Miss Wyoming Part 20

"Is she going to give us potatoes, as well?"

"Oh, grow up," said Vanessa. "Susan's been giving DreamaNg twenty-five hundred bucks a month for a few years now.""I told you, it was drugs."

"Your naivete yet again sickens me," said Vanessa, adding,"You, who spent maybe 1.7 to 2 million dollars on both drugsand drub rehab programs over the past six years."

"Oof. That much?" asked John.

"Probably more. I wasn't able to access one stream of dataout of Geneva." Vanessa continued steering the car with a pinkyaround a sharp curve. "You know as well as anybody, John, thatdrug consumption only escalates. It does not remain stable month in, month out over several years. I also rana. check on Ms. Ng'sfinances, and, lo and behold, who do you think she signs overher check to each month?"

"Drum roll . . ." said Ryan.

"Randy Hexum."

"Well, I'll be f.u.c.ked," said John.

"A bit less color, if you please," said Vanessa. "Anyway, we'realmost there. I already phoned ahead and made an appointmentto get our numbers read."

"What else have you done that I don't know about?"

"When you two were out unlocking the b.u.mpers a few min-utes ago, I phoned my brother Mark, and he is now parkedacross the street from Randy Montarelli's house, and you're pay-ing him twenty-five dollars an hour plus meals so that he canmaybe get an inkling where that luggage is headed."

"Where were you when I was making The Other Side of Hate?"asked John. "If you'd betn running things, it could have beena hit."

"No, John. It was unsavable."

Vanessa and Ryan plunged invisible peac.o.c.k feathers downtheir throats. John went quiet. They spun onto and then off theHollywood Freeway, and parked outside Dreama's apartment building. John had a deja vu, but then realized it was actually aflashback to the beginning of his film career. The smell of 22O.

'i&omina Dreama's elevator was identical to the hallways of his first apart-ment in a building off Sweetzer, a blend of cat p.i.s.s, cigarettes,incense and other people's cooking. Vanessa asked John, "Whatdo we do once we're in there. John?"

John shrugged. "We'll know when we get there. I hope. Lookfor clues."

"Hi." Dreama answered the door. "Come on in. You'reVanessa?"

"I am. This is Ryan and this is John."

"The apartment's a mess." The most obvious aspect ofDreama's apartment was luggage on the kitchen table, evidentlyin the final stages of packing.

"I'm sorry," said Vanessa. "Are we interrupting you? Are youheading somewhere?"

"Yes, but to be honest, I need the money. I hope that doesn'tsound cra.s.s. I don't want you to feel exploited." She moved astack of dreamcatchers off a stool.

"Where are you going?" asked Ryan, feigning nonchalance.

A lying flash pa.s.sed across Dreama's eyes. "To Hawaii. To aseminar on square roots."

"Hmmm."

"Well, let's get started. Who first?"

"Me," said Vanessa. "Vanessa Louise Humboldt, that's one N,two S's, with Louise spelled the normal way, and Humboldtspelled with a d, as in Humboldt County."

"Okay . . ." Dreama sat down and reached for a box of sparkly pencils and a light-powered calculator bearing a $ 1.99 price tag.

"Do you always let people in here?" asked John. "Strangers?Right into your home?"

"You're friends of Susan. That's good enough for me."

"Yes, John,"Vanessa cut in, "Susan's been wanting us to do thisfor years." Vanessa turned to Dreama: "Just ignore him. Susansays your accuracy is chilling."

"I guessed the Seneca plane crash the day before it happened."

"That's amazing," said Ryan, who suppressed an itch to tellDreama that his message on Susan's answering machine hadbeen the last before the accident.

"I got the message to her too late," Dreama said, "but shemade it anyway. Her prime number that day was so high shecould have been struck by a Scud missile and walked away withno more than a nice new set of bangs."

"Prime number?" asked Vanessa.

"That's how I work. With prime numbers-they're the onesthat can only be divided by either one or themselves. Like 23, 47, 61 and so on. There's a prime number for all people andevents." Dreama's fingers twiddled the calculator's b.u.t.tons. Herpencils produced spidery loopy letters and numbers so faint they were like strands of thin hair fallen onto the page.

"What's mine? asked Vanessa.

