I abandoned the thought as quickly as it came. No, if it was that easy the police would’ve found it.

  I passed a 7-Eleven convenience store. A pay phone sat out front.

  Of course! The answer was simple. I’d call Larry and ask him where the money was. He’d tell me, I’d get it, and presto! Escape time.

  I slammed on the brakes, made a highly illegal U-tum, and pulled into the parking lot.

  It was dark by now, but a carefully placed spotlight lit up a banner advertising 16-ounce Big Gulps, and there was a guy pumping gas into one of those giant 4X4 pickups. The kind with a winch, off-road lights, and nary a scratch.

  More than a little paranoid, I looked around to make sure no one was watching, and backed into a parking space. Even amateur bank robbers should be ready for a quick getaway.

  The phone booth’s bifold doors squeaked as I pushed them open. I turned my back to the street. No point in showing my now famous mug.

  Someone had scribbled all over the instruction card mounted over the phone but I didn’t need it. Who could forget AT&T’s “Call Heaven” ad campaign? Complete with grandchildren talking to recently departed grandparents and a celestial choir? It brought new meaning to “Reach out and touch someone.”

  I used my right index finger to punch the buttons.

  C-A-L-L-H-E-A-V-E-N. It rang three times before an operator answered. “AT&T operator . . . Billing please.”

  I was ready for that one and gave her my parents’ telephone number and four-digit pin code. Just one more abuse of their trust. There was a pause followed by a recording. “Thank you for using AT&T. Please stay on the line. A disincamate operator will take your call and send for the party you requested.”

  I settled in for a long wait. I’d seen plenty of news stories and knew how it worked. Disincarnate operators, or D.O.’s as they’re called in the telecommunications trade, are volunteers. They do what they do for the same reasons that people on this plane of existence staff hot lines and collect food for the needy. They want to help.

  The only problem is that time doesn’t mean much over there. Scientists are just starting to study the differences between the two worlds, but one thing is for sure, dead people ignore their clocks. Assuming they have them that is.

  As a result the D.O.’s handle calls when they’re good and ready. Knowing that—the marketing folks had come up with a bright idea: “Would you like to hear Dr. Ruth interview Caligula? If so, press one. A charge of ninety pents a minute will be billed to your card. Or how about Genghis Khan? Were you a member of the horde? Press two to hear some of the Khan’s favorite war stories . . .” And so on until you could barf. A full ten minutes passed before I got an answer. Unfortunately it was in Chinese. I spoke very clearly and distinctly as if that would make a difference. “I am sorry. I do not understand. Do you speak English?”

  It was apparent from the ensuing gabble that he didn’t. Another ten minutes passed. During that time a rather large man who probably ate anabolic steroids for breakfast, lunch, and dinner approached the booth, paced back and forth, gave me a series of dirty looks, and eventually went away. I gave a sigh of relief.

  Twenty seconds later a woman came on the line. “Hello. This is Mary . . . How can I help you?”

  A chill ran down my spine. I opened my mouth but nothing emerged. A dead person. I was talking to a dead person! Or would be if I could make my voice work.

  “Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”

  “I’m here,” I managed to croak. The phone felt wet and slippery in my hand. “I’m trying to call Larry Lewiston. He died earlier today,” I added stupidly.

  Mary’s voice was calm, professionally soothing, and carried just the slightest hint of a southern accent.

  “Thanks hon, that means your friend is still in transition. It’s still a bit early . . . but we’ll give it a try. People adjust a lot faster now that they know what to expect.”

  “Thank you,” I replied hoarsely and settled back to wait. I wished I’d had the foresight to buy a cup of coffee and felt the simultaneous need to pee.

  A full twenty minutes went by before Mary came back on line. And a good thing too . . . since my bladder was about to burst.

  “I found Larry. But be patient hon . . . He suffered a rather traumatic death—and it takes time to adjust.”

  No shit, I thought, and what about the cop? How does he feel?

  But she made it sound so reasonable, so ordinary, that I found myself responding in kind. “Of course . . . thanks Mary.”

  Much to my surprise Larry came on line a second later. The style was his, but the voice was different, the product of a speech synthesizer buried in the telephone network. It was weird to think Larry was out there, separate from his body, but still him.

  “Hey dude, is this weird or what?”

  “This is definitely weird,” I replied. “How you doin’ ?” There was a pause as if Larry was thinking.

  “Well, I don’t know yet, dude, this place is different ya know? I mean you can create a cigarette by thinking about one . . . but you can’t light the damned thing.”

  “Bummer,” I said with what I hoped was the right amount of sympathy. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of things pretty soon. What was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Dying, Larry. What was dying like?”

  “Oh, that. It’s just like they say, dude . . . You kinda rise up outta your body, there’s this tunnel of white light, you float through and there you are. Mom didn’t come—but Grandma did.”

  “What about the cop?”

  “Cop?”

  “Yeah, you know, the one you shot.”

  “He’s pissed, dude, real pissed, but that’s karma for you. The dude had it coming. It seems he offed somebody in a previous life or something.”

