Chris Mooney - World Without End

The walls are decorated with the free video posters he takes home after his shift. He doesn't own any pictures. The couch he sits on was rescued from the trash, and the mattress was free, the sheets and pillow and extra set were given to him by one of the fraternity brothers. On the floor by the cheap metal desk is a stack of nine library books. A lot of Stephen King. If you wanted to forget your current surroundings and be transported into a world where you would be entertained and scared shitless, then Stephen King was your man. As Con-way sips his drink, he thinks about which book he should read on Christmas day. This has become an annual tradition for him. He buys a bottle of Crown Royal, picks a book and spends the day drinking and reading. Last year it was the remarkable novel Sophie's Choice, and the year before that, John Fowles's excellent novel, The Magus. This year it's going to be John Irving's The World According to Garp. Then there's King to get him through the rest of winter break.

Conway stares at the Irving book. How would The World According to Steve Conway read? Lots of blank pages. No pictures.

His room door slams open and in walks John Riley.

"I've been looking all over for you. Where the fuck you been hiding?"

He has the kind of expansive smile and deep, steady voice that makes you believe in the power of his words a natural salesman in the making.

"I've been here all day," Conway said.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing for break."

"Working."

"No shit." Like Conway, John Riley is putting himself through college.

School breaks and holidays are not vacations; they are opportunities to earn money.

"What I'm asking is what are you doing for work?"

"Bartendingat The Cliffs."

"Are you flicking serious?"

"I'm serious."

"That bar draws on a good night two people. And that's including the bartender who, I may add, is a dick. That ain't going to cover the bills."

"I'm looking for something to do during the day."

"You find anything yet?"

"I'm looking into a few things."

"You like painting?"

"I'm more into doodling."

"I mean can you paint walls, shithead."

"I like money."

"I'm painting full-time, about ten hours a day, more if I want it. I'm talking some really good coin, time-and-a-half, too. If it goes well, the guy will hire us for the summer."

"Us?"

"That's what I'm saying. We leave tonight."

"What?"

"You can stay with us. I already cleared it with my mom. The apartment's small, you "II have to sleep on the couch, but she's cool with that."

"I appreciate the offer but " "Don't start in with this shit. What are you going to do, stay here and what, spend all your free time thinking?

You think more than Einstein and you're not half as smart."

Conway shook his head, laughing.

"Seriously, you need the money, and the guy I'm working for needs a body. I already told him you'd do it."

John " "Look, this will be a good time. My buddy from home works over in Marblehead at this bar. He'll hook us up with drinks, and these girls I know, they'll be home on break from Emerson. Emerson broads are so notoriously horny, my brother. They're known to fuck guys as ugly and as desperate as you."

"Wow. How can I pass that up?"

"That's what I'm saying. You in or what?"

Conway looks at the stack of books and thinks about the four weeks stretched in front of him. He's eighteen and this will be his first Christmas spent with a real family. Real food too, not that canned crap they served each year at St. Anthony's.

"Okay. I'm in."

"Good," Riley said.

"Just one rule. Don't be spanking your meat puppet in the bathroom.

You don't want my mom to catch you. She'll make you say the rosary and like forty Hail Mary's or something."

"Doesn't the door lock?"

"That's what I thought until two years ago. Brother, she hasn't looked the same at me since. Come on, I'll help you pack."

Conway woke up with a start. The new James Lee Burke hardcover was opened across his lap. He was on the plane, on a direct flight to Boston. He must have dozed off.

The stewardess was suddenly right next to him.

"Can I get you something, sir?" she asked in a bubbly voice.

"Coffee would be great."

Conway sat in the corner seat, next to the window, far away from the other handful of first-class passengers. He had never flown first class before. The leather seats were more comfortable than coach, wider, the leg room generous. He wondered if this was Bouchard's gift to him, an act of kindness to show that Bouchard understood that losing John Riley equaled the loss of a brother.

The stewardess came by with a china cup of coffee and placed it on the tray with two creamers and a small container of sugar. Con way opened one of the creamers and poured it into the cup, watching it swirl inside the black liquid, and in his mind saw a black cloud as thick as ink twisting its way through John Riley's veins, the combination of rat poison and cocaine swallowing blood and tissue, tearing into his heart like a rabid animal.

Did Riley try to fight it? Did he cry out for help? Or was it too late? Had he already crossed that threshold, his body growing still, unable to function, his mind surrendering to the fact that it was too late? What had John Riley's last moments been like?

Bouchard's words from yesterday: "I'm not going to lie to you, Steve. It was an awful way to go.

Conway saw John Riley convulsing on the floor. Saw John Riley crying out in pain, crying out for help. John Riley, his friend, was dying.

Dead.

Because of me.

And now Dixon was held captive, surrounded by jackals feeding off his pain, alone with the knowledge that no one was coming to rescue him.

I won't let you down, Dix. I promise.

Then a voice added, If Angel Eyes thinks you know the code, he'll kill Dixon. Do you know the code, Steve?

Since that night he had met Pasha at Delburn, Conway had thought about Randy's last words: mittens and cat food. What did it mean? Conway had tried to re-create those final moments inside the lab; but the memory was hazy, full of black holes. He kept turning the words over and over in his mind, racking his brain for a solution.

Twenty minutes later and he still had no idea what the words meant.

Don't force it, Steve. It will come.

It had better come soon. Dixon's life was on the line. If Conway could figure out the decryption code, then maybe he could use it as a bargaining chip to save Dixon.

The plane touched down at Logan airport. Outside the window and framed against the hard blue sky of a clear November morning were the skyscrapers of downtown Boston. Conway had come home, and Angel Eyes was somewhere out there, waiting.

Booker was late. Conway sat down in a bank of seats located in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the runway. He draped his arms across the tops of the chairs and waited, back in Boston for the first time in over five years.

The thing about Boston was that nobody seemed to smile. In fact, they all looked pissed. Well-dressed people bustled about the crowded airport, everyone in a rush as they talked on their cell phones, others walking with their heads down, frowning or locked in deep thought, every face having that particular hard, serious gaze, what Conway called "The fuck do you want?" look. Boston was the opposite of Vail or even Austin, where life moved at a much slower pace. People you didn't know would stop to say hi, maybe even ask you how your day was and engage in idle conversation while you were waiting for a bus, all of it done with a smile. Maybe it wasn't sincere, but at least it was cordial.

But he still loved Boston, missed its unpredictable weather and the people and the air that always seemed to be crackling with an energy and life he had never experienced anywhere else.