"Give me a second here." She fiddled a bit more. "One hun-dred seventy-nine."

"That's good?"

"That's excellent. You have strong instincts, you'll never lackmoney and, as I understand the psychic makeup of 179s, you'llprobably go through your life with a man as your slave."

"Why a man?"

"All 179s are het."To emphasize this, she said, "It's a fact, butnot one you should let dominate your choices."

"I'll remember that."

John was standing in a corner, pretending to read the spines on Dreama's CD rack, a blend of folk and earth sounds, as hetried to think up a probing question. He spun around, a touchovertheatrically with his face caught in a patch of light comingoff a paper lantern. "Your last name is Ng. That's a strange name-Asian-you don't look Asian. Is there a Mr. Ng?"Dreama was nonplussed. " 'Ng' is the Cantonese word forthe number five. I chose it for that reason, and also because itdoesn't have any vowels. And there is no Mr. Ng anywhere. I'm alesbian." She paused. "Does it bother you...?"

"John."

"Does it bother you, John, to have a strong fertile womanshed her father's name and a.s.sume one on her own?"

"Uh . . ."

"What's your full name, John?"

"John Lodge Johnson."

Dreama began doing John's number, then dropped her penand stared. John asked what was wrong, and Dreama told himshe'd made a mistake. She redid his numbers and said, "Well, I'llbe . . ." Dreama looked up at him with fresh eyes now, as if he'dbeen revealed as the murderer at the end of the final reel. "Ihave to ask you a question, and you have to give me a straight answer. Are you lying to me?"

"What?"

"Are you here under false pretenses?"

"What are you . . . ?" John was adrenalized.

"Let me see your driver's license."

He pulled out his driver's license, just one month old, andhanded it to Dreama. She looked at it, handed it back to him andsaid, "Sorry. I had to see if that was your real name-if this wasa hoax of some sort.

You're a 1,037, John Lodge Johnson. Doyou know what that means?"

"No. You tell me."

"You're a four-digit prime number. Most numerologists gotheir entire lives without encountering a four-digit prime."

Dreama grilled John, asked what he did for a living and tooka distinctly arch manner with him. Ryan then asked to have hisnumber done. It was 11.

"Eleven?"

"Sounds like you're set for a career in the dynamic and fast-growing world of fast food, Ryan," said Vanessa.

"Eleven?" Ryan was crestfallen.

"Eleven is a perfectly good number," Dreama a.s.sured him.

"I hear 11s are really loyal," said John.

John paid Dreama, who gave them a sheet describing their prime number's characteristics. Dreama became fidgety andscuttled the three out of her apartment.

Back in the car, John said, "Well, that was a f.u.c.king waste oftime."

Vanessa's phone bleeped and she answered it. "It's mybrother," she told the other two. She finished the call and pressedend. "Randy is in a minivan headed this way."

"Do you have your GPT?" asked Ryan.

"What's that?" asked John.

"My global positioning transmitter. It's the everyday equiva-lent of the black box they use behind the c.o.c.kpit in jetliners. Ikeep it sewed into the hem of my purse." She yanked a smallblack rectangle from her bag, smaller than a TV remote control. "A satellite can track me down at any place on earth plus or mi-nus a freckle."

"You're giving it to me?"

"For a 1,037 you can be awfully dim. When young Randall's Ford Aerostar van pulls up in"-she looked at her wrist.w.a.tch-"under two minutes, you are going to have to stick this onto the car without being seen. And as we seem to be fresh out of ducttape, what exactly will be your brainy plan to attach it to the ve-hicle, John?"

John shut his eyes to concentrate. "A man, a plan, a ca.n.a.l-Iwas born in Panama, you know."

"Oh, shut up.""Juicy Fruit." He wrenched open the glove compartment andfrom it threw packs of unopened gum to Ryan and Vanessa, tak-ing several for himself.

Randy's van swung into a spot directly in front of Dreama'sbuilding and across from their car. The three watched Randywalk to the building's main door, buzz and head to the elevator.

