"I'm sure most people do. I've got patients who think they're spies, superheroes, doctors.... Others got blindsided so young it's too evident to bear: w.i.l.l.y, for instance. I'm sure she lives every moment with the ghost of a girl whose father didn't drag her off a balcony."

Mason pictured her-that little b.i.t.c.h-sticking out her tongue and yelling, doing cartwheels through w.i.l.l.y's brain. "I should get home to her," he said.

They turned and started back across the bridge. "You're sort of opposites," said the doctor. "You and w.i.l.l.y."

Mason was going to ask what she meant, but he was tired of being told things. He walked and thought about it, and then he saw: w.i.l.l.y had lived her whole life with her ghost right there-it inhabited half her body. Whereas Mason had dreamed up so many selves, for so long, that when he finally collapsed into the man he was, he was old but his ghosts were young and mutinous. He saw them as angry birds, diving for him, scrabbling for a perch in his chest.

"I think you need them, though," said Dr. Francis, "if you're going to be fully human."

"What?"

"The ghosts. People who don't have them-they've got no conflict. Take Seth: he always knew what he wanted, and went about getting it. He was a hard man to beat. But it's interesting what we did-don't you think. We found a way to ghost ghost him-or as close as it comes with a man like that: take away his libido, his cravings, and eventually he becomes ineffectual, barely an idea." him-or as close as it comes with a man like that: take away his libido, his cravings, and eventually he becomes ineffectual, barely an idea."

"So you think there's a difference," said Mason, "between being ghosted and just having them inside you?"

"I think so. Look at Chaz. There's a guy who's embraced his ghosts. He likes them. When he's happy he even talks like one."

"The ghost of Jimmy Cagney."

"Yeah. The kind of guy his dad would have liked."

"You think that makes him less less f.u.c.ked up?" f.u.c.ked up?"

The doctor shrugged. "How's he doing?" she said.

"They've got him at the Don," said Mason. They were nearing the end of the bridge. "I'm hoping to visit in the next couple days."

"He'll be all right," said Dr. Francis.

"And what about me? You think there's any hope?"

The doctor laughed. "You're so dramatic."

"I'm serious."

"Some people," she said. "If they live long enough, their regrets turn into skills."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Boom, boom and boom."

"At least I can cheat at cards?"

"Tell you what," said Dr. Francis. "When you see Chaz, ask him about it."

"About what, exactly?"

"The Man in the Black Helmet."

They'd reached the end of the bridge.

79.

When it comes to certain things, movies tend to be right: the two chairs, the old phone receivers-two inches of Plexiglas between them. It occurred to Mason that the last time he'd seen Chaz was also through bulletproof gla.s.s. He was about to mention it, and then he thought better.

They might be listening in.

"What's the rumble?" said Chaz. "You hitting okay?"

"Me? You're the one in jail?"

Chaz looked around as if surprised. "By Jove, I am!" Then he leaned into the gla.s.s. "Tell me about our good friend Seth."

Mason looked him in the eye. "Gone," he said.

Chaz grinned.

"Ungracious final act, though." said Mason, looking around.

"We'll get you out of here, I promise."

"What, this?" said Chaz, still smiling. "This ain't the work of Handyman."

"What do you mean?"

"The songbirds are singing."

"Why are you talking like that-is it because they're listening?"

"Just happy is all."

"You're in jail, Chaz."

"Right as f.u.c.king hail."

"Well, can you talk normal for now? Please?"

Chaz took a breath, and nodded.

"So who do you think set you up?"

Mason could see the effort it took: Chaz rewriting the words in his head-getting rid of all the stoolies, pigeons stoolies, pigeons and and rats ... rats ... Finally he just said, "Fishy." Finally he just said, "Fishy."

"You're kidding me?" said Mason.

"Yeah. Who'd ever think it? If you can't trust a guy named Fishy ...?"

Mason glared at him.

"I know, I know. You told me so ..."

"How the f.u.c.k could he do it?" said Mason.

"It's funny really: his one contribution-the Dogmobile-was in my name. And that's where they found the stuff. Everything else belongs to the family. So in exchange for me, the guns and drugs, he gets to keep the buildings."

"But why why did he do it?" did he do it?"

"Aw," said Chaz. "He just wants to be the big man. It's kind of sweet, really...."

"It's not f.u.c.king sweet! I'm getting you out of here-the paintings are still down there. They're worth a lot if I do it right. I'll post bail. We'll get you a lawyer...."

"Stop," said Chaz.

"What?"

"Don't go down there. If himself or the cops ain't found it, just leave it alone, okay? Don't you worry-Fishy's going to get his. And I don't want you bailing me out. I kind of like it here."

"You're kidding me?"

"You got to get another line, Pancho. I just ain't kidding you. I know half the guys in here. It'll be good for me-it'll be good for business. It'll make me a better gangster. I really f.u.c.king believe that."

"That's touching, Chaz." Mason put the phone down, then picked it up again. "Will you at least get a lawyer?"

"Oh yeah, sure ... I don't want to live live here." here."

"Just a working vacation."

"Exactly."

They looked at each other. Mason thought of the gla.s.s. "You shouldn't have done it," he said.

"What?"

"When they raided, you should have ... you know." Mason looked around. "You should have tried to get out."

"You mean in."

Mason nodded.

"You would have done the same."

"I don't know about that."

Chaz laughed. He looked at the clock on the wall.

So did Mason. Then he looked at Chaz. "The doctor told me to ask you something."

"What about?" said Chaz.

"The Man in the Black Helmet."

Chaz put the receiver down. Mason watched his mouth forming the words What about him? What about him?

"I don't know," said Mason, shrugging. "That's all she said."

Chaz picked up the phone. "Well, what do you remember?"

"I hit the ground. I looked around, then ran across the street ..."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"You ran away from your own house, right in front of his motorcycle, and you don't remember why?"

Mason shrugged.

"It was because of me," said Chaz. He looked down at the steel counter, then up. "I was still there: just ten feet over and ten feet up. You hit the ground, looked up and saw me there. And then ran the other way."

Mason squinted at Chaz, as if trying to see him twenty years ago, stuck up in a tree. Chaz squinted back, and smiled. "He had you cornered, right?"

"Yeah," said Mason, looking at Chaz through the ages and branches.

"Did he say anything?"

"His helmet was on ... I can't be sure of what I heard."

"What do you think he said?"

Mason looked down at the stainless steel. Then he mumbled something, the receiver away from his mouth.

"I can't hear you," said Chaz.

Mason looked up. 'You've done it now, you little p.r.i.c.k.' Something like that?"

"Anything else?" Chaz was grinning.

"Yeah," said Mason, and took a breath. "'Now you must join the dark side.' And he was talking through that helmet. There are times I can hear his voice. It sounded like ..."

"Like James Earl Jones with asthma?" Chaz was almost laughing.

"It isn't f.u.c.king funny! I remember him stepping towards me-those motherf.u.c.king boots. I could see myself in the visor. I thought I was going to die. He said something else ... and then I think I fainted."