Free No Sleep till Wonderland by Paul Tremblay Page A

he’s a small time drug dealer, dealing almost exclusively in speed and meth, or because he simply called you names?”
    Well played by Detective Owolewa, and there’s no winning answer to that question. I say, “I was working on a case involving Eddie.” Here comes a whopper. I pause to yawn and barely cover it up with my dead-weight hand. “I went to the Abbey to put a face to the name of Eddie Ryan. A friend of a friend was being stalked by him.”
    “Jody O’Malley?”
    “No, another woman. Eddie had seen this woman once at the Abbey, wouldn’t accept her ‘fuck off’ to his dating game invitation. He called her work and threatened he’d show up, pull a Here’s Johnny . The night of the fire, I was at the woman’s downtown bar, watching and waiting for Eddie, who never showed. Then I followed her home, to her apartment on I Street. I was walking home and ran into the fire. Literally.”
    Detective Owolewa sighs. I share the sentiment. He asks for Ekat’s name and her home and work addresses. I give him the information and tell him that a concerned friend hired me, not Ekat, a detail that I’m sure Ekat will provide the detective. My story sounds good, and it’s almost true, but the timeline of the Abbey visit and Eddie’s harassing call to Ekat doesn’t fit together. Details schmetails.
    He says, “How about the name of the friend who hired you?”
    “I’m keeping that.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t give out info on who hired me.”
    “You do realize I’ll be able to get that name from”—he pauses and looks at his notebook—“Ekat, right?”
    “As long as it doesn’t come from me.”
    “Why would this friend hire you, and not Ekat?”
    The case was a favor, right? Gus’s words. We’d both be helping each other. It isn’t exactly working out that way. I’m not getting by with a little help from my friend. I say, “Ekat didn’t know of me and my services. The friend did.”
    “Sounds like the friend might know Eddie, too, Mr. Genevich. Are you sure you don’t want to give me a name?”
    I’m not sure. Withholding Gus’s name could be putting him in more trouble than he already is, assuming there is trouble. Then again my performance here isn’t helping Gus out either. Or helping me.
    “I’m sure.”
    Detective Owolewa writes something lengthy into his notebook. I won’t ask him if it’s a self-portrait. He looks up, passes his pen between his fingers, which still want something to do, and says, “Did you purchase the amphetamines from Eddie Ryan?”
    “No. I didn’t buy the drugs from anyone. They were given to me by a client. The client was misguided but was trying to help me and my narcolepsy.”
    “A client or a friend, Mr. Genevich?”
    Good question. “Does it matter?”
    “I’m getting the feeling it might.”
    “You can’t rely on feelings, Detective. Trust me, they’re as unreliable as I am.”
    “Thanks for the tip. I could insist that you tell me who gave you the amphetamines, Mr. Genevich.”
    My cell phone rings. I shrug and say, “Sorry. So very popular these days,” and pull it out of my pocket to shut the ringer off. The call is from Ellen, not Gus, as I’d hoped. I let it go to voice mail. She has impeccable timing, at least.
    “Is the person who hired you to watch Ekat the same person who gave you the amphetamines?”
    “No.” The word comes out structurally intact with the n before the o . It’s an easy word, the one we all learn when we’re cute and everyone loves us. But I say it wrong. There’s no power of authority behind it, no conviction, no strength. It’s a request or a plea, and one that won’t be granted.
    Detective Owolewa closes his notebook and leans in, hovering his head over the table. “Between you and me, Mr. Genevich, did the amphetamines work? Did they help you with your condition?”
    I don’t think I can tell him that I didn’t take the amphetamines. I’ve lost control of a conversation that I never had in control.