Read Online Planet Willie by Josh Shoemake - Free Book Online Page A

if we could, Fernanda’s no painter as far as I know. One
painter I do know, I left back on the floor of a bookstore south of Union Square. Left him in a bit of a hurry, to tell you the truth, Lord. Forgive me, but I
wasn’t going to wait around to try and convince New York’s finest that what
happened in there was a necessary part of my investigations. Also, last I
checked, shoplifting was a misdemeanor, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to
leave Erasmus behind to take the heat alone. For that I especially ask your forgiveness,
Lord, I could say, but even in his infinite wisdom, I know for certain that he’d
have absolutely no idea what I was talking about.
    If the tech
department would get off their clouds for once and finally figure out how to
make prayer two-way, at least the Lord could ask a few questions. But no,
you’re just sending words up there into the ether and hoping you’ve got a
connection. If you’re lucky, maybe down the road he sends you a sign, but don’t
imagine for a second that a sign simplifies anything. You’re walking down the
street and hear a woman singing the most beautiful version of Amazing Grace from an open window. I always figure something like that’s bound to be a sign,
so of course I investigate, but sometimes maybe she’s just a woman with a
beautiful voice whose acquaintance you’re pleased to make. How are you supposed
to know? You can close your eyes and pray for the answer, but where does that
get you? Down here they just give us one-way radios.
    What I’ve also
never been quite clear about is whether God hears every little thought that
flits through my mind when I close my eyes to pray, or whether it’s only the
words I speak that make the trip. Hell, maybe he’s just been treated to a
mental whirlwind of two-way radios, uncertain signs, and a little Dutchman
named Erasmus. I really have no idea. “I miss you all up there, Lord,” I
murmur, “and I look forward to getting home soon. Again, please do pass this
message along to Saint Chief and ask if he wants me to bring back anything for
him. Ha. That was just a joke. Okay, then. Ciao for now. Amen.”
    As I open my
eyes, I’m also wondering if when God hears a prayer he knows if you’re lying, and
then I wonder if he just heard that little thought about lying, and then….
Hell, I guess I’ll just wait for a sign, and I’m perfectly willing to believe
that the waitress who has approached with a menu qualifies. I ask her to bring
me a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder. Sentimental choice, the chowder. I don’t
know why, with all of America’s vast coastline, but the only place I’ve ever
had a decent cup of clam chowder is in New York City. Used to practically live
off the stuff in my leaner days, lining up for takeout at the Oyster Bar in
Grand Central Station.
    After chowder
I have another beer and get to humming along to the music they’ve got going, at
which point a fella two tables over looks up with a sociable grin and says,
“Willie Nelson, To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before . Duet with Julio
Iglesias.”
    “Right you
are, sir,” I say. “Right you are. Julio gave it that little extra something,
didn’t he?”
    “Plus I could
never really imagine Willie with all these girls he’d loved before,” he says.
“Julio Iglesias you could understand.”
    I invite him
to join me for a beer, and he comes over with his briefcase and introduces
himself as Bill Sidell. He’s wearing a rumpled suit and tie on a body pushing
five foot nine but not quite making it. Billy’s also in the latter stages of
balditude.
    “Willie Lee’s
the name,” I say, as he looks me over like I’m some exotic creature. “Share a
name with the great Nelson himself. So what brings you to New York City,
Billy?”
    “How do you
know I’m not from New York City?” he says, cocking his head to make it clever.
    “Guys like us
tend to stick out in the big city, Billy. Not that we’d want it any other way,
ain’t that