thought, but he said he didn’t.”
“Now we know why.”
“I guess so.”
“Name?”
“Neal Carey.”
“His name,”
“I thought you meant my name.”
“No, his name,” said Trooper Darius. “I already know your name. Your name is Neal Carey.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
We stood for a few seconds enjoying the sunshine.
“So what is it?” the trooper asked.
“What’s what?”
“What’s his name?” the trooper asked. “Take it slow, now. His name, not yours.”
“Nathan Silverstein,” I said. “Or Natty Silver.”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“How many eighty-six-year-old men stole your car?” he asked.
“Just one,” I said.
“So we’re on the lookout for a red car driven by an eighty-six-year-old man named Nathaniel Silverstein aka Natty Silver,” the trooper said.
“That about sums it up.”
“Which way was he headed?”
“He went thataway,” I said, pointing west.
“He could be a long way thataway,” said the trooper.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
“Because he was driving about twenty miles an hour.”
Trooper Darius thought for what seemed like a long time. Then he said, “Get in the car.”
“The car’s gone.”
“My car.”
“Oh.”
We were cruising west on Interstate 15 when the trooper said, “I thought if we can catch up to the old man, and if everything checks out, then you can just get back in the driver’s seat and you won’t have to call the rental-car people or your insurance company and I won’t have to file a stolen-vehicle report.”
“I really appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.”
We were doing eighty miles an hour so it wasn’t long before we found the car in a ditch at the side of the road.
We pulled over and I jumped out of the cruiser, my heart pounding. I was scared to death I’d find Natty slumped over the wheel, hurt or worse.
I jumped into the ditch and looked into the car.
Nathan wasn’t in it.
Chapter 9
Graham answered the phone.
I’d been hoping he wasn’t home so that I could leave a brief message after the beep. Something like, “ Hi, it’s Neal. I’ll call back. ”
But Graham was home, watching an exhibition game between the New Orleans Saints and the San Diego Chargers.
And they call me mentally ill.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
“How’s Palm Springs?” he asked. After a couple of seconds he added, “You lost him again, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you keep misplacing an entire person?” Graham asked. “I can understand a watch, a wallet, a glove. But an entire human being?! Twice, in the space of less than twenty-four hours?! Who is this guy, Harry Houdini?”
Sort of. Because he had simply disappeared. When Trooper Darius and I got to the car, there was no sign at all of Nathan. He was just gone. Without a trace. We even looked for blood on the steering wheel and windshield, thinking that maybe he’d hit his head. There was none, thank God.
Nathan was just gone.
“What do you mean, ‘blood on the dashboard’?” Graham asked. “I thought you were supposed to fly back.”
“I thought so, too.”
I told him about the scene at the airport. I told him about the Jeep and bouncing. I told him about Japanese cars, German cars—
“So what kind of car did you get?” he asked.
“Red, all right?!!” I hollered.
“Just asking.”
I told him about “Who’s on First,” about Lou Costello, Arthur Minsky, pastrami, Murray Koppelman, Irene the Irish Dream, Myra and her Doves of Love …
Graham asked, “How did she train the doves to land … ?”
“I don’t know!”
… about Benny the Blade, salami instead of pastrami, how I screamed at Nathan—
“That was hostile,” Graham said.
I stopped. “Since when did you start using words like ‘hostile’?”
“Since I talked to Karen earlier,” he said.
“You talked to Karen?”
“I called to ask her if she’s registered for her patterns,” Graham said. “And she told me you were
“Now we know why.”
“I guess so.”
“Name?”
“Neal Carey.”
“His name,”
“I thought you meant my name.”
“No, his name,” said Trooper Darius. “I already know your name. Your name is Neal Carey.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
We stood for a few seconds enjoying the sunshine.
“So what is it?” the trooper asked.
“What’s what?”
“What’s his name?” the trooper asked. “Take it slow, now. His name, not yours.”
“Nathan Silverstein,” I said. “Or Natty Silver.”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“How many eighty-six-year-old men stole your car?” he asked.
“Just one,” I said.
“So we’re on the lookout for a red car driven by an eighty-six-year-old man named Nathaniel Silverstein aka Natty Silver,” the trooper said.
“That about sums it up.”
“Which way was he headed?”
“He went thataway,” I said, pointing west.
“He could be a long way thataway,” said the trooper.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
“Because he was driving about twenty miles an hour.”
Trooper Darius thought for what seemed like a long time. Then he said, “Get in the car.”
“The car’s gone.”
“My car.”
“Oh.”
We were cruising west on Interstate 15 when the trooper said, “I thought if we can catch up to the old man, and if everything checks out, then you can just get back in the driver’s seat and you won’t have to call the rental-car people or your insurance company and I won’t have to file a stolen-vehicle report.”
“I really appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.”
We were doing eighty miles an hour so it wasn’t long before we found the car in a ditch at the side of the road.
We pulled over and I jumped out of the cruiser, my heart pounding. I was scared to death I’d find Natty slumped over the wheel, hurt or worse.
I jumped into the ditch and looked into the car.
Nathan wasn’t in it.
Chapter 9
Graham answered the phone.
I’d been hoping he wasn’t home so that I could leave a brief message after the beep. Something like, “ Hi, it’s Neal. I’ll call back. ”
But Graham was home, watching an exhibition game between the New Orleans Saints and the San Diego Chargers.
And they call me mentally ill.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
“How’s Palm Springs?” he asked. After a couple of seconds he added, “You lost him again, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you keep misplacing an entire person?” Graham asked. “I can understand a watch, a wallet, a glove. But an entire human being?! Twice, in the space of less than twenty-four hours?! Who is this guy, Harry Houdini?”
Sort of. Because he had simply disappeared. When Trooper Darius and I got to the car, there was no sign at all of Nathan. He was just gone. Without a trace. We even looked for blood on the steering wheel and windshield, thinking that maybe he’d hit his head. There was none, thank God.
Nathan was just gone.
“What do you mean, ‘blood on the dashboard’?” Graham asked. “I thought you were supposed to fly back.”
“I thought so, too.”
I told him about the scene at the airport. I told him about the Jeep and bouncing. I told him about Japanese cars, German cars—
“So what kind of car did you get?” he asked.
“Red, all right?!!” I hollered.
“Just asking.”
I told him about “Who’s on First,” about Lou Costello, Arthur Minsky, pastrami, Murray Koppelman, Irene the Irish Dream, Myra and her Doves of Love …
Graham asked, “How did she train the doves to land … ?”
“I don’t know!”
… about Benny the Blade, salami instead of pastrami, how I screamed at Nathan—
“That was hostile,” Graham said.
I stopped. “Since when did you start using words like ‘hostile’?”
“Since I talked to Karen earlier,” he said.
“You talked to Karen?”
“I called to ask her if she’s registered for her patterns,” Graham said. “And she told me you were
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