John gently opened the side pa.s.senger door and crawled be-hind the car. He roadrunnered across the street and fastenedthe GPT to the inside of the rear b.u.mper with a cooling globof his gum. The dogs, sensing John beneath them, grew fren-zied, scratching at the windows and barking. Just then the apart- ment's door opened, and Randy and Dreama came out with herluggage. Both looked worried. There was nowhere for John tohide except underneath the van, where he quickly rolled, listen-ing to the doors above him open and shut. Randy shouted at thedogs to sit. Finally, John heard the engine ignite and watchedthe van drive away, leaving him facing the sky where he sawthe lights of jets preparing to land at LAX sweep in from thedistance.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

In Erie, Pennsylvania, three weeks after Susan's arrival at RandyMontarelli's house, she floated down the stairs, her nightgowntrailing. "Christ, Randy, my nipples feel like hand grenades. Whatare you doing up at"-Susan looked at the clock on the topright-hand corner of Randy's Mac-"four twenty-sevena.m.?"

Upstairs, Baby Eugene, three weeks old, screamed for milk.

"Oh, you know, no rest for the wicked."

"Are we out of pineapple juice again?"

"We are.

"Right. Do we have any Goldfish crackers left?"

"Cupboard above the toaster."

"Good." Susan foraged about. "What lies are you cooking uptonight?"

"You just gave me a good idea. Here, let me try it out." Randyread aloud the words he'd just typed into an Internet chat room: That's not what I heard from my friend who does themakeup on the Friends set. *He* told me that JenniferAniston delayed taping for three days because she hadnipple fatigue.

"Know what it reminds me of?" Susan asked, running herfinger around the rim of a peanut b.u.t.ter jar.

"Last month, whenyou started the rumor that Keanu Reeves has 'reverse flesh eatingdisease.' "

"That was a cla.s.sic, wasn't it?"

"It's like your brain doesn't know what image to conjure up."Susan tasted the peanut b.u.t.ter and found it delicious.

"That's the coolest kind of rumor," said Randy. "Like the oneI did about Helen Hunt-having the operation to remove theremains of a vestigial beaver tail from the base of her spine."

"Yet another cla.s.sic." Susan cradled a box of Ritzes and someapples in her arms. She kissed Randy's forehead, sprinkledcrumbs onto his keyboard, then gallumphed upstairs.

Randy was a rumormonger. Before the 1990s he thoughtof himself as a gossip, but more tellingly he considered him-self a zero, some sort of alien love child abandoned on anErie, Pennsylvania, tract house doorstep where he grew upclumsy and socially inept. Randy was 30 percent over thenational recommended body weight for his height, and pos-sessed a sensibility so totally not of Erie that he was unable to beeven the cla.s.s clown or a b.u.mbling mascot to the cruel and good-looking girls. The only friends he ever attempted to makewere the bra.s.sy, cynical girls with whom he dissected Mademoi-selle and who seemed to have affairs only with married men-girls who bolted from Erie the moment they graduated highschool.

Checking out of Erie was an act Randy hadn't been able to dohimself. It was a case of the devil he knew versus the devil he didn't. As a teenager, he had first seen the devil he didn't want toknow in a 1982 TV news doc.u.mentary. The devil was on-screenfor perhaps fifteen seconds, but that's all it took.

The devil still burned in his mind fifteen years later, in the form of a diseased gay clone, emaciated and mustached, wast-ing away as he guarded the gates of h.e.l.l. He made bonycome-hither disco dance hip sways, and his skin was pitted with prune-tinted Kaposi's sarcoma lesions. His eyes had becomewhite jelly from a cytomegalovirus infection.

In Randy's mind, somewhere around 1985, the image of thesick man acquired chaps and a cowboy hat.

Around 1988, eachtime Randy thought of the sick man, the man began to winkback at Randy with dead white eyes. If the cowboy signifiedadulthood, then Randy wanted nothing to do with it. If thatwas the image that stood for s.e.x, then Randy was going to be a monk. And so he hadn't left Erie, which, whatever else itdidn't have going for it, was also seemingly lacking in peoplewith AIDS.

But then over the years he began to see the devil everywherehe went. On a trip one night in 1988 he kissed a trucker at astop outside of Altoona. He shut down emotionally and spentthe next five years waiting to die. When he didn't, he decided he was going to live, but his was to be a life without love or affec-tion save for that which came from his two spindly cafe-au-lait Afghan hounds, Camper and w.i.l.l.y.