«The happy wanderer!»

«Yeah, that's me.» John heard chewing sounds. «Are you at dinner now? Do you want me to call back?» The thought of Jerr-Bear at a nonrestaurant dinner table seemed almost impossible for John to visualize.

«Yeah, it's dinner, but big deal. What are you, a telemarketer? How can I help you, John?»

«Call me back.»

«Right.»

Jerr-Bear maintained a complex system of cloned cell phones so as to avoid tapping by authorities. A minute later John's line rang. Even then, the two spoke in veils.

«Jerr, what do you give someone who's in a lot of pain?»

«Pain's a biggie, John. Life hurts. Specifically — ?»

«Back pain.»

«Ooh — most people need heavy artillery for that one.»

«You have any artillery?»

«I do.»

They arranged for lunch the next day at the Ivy.

Chapter Twenty-six

After the scuff with the other Chrysler, Vanessa took the wheel of the car and John sat in the back seat spinning theories about Randy and semipacked luggage.

«Drugs. It has to be drugs.»

«No, John,» said Vanessa. «There's nothing in Susan's banking or Visa card patterns that indicates a consistent drain of drug-caliber discretionary cash.»

«You got her banking info?»

«I gave her Susan's Visa number,» said Ryan. «It was in the video shop's computer. I mean, once somebody's got your Visa number, they can pretty well clone you.»

«Not really,» said Vanessa. «In order to clone you they'd also need your phone number.»

«Why do I bother even trying to generate ideas?» asked John. «You two are the most drag-and-click people I've ever met. You're wearing the pants here, Vanessa. Why don't you tell me what we ought to be doing next?»

«Okay, I will. We are currently en route to the North Hollywood home of one Dreama Ng.»

«She's a numerologist,» said Ryan.

«Is she going to give us potatoes, as well?»

«Oh, grow up,» said Vanessa. «Susan's been giving Dreama Ng twenty-five hundred bucks a month for a few years now.»

«I told you, it was drugs.»

«Your naïveté yet again sickens me,» said Vanessa, adding, «You, who spent maybe 1.7 to 2 million dollars on both drugs and drub rehab programs over the past six years.»

«Oof. That much?» asked John.

«Probably more. I wasn't able to access one stream of data out of Geneva.» Vanessa continued steering the car with a pinky around a sharp curve. «You know as well as anybody, John, that drug consumption only escalates. It does not remain stable month in, month out over several years. I also ran a check on Ms. Ng's finances, and, lo and behold, who do you think she signs over her check to each month?»

«Drum roll …» said Ryan.

«Randy Hexum. »

«Well, I'll be fucked,» said John.

«A bit less color, if you please,» said Vanessa. «Anyway, we're almost there. I already phoned ahead and made an appointment to get our numbers read.»

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

«When you two were out unlocking the bumpers a few minutes ago, I phoned my brother Mark, and he is now parked across the street from Randy Montarelli's house, and you're paying him twenty-five dollars an hour plus meals so that he can maybe 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 been running things, it could have been a hit.»

«No, John. It was unsavable.»

Vanessa and Ryan plunged invisible peacock feathers down their throats. John went quiet. They spun onto and then off the Hollywood Freeway, and parked outside Dreama's apartment building. John had a déjà vu, but then realized it was actually a flashback to the beginning of his film career. The smell of Dreama's elevator was identical to the hallways of his first apartment in a building off Sweetzer, a blend of cat piss, cigarettes, incense and other people's cooking. Vanessa asked John, «What do we do once we're in there. John?»

John shrugged. «We'll know when we get there. I hope. Look for clues.»

«Hi.» Dreama answered the door. «Come on in. You're Vanessa?»

«I am. This is Ryan and this is John.»

«The apartment's a mess.» The most obvious aspect of Dreama's apartment was luggage on the kitchen table, evidently in the final stages of packing.

«I'm sorry,» said Vanessa. «Are we interrupting you? Are you heading somewhere?»

«Yes, but to be honest, I need the money. I hope that doesn't sound crass. I don't want you to feel exploited.» She moved a stack of dreamcatchers off a stool.

«Where are you going?» asked Ryan, feigning nonchalance.

A lying flash passed across Dreama's eyes. «To Hawaii. To a seminar 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 Humboldt spelled 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 this for years.» Vanessa turned to Dreama: «Just ignore him. Susan says 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 tell Dreama that his message on Susan's answering machine had been the last before the accident.

«I got the message to her too late,» Dreama said, «but she made it anyway. Her prime number that day was so high she could have been struck by a Scud missile and walked away with no more than a nice new set of bangs.»

«Prime number?» asked Vanessa.

«That's how I work. With prime numbers — they're the ones that can only be divided by either one or themselves. Like 23, 47, 61 and so on. There's a prime number for all people and events.» Dreama's fingers twiddled the calculator's buttons. Her pencils 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 hundred seventy-nine.»

«That's good?»

«That's excellent. You have strong instincts, you'll never lack money and, as I understand the psychic makeup of 179s, you'll probably 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 , but not 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 he tried to think up a probing question. He spun around, a touch overtheatrically, with his face caught in a patch of light coming off 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 for the number five. I chose it for that reason, and also because it doesn't have any vowels. And there is no Mr. Ng anywhere. I'm a lesbian.» She paused. «Does it bother you … ?»

«John.»

«Does it bother you, John, to have a strong fertile woman shed her father's name and assume one on her own?»

«Uh …»

«What's your full name, John?»

«John Lodge Johnson.»

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