemed so suspicious and paranoid! all his, tucker’s, own fault, for making him suspicious. but too late now. there was one logical way out - to get rid of bradley. easy to say. but did he, tucker, after a lifetime of watching movies and tv shows in which smooth noir heroes and villains casually disposed of people who stood in their way as easy as lighting a cigarette - he could use a cigarette himself now, after all those years - did he really have it in him to “get rid” of bradley just like that? and with what? where would he get a gun? he had known some people who claimed to know a guy who knew a guy who could help him out in this regard. but how many years ago? did he have anybody’s phone number who might help him? and out of nowhere. at this time of night? as these thoughts were running through tucker’s head. his feet were propelling him back into the teeth of wind to bradley’s apartment. he reached the apartment building, and went through the front door into the tiny lobby. in the stuffy but warm lobby, he realized how wet he had gotten in the rain. he pressed the buzzer to bradley’s room. next

novel 88 - 18. ninety-five dollars

by nick nelson

part 18 of 25

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ninety-five? now i know you are nervous and are trying to cheat me. enough of this. how much do you want for it? one hundred and twenty-five. all right. i will give you one hundred and twenty-five. bradley hesitated. do you want the hundred and twenty-five? i will take it. all right. wrap it up and i will be on my way. i do not have anything to wrap it up with. are you serious? it is raining out, i am not just going to carry it in the rain. bradley shrugged. go out and buy something to wrap it in. like a newspaper or something. a newspaper? where do they sell newspapers these days, especially at this time of night? wang lee’s. on 66th street, two blocks away and half a block to your left. he sells chinese papers. all right. wait here. where am i going to go? tucker left, closing the door softly behind him. bradley went over to the window. he watched tucker emerge from the front door, pull his coat collar up against the rain, and head north on 66th street as bradley had directed. bradley took an insulted box and a canvas bag out of the bottom drawer of the dresser beside his bed and put the picture in the box, and the box in the canvas bag. then he put his hat and coat on and left the room with the bag slung on his shoulder, not bothering to lock the door behind him, and went down to the street. he headed south. next

novel 88 - 17. 230 million dollars

by nick nelson

part 17 of 25

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bradley barfield unlocked the sagging door of his miserable fourth floor room and tucker underwood followed him inside. why does he bothers to lock it, tucker wondered, it looks like anyone could just reach in and open it. bradley switched on a lamp. it barely lit up the room. he pointed to a chair. a black turtleneck sweater was draped across the back of the chair and a painting about twenty-six inches square sat on the chair facing outward for viewing. what do you think? bradley asked. i like it, tucker said aloud. it’s pretty good. in his head he thought, it is worth two hundred and thirty million dollars. but how much do you think it it worth? bradley asked um - hard to say. the market is pretty volatile right now. i am not volatile. i am starving. what will you give me for it? it is hard to say. i could give you something for it, based on what i think i can get for it today, and then next week i might get a lot more and you would think i was cheating you. i don’t need a lesson on economics 101 - i went to business school just like you did. yes, those were the happy carefree days, weren’t they? will they ever come back again? they might come back for me if you buy this painting before i starve to death. all right - i will give you seventy-five dollars for it. i will take it. this is too easy, tucker thought. his hand trembled as he reached into his pocket for his wallet, and bradley noticed it. what are you nervous about? bradley suddenly demanded. you are not trying to cheat me, are you? you said you would take whatever i gave you. i did not say that! hey, keep the noise down in there - people are trying to sleep! i am sorry, mrs moriarty , bradley shouted back. it won’t happen again. with a wild yet crafty look in his eyes, bradley turmed back to tucker. now, where were we? i said i would give you seventy-five dollars for the painting - the one on the chair there. you are trying to cheat me, man. i put my whole heart and soul into it, and it is worth at least ninety. i will give you ninety-five for it. next

novel 88 - 16. the painting

by nick nelson

part 16 of 25

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dear mr dream, i hope you are well. thank you again for all your wonderful suggestions and for taking the time from your busy schedule to offer me your wonderful help and encouragement. i hope you will not think i am ungrateful if i tell you i have come up with an an idea of my own! here is the beginning. any comment you might make would be infinitely welcome, though of course i understand if you are too busy or just not interested. sincerely, joe lonelyroom the painting that fellow looks familiar, tucker underwood thought. it was a cold and rainy night. tucker and the familiar looking individual were the only patrons of the cafe de whatever, a once thriving establishment that tucker had frequented in his days as an aspiring young artist. tucker had long since given up his dream of being a great and famous artist, and had established himself as a player on the street, but he occasionally dropped in to his old haunt on the chance that he might meet an acquaintance from the old days, or just for a quick breath of nostalgia. tucker picked up his cup of the house’s special blend, and moved over to the familiar man’s table. do you mind if i sit here? he asked in his politest voice. suit yourself, the man answered, without pulling his face up from the heavy blue scarf wrapped around his skinny neck. i thought i recognized you from somewhere, tucker continued, after seating himself. i would hope so. i am bradley barfield, your old chum from international art school, and i taught you everything you knew although you were too much of a natural born bourgeois to profit from it. i see you seem to be doing well for himself. why, of course, bradley, i could kick myself, or shoot myself, for not recognizing you sooner. it must be the heavy blue scarf, ot maybe the two days beard. i remember you as always clean shaven and rosy cheeked, and quite the attraction for the fair sex, besides being the most promising artist in the school. as for myself, yes, i am doing all right, now that i i have found my natural environment in the world of finance. may i buy you a cup of coffee, or a croissant? you can buy one of my pictures. i might just do that. do you happen to have one with you? i have some in my hovel, which is just around the corner. then i would be happy to take a look at them. you can finish your coffee first. there is no hurry. * does this elevator work? sometimes. my room is on only on the fourth floor. you look like you spend most of your life in a gym. lead the way. the lights in all the stairs do not all work. i can handle it. next

