Part 15 (1/2)
He gave me a look that said Enough.
”Time to rebuild.”
I ignored him.
”What if there's a way?”
”What do you mean, a way?”
”What if I had something . . . a piece of information . . . that might make the V and D reconsider? They can take four people one year. Why not? Then I'm back on track.”
Until this moment, Miles had been serious, but he never lost his basic good humor. But now, he spoke very slowly, all the color gone from his voice.
”Tell me exactly what you mean.”
I pulled out the obituary. I showed him the picture and explained the story.
His voice sounded strange.
If I didn't know better, I'd think Miles--all six foot seven of him--was nervous.
”Have you told anyone else about this?”
”No. n.o.body.”
He looked at me hard, then nodded.
”There's someone you need to meet.”
Miles and I walked side by side through the university, a cold wind moving in from the north, hands deep in our pockets. The fresh air seemed to lighten his mood.
”Who are we going to see?” I asked again.
”Chance Worthington,” Miles repeated.
”Who is Chance Worthington? Is he a student?”
”Not exactly.”
”How can you not exactly be a student?”
”Chance's status with the university is unclear.”
Miles laughed and slapped my back.
It turned out Chance had been on campus as long as Miles, without collecting a single degree. This was a rare feat, considering Miles had done undergrad, law school, and now part of his PhD here. Chance was an on-again, off-again reporter for the campus paper and for whoever else would publish his articles: alternative weeklies, alien-invasion tabloids, ranting socialist leaflets. Unlike most college reporters, Miles explained, Chance wasn't satisfied with covering can drives and campus protests over the plight of the penguins. He'd taken numerous leaves of absence to travel around the world, to places with violent conflicts or exceptionally pure weed. He had a pile of letters from the administration that he was afraid to open, but they were still cas.h.i.+ng his checks.
Miles was one of those people who collected odd friends. In high school, you could count on him to know every lost soul in the Ol' South Pancake House, our twenty-four-hour hangout after debate matches. He knew the quiet truckers and the self-t.i.tled lesbian cowgirls. He knew the Vietnam vets and the old hippies who still occasionally yelled at each other across the room. He knew the black debutantes, who always arrived in gowns from a glittery circuit of events we'd never see. I pretty much kept to my friends at Ol' South, with my coffee and my German pancakes, out of shyness. But Miles could sit down at any booth and talk and laugh for hours.
”You guys are gonna love each other.” Miles grinned, warming to the event.
We met at Chance's place, an off-campus ”co-op,” which was basically a hippie dorm where you cooked your own food and didn't have to shower.
Chance Worthington took a long drag off his joint and pa.s.sed it to Miles. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair moved in wild curls. He tapped his middle finger nonstop on the table. He bit at a nail, then started tapping again.
Finally, he stopped tapping. He took another quick hit, pa.s.sed it to Miles, and relaxed back into his chair.
”So, whad'ya have for me?”
”I'm sorry?” I said.
”You guys are gonna love each other,” Miles said again, examining the glowing tip of the joint. He laughed and started coughing. ”What Chance means, I think, is start at the beginning.” Miles offered me the joint. I waved it off.
”Well, I got this invitation--”
”Skip to something interesting,” Chance interrupted.
”What?”
”I don't want to hear any tea party c.r.a.p. Give me something new.”
I looked at Miles. He nodded, then wiggled his eyebrows.
”Okay . . .” I said. I thought about my tour of Mr. Bones's house. ”How about the Capuchin Crypt?”
”Commissioned by Pope Urban the Eighth's brother in 1631, creepy bones and so forth, blah, blah, blah. What else?”
This guy was getting under my skin.
”I saw a map to a place called Bimini.”
”Do you even know where Bimini is?”
I had a hint of a memory, something out of elementary school adventure books, but then it was gone.
”No,” I said.
Chance made a big show of sighing.
”In the Bahamas, supposedly.” He smiled. ”But they didn't find what they were looking for.”
”What were they looking for?”
”Ah, but you were supposed to tell me something new. I'm not your teacher.”
”Fine. What about King's water?”
”What about it?”
”Well, you know, the n.a.z.is were coming. They dissolved the n.o.bel Prizes . . .”