A lopsided divorce agreement made for anemic alimony. Dick punished his ex-wife through late payments, enough to hurt but not enough to be sued over. His son? Richard paid lip service to his future, bragging to his sketchy gambling associates about the account he\u2019d set up for Billy\u2019s education\u2014its accumulation, good for a semester\u2019s worth of books and perhaps a school shirt, instead went to paying bills.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
Despite his worsening headache, he tried to stay in the present, because the manor still awaited.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
He recalled the floor plan as best he could from his one other visit. The building had two stories and about twenty rooms; it was U-shaped, open on its northeast side. The main building and its east and west wings surrounded an outdoor Italian marble terrazzo complete with two ewer-holding nymphs pouring water into a fountain. The terrazzo overlooked a large backyard running to the rear wall.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
The building exterior featured ocher-colored bricks bordered with dark green trim clashing with the blue roof tiles overhead. The color of the manor\u2019s bricks matched fetid carpet he and his mother had once seen while landfilling an old mattress the super said was too big for their apartment dumpster. The memory of that moldering carpet, coupled with the exterior\u2019s competing tricolors, now made him queasy.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
The manor walls boasted large, top-quality windows, but these were unevenly sized and asymmetrically arranged, giving the building a rickety look. This was deceiving, however. Prior to construction, Richard directed the architect to \u201cMake it bomb-proof, I don\u2019t care what it costs.\u201d The architect had delivered. The structure was solid; in fact, so solid it could withstand a tornado strike. \u201cNo foolin\u2019, a full-on F1, perhaps an F2,\u201d the proud architect had crowed, even as Richard disputed his bills, eventually paying just thirty cents on the dollar.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
BK walked up to two stout-looking oak doors whose lionhead knockers gleamed in the afternoon sun. He raised his finger to the doorbell but thought better of it. Who would be home? Instead, he retrieved keys Bates had FedEx\u2019ed the week before, locating the one labeled FRONT DOOR.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
It\u2019s my home now, at least for tonight. <\/em>He inserted the key.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n The lock was stiff, requiring him to twist the key firmly. He pushed hard below one of the knockers and after an initial squawk, the door opened. He stepped in; cool air enveloped him. The foyer smelled like an office: a mixture of drywall, rubberized plastic, and carpet cleaner.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n The interior was dark, contrasting sharply with the brightness outside. Before his eyes could adjust, an annoying beeping startled him. Alarm!<\/em> He\u2019d forgotten his father\u2019s Gestapo-like penchant for security. BK pulled the key from the lock, examining the fob for a security code, but found none. Beep-beep! Beep-beep!<\/em> went the alarm, and from his previous visit, Billy knew he had less than twenty seconds to punch in the four-digit code before a truly unpleasant (and unstoppable) blaring started. Dammit, Bates, why didn\u2019t you give me the code?<\/em> He stepped to the keypad just inside the door, his hand poised over the numbers; if he didn\u2019t act fast, Richard\u2019s home-security company would be sure to send a rent-a-cop to ask questions.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n What\u2019s the code? Don\u2019t say you changed it! Somethin\u2019 to do with that old rock dude, Purple Prince?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cJust \u2018Prince,\u2019\u201d said Richard, very lifelike.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n What?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cNot \u2018Purple Prince\u2019, just \u2018Prince.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n And that helps me how?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cRemember the song?\u201d<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n He tried remembering: Gettin\u2019 down like it\u2019s\u2014 No. Gonna get down like it\u2019s\u2014 No.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cSon, gonna party like it\u2019s\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201c1999.\u201d He punched the numbers. The beeping ceased. Before closing the doors, he looked across the roundabout pavers toward the line of tool-wielding statues. At seventy yards, they seemed less real, more like the toy soldiers of his youth\u2014specifically, Dwayne\u2019s samurais.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n They do look like an army, Richard. <\/em>Billy stared at the large, cross-armed statue. Even at this distance, the determined stare of the stone king, the obvious leader of these ninja coalminers, was uncomfortable\u2014he couldn\u2019t stare back.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Hadn\u2019t it been facin\u2019 more toward the gate when I got here?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cPay attention, Son,\u201d Richard said.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n What? Oh yeah, sorry, Dad. Coolin\u2019 off the whole neighborhood\u2014my bad.<\/em> Billy, feeling 12 again, closed the door to save AC, then sat down on the lesser of two ostentatious couches in the foyer, dropping his head between his knees because his father\u2019s hallucinations had returned.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cYou\u2019re not really here, Richard, are you?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n . . .<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Good. Keep it that way.<\/em><\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\n