The Cypress House Read Online Free PDF Page B

drinks on the bar. "You're an inquisitive man.
What I do has evolved a bit, but these days I'm an accounts manager."
        "Accounts
manager?"
        "That's
right, sir. I check in on clients all over the hellish backwoods of this
forsaken Florida countryside. And once in a while, I get to the coast to do the
same. I'll assure you, the ladies are of a finer breed on the coast." He
nodded at Pearl's enormous rear end. "Ample evidence, you might say."
        "Quick
with a pun, Sorenson. Mighty quick."
        "Quick
with so many things."
        He
laughed at that, so Arlen laughed, too. Arlen's whiskey glass was empty, and
Pearl had disappeared, so he slipped his flask out and poured his own. The
flask was nearing empty now itself. Sorenson watched him and gave a soft sigh.
        "It
hasn't been so long since such an act was illegal."
        "You
don't appear to be a teetotaler, yet you say that with some sorrow."
        "Sorrow
for what's been lost, Mr. Wagner."
        "And
what was lost? Purity?" Arlen said with a snort.
        "Purity,
no. What was lost when Roosevelt kicked Prohibition in the ass was a business
environment the sort of which we may never see again."
        "Ah,"
Arlen said. "A bootlegger. That's what you are."
        "Now?
No, Mr. Wagner. You can't bootleg something that's openly bought and traded. So
a new commodity must be found and . . ." He shrugged. "I just miss
the simplicity of booze. But let's talk about you for a change. You and the
young man departed a train in the middle of the night and lit out down an
abandoned highway in an unfamiliar place. Due to a bad feeling, the boy said.
It strikes me as a most exceptional decision."
        "Paul
said all that needed to be said. I had a bad feeling. End of story."
        "I
like it. Sounds ominous. A feeling of what? Impending doom?"
        "I
didn't see a black cat walking under a ladder or any such foolish shit,"
Arlen said, feeling anger rise, Sorenson watching him with calm interest.
"If you had any idea . . ."
        He
let it die, and Sorenson said gently, "What did you see ?"
        Arlen
shook his head. "Let's leave it at a bad feeling."
        "And
so we will. Make no mistake, Mr. Wagner, I'm a man who appreciates the art of
the premonition."
        "Mine
are a little different than yours. Less manufactured."
        "Than
mine, sure. I've known others, though . . . there's a village not far from here
in which every resident claims to be a medium. The place is called Cassadaga.
Anytime I pass close to the area, I pay a visit. A friend introduced me to a
fortune-teller there. She's remarkable."
        "What
does she tell you? Winning numbers for your games?"
        "Yesterday,
she told me there was death in the rain."
        "In
the rain?"
        "That's
what she said. I asked her if it was my own death, and she said it was not.
Then she told me, as she has before, that I worry too much about death. All
that dies, she said, is the body. That's all. And she believes, quite
firmly, that she can continue to communicate with those whose bodies are no
more. Do you believe in such a thing?"
        "Absolutely
not," Arlen said, thinking , I'd better not. Because if I do,
then I've got something to answer for .
        "You
say that with conviction," Sorenson said. "Yet you abandoned a train
you needed to be on due to your own unusual perception."
        "There's
a world of difference there," Arlen said.
        Sorenson
had set his hat down on the bar and shed his jacket, revealing a sweat-stained
white shirt and suspenders.
        "The
lad who travels with you was not in favor of the change of plans. He did not
support the . . . bad feeling."
        "He
supported it enough," Arlen said. "He got off the train."
        "Hell,
man, you're serious about this, aren't you?"
        Arlen
turned to face him, the whiskey wrapping its arms around him now in such a way
that he didn't fear the man's