and Sugarman. The blonde leaned close and hissed and flashed her claws.
âThe world springs from your mind, Thorn, and sinks again into your mind. Thatâs what the Buddhists say. And if you ask me, thereâs something to it. You see what you want to see.â
âThat goddamn airplane didnât spring from my mind, Sugar.â
They sat in silence for a while, watched the bartender wash the teachersâ glasses. Thorn pushed his drink away. He was wasting good alcohol, pouring it into a bottomless cavity.
A couple of guys with long hair and Hawaiian shirts came into the bar. The schoolteachers were with them. Everyone laughing. On the same boozy wavelength.
âThereâs nothing weird about this, Sugar? You sure?â
âNothing you told me sounds weird, no. Some rich assholes from Palm Beach didnât want to scuff their manicures. Thatâs all. I think what it is, youâre shell-shocked. An airplane crashes in your lap, itâs only natural you get a little case of post-trauma. And the way youâre dealing with it, being Thorn, you rush out and start sniffing around, thinking you gotta fix things.â
Thorn looked over at the schoolteachers and their new friends. Bilge Burners all around.
âYouâre right,â he said. âIâm full of shit.â
âI didnât say that.â
âYeah, you did. Not in those words, but itâs the same thing.â
The bartender came over and asked if they wanted another round. Sugar said no. Thorn shook his head.
âI think the NTSB might want to talk to you. Transportation Safety Board. Youâve heard of them, right? The people that investigate these things.â
âIâve heard of them.â
âTheyâd probably like to debrief you. You being an eyewitness and all.â
âWhat am I going to tell them? I saw the plane crash. It nearly capsized my boat. I donât know anything else.â
âYou should call. Itâs your civic duty.â
âSure,â Thorn said. âSoon as I get a phone installed.â
Sugarman finished his beer and slid it to the edge of the bar. He picked up the tab and kept it out of Thornâs reach.
âYou want me to, Iâll call them for you.â
âNo,â he said. âIâm going to stay the hell out of this.â
Sugar got down from his stool and rested his hand on Thornâs shoulder.
âYou get some sleep, buddy. Youâll feel better tomorrow.â
âYeah,â Thorn said. âSome sleep. Thatâd be nice.â
Morgan put the leftover Chinese in the refrigerator. Six white boxes. Shrimp fried rice, garlic chicken, the usual. Enough for dinner tomorrow. She wiped off the table, rinsed the plates and silverware, put them in the dishwasher. She corked the Pinot Noir and set it on the shelf. Set up the coffee machine for the morning.
Johnny was upstairs in his bedroom. Her dad was in his study. Leaving her the womanâs work. Just like theyâd treated her mother.
Morgan turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs and stopped on the landing outside Johnnyâs room. Marlon Brando was lecturing one of his thugs, using his muffled Godfather voice, as though his cheeks were stuffed with dental cotton. She stood for a moment listening to the familiar dialogue. Johnny watched them every night, gangster movies. Said it relaxed him. Cagney, Bogart, Pacino, Mitchum. Gunfire coming from his room, sirens, swelling music, fuck this, fuck that. For years she tried making fun of the movies, tried bullying him. Neither worked, so finally she gave up. She wasnât his mother. If he wanted to wallow in that trash, fantasize an alternate life, it was his own choice. She was only his sister. Thatâs all she was, a sister and a daughter. Her brother and her father were mature adults. She had to keep reminding herself.
She went down the narrow hallway and opened the attic door, took a deep