Merlot dialled his mother's number.
"Mom, Alan says he was never stationed with me. Don't you remember the welcome-home party? At your apartment. After Vietnam?"
A pause.
"Who is this?"
His mouth went dry.
"Mom, it's me. Merlot. Don't you recognize my voice?"
"My son died in Vietnam."
The line went dead.
His hand trembled. Maybe he'd misdialed. She'd mentioned changing her number when she moved back to Canada—to save money on her phone bill. He should message her online for the new one.
The planes brought men home. Not you.
The voice again—calm, patient, cruel.
The days of wading through muddy water were over. Now he walked the streets of New York, breathing in car exhaust.
He set his cellphone on the coffee table. Flexed his fingers, as if checking for a pulse.
Dead men don't budget.
He stared at the blinking cursor on his screen.
The book wasn't going to write itself—unless Al claimed the author's seat.