novel 88 - 15. the old army game

by nick nelson

part 15 of 25

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harriet was a polite and well-bred person, and was in the habit of striking up polite conversations with complete strangers, even somewhat shabby and scary ones. harriet worked as a maid in a barely respectable downtown hotel, working the 4 pm to midnight shift, and took the last cable car home to her furnished room on california street. one chilly night she was riding home and there was one other passenger on the car, a man in a heavy coat several sizes too large for him and with a broad brimmed hat pulled down over his face but not concealing his long pointed nose. he looks familiar, harriet thought, familiar like a cartoon character - a comic villain. a bit cool tonight, isn’t it? harriet addressed the man. the man did not reply, and harriet decided he was not the talkative type. she never persisted in conversations if the person she spoke to did not respond. walter zank was a polite and well-bred person, though not very talkative, and liked to ride the cable cars at night. he would have liked to ride the cable cars all night long but they stopped at 2 a m and did not resume again until 6 a m. walter liked the long chilly foggy nights because they allowed him to dress as he liked best - in heavy coats several sizes too large for him and broad brimmed hats that he could pull down over his face, hiding the face except for his long pointed nose. although he never spoke to other passengers, even when they spoke to him, he took a keen interest in their mysterious existences and often reflected on them when he went back to his furnished room on o’farrell street. \ he recorded his reflections in school notebooks he purchased at walgreens. he did not keep the notebooks. when he had filled four of then,, he put them in an envelope and mailed them to the library of congress, with the return address of the doggie diner on geary boulevard and arguelo boulevard. he had learned in junior high school in davemport iowa that the library of congress kept a copy of every book ever written in the history of the world. he reflected on the middle aged woman who had observed that it was a chilly night. she did not invite much reflection but walter decided to give it the old college try, and play the old army game. now you see it, now you don’t. next

novel 88 - 14. belligerence

by nick nelson

part 14 of 25

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adam was walking down the road when suddenly he met eve. what are you doing here? he asked her belligerently. i could ask you the same thing, she replied saucily. you are going in the wrong direction, he continued, studiously ignoring her tone. there is nothing behind me, that is why i am proceeding north, as you see. i will be the judge of that, eve answered in a more measured tone of voice. perhaps there are things i will see that you did not, or that i can make use of that you could not. suit yourself. step aside then, and let me pass. the road is wide as well as long, will it wear you out to walk around me? eve laughed. you always have to argue, do you not? goodbye. and adam stepped around eve, and continued heading north, toward the ice and wind and snow. women! adam thought. they always have to make a big deal out of everything and take everything personally. of course, he added on sober reflection, eve is the only woman i have ever known, so perhaps i should not be too hasty in my generalizations. perhaps i will find a very different woman in the wind and ice and snow. if i do, i wonder what i should call —— just then a blast of frigid air almost knocked him off his feet… next

novel 88 - 13. outside

by nick nelson

part 13 of 25

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every time margaret brindage looked out her window, she saw something new and horrifying, so she turned on her television set for reassurance, because on the television nothing ever changed. how different it had been when she was a child, when life was boring and one did the same things every day, and the television - and the movies - provided excitement and respite from the boredom. right now, below her window, a motley group of indescribable people were chanting - death to……! margaret could not make out the name of the person … or group … or oountry… or whatever… that the motley group of indescribable people were assigning death to. she debated opening the window so that she could better understand the shouting. but the shouters might see the open window and decide to throw things through it. she had seen a report of something of the sort when she still had a laptop computer that streamed the news from all over the world 24 hours a day. now her only link to the world was a television set with a single channel - the nostalgia channel. on which she was allowed six hours of programming a day - down from eight hours just a few weeks ago, she was tempted to turn the set on now and use an hour or so of precious programming, and drown out, to some extent, the crowd’s chanting. but she tried to force herself to wait until her meal delivery time, so that she could watch a show and eat her daily rations at the same time, which she had always enjoyed doing. and if she were really strong willed, she would wait until 1700 hours, when her favorite show - the seventh queen - was on. just the there was a light tapping on her door. oh no, margaret thought in a panic, it is day six! how had she forgotten! as if in response to her agitation, the shouting outside grew louder, and she could make out the words… death to………….. !!! next