  “So that makes what you did okay?”

  “No,” Larry responded, “not according to the welcoming committee. But you know me—I’ll find a way to beat the rap.”

  “That’s just terrific,” I said, watching a police car pull into the parking lot. “Except that it won’t help me . . . The fact is that Officer McCutcheon died during the commission of a felony. A felony I participated in. I’m wanted for murder, Larry. A murder you committed. So tell me . . . what happened to the money from the bank job?”

  Two cops got out of the patrol car, hitched up their gun belts, and strolled towards the 7-Eleven. A doughnut break. I wanted to pee real bad.

  There was a long silence.

  “Larry? You still there?”

  “Yeah dude, I’m here, but I’ve gotta think about the money . . . I don’t have a handle on all this stuff, but there’s my karma to think about, plus yours. I mean that money doesn’t belong to you, dude. Maybe you should turn yourself in.”

  One of the cops said something to the other and started in my direction.

  “Turn myself in? Listen goddamn it! I wouldn’t be in this spot if it weren’t for you! I was high . . . I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  The cop was closer now. He pulled something out of a pocket and looked at it. A phone number? A photo of me?

  Now Larry’s voice took on a supercilious quality. The words sounded as if they had been uttered by someone else. Someone Larry had heard very recently. “Hey, dude, each of us is responsible for our own actions. No one forced you to rob that bank.”

  The policeman was just steps away. He looked up from the paper and frowned.

  “Cut the crap, Larry, and tell me where the money is . . . I need it.”

  Larry laughed. “Screw you, dude.” Then there was a click followed by a dial tone.

  My heart beat like a trip hammer as I hung up, opened the door, and mumbled to the cop.

  I waited for him to say something, to grab me by the arm, but he nodded and stepped inside.

  I circled the building, checked to make sure that the cops couldn’t see me, and emptied my bladder by the dumpster. Something caught my eye as I zipped my pants. A red Civic, which, except for the PEROT FOR PRESIDENT bumper sticker, was identical to mine. The fact that it was parked next to the store’s back door suggested an employee.

  I took a quick look around, hunkered down behind the Honda, and used my Swiss Army knife to undo the rear license plate. Seconds Uter it was safely tucked inside my jacket and I was walking away.

  The cop car was gone, and moments later, so was I.

  The first thing I did was find a poorly lit residential street and remove the license plates from my car. Then I screwed the stolen plate to the rear bumper, hoped no one would notice the fact that the front plate was missing, and took off.

  The next half hour or so was spent in more aimless driving. Damn that Larry! Handing out sanctimonious garbage like he was an angel or something. It didn’t make sense. Geraldo Rivera had interviewed everyone from Joan of Arc to George Washington. They all said the same thing. You’re the same person after you die. So, if Larry was a selfish jerk at the moment of his death, he still was.

  That being the case, he didn’t care about his karma, or mine. No, he cared about something else . . . But what? Then I had it! The rotten sonovabitch cared about the money! He had plans for the money, and didn’t want to give it up!

  I slammed on the brakes, scared the hell out of the elderly couple in the car behind me, and pulled over to the curb. That was it. Larry had plans for the money. Plans that didn’t include his old buddy Greg. But what plans? What could a dead man do with a hundred thousand in cash?

  Then it hit me . . . The sneaky bastard was going to come back and get it. All he’d have to do was reincarnate, arrange for someone to call him when he reached the age of eighteen, and pick up the money.

  No, wait a minute. Damn! He could call one of his slimeball friends, have him retrieve the money, and invest it! The better part of a hundred thou sitting around, collecting interest! The thought made me sick.

  I cruised northwards along old Highway 99, spotted a run-down motel, and pulled in.

  A beefy woman with a full head of curlers answered the door, accepted the phoney name I gave her, and directed me to unit six. I half expected her to ask for money in advance, but I guess the combination of my clean-cut looks, and late model car put her at ease.

  The room was small, badly in need of paint, and smelled like the bottom of an ash tray. I opened a window to let in some air, collapsed on the lumpy mattress, and fell into a troubled sleep. I woke up with sunlight in my eyes and rolled over. My eyes snapped open. The bank robbery, Larry’s death, and the phone call . . . It hit me like a ton of bricks. For a moment there I felt horribly, intensely sorry for myself, certain that no other human being had been so sorely mistreated.

  That feeling began to wane however as I thought about Larry and his refusal to give me the money. Anger flooded in to replace the self-pity. I gritted my teeth. Damn the bastard! To hell with him! I’d find the money and return it! That would fix his wagon . . . and cut my karma to boot.

  I rummaged through the Alaska Airlines bag, found my shaving kit, and entered the bathroom. There was a tiny mirror on the wall. The face that stared back at me from the mirror was different somehow. Brown hair, what one girl had called “sensitive eyes,” and a determined mouth. Yes, that was it, a determined mouth. Larry had given me a purpose, something to accomplish, and by god I would!

  Breakfast consisted of a non-fat, no-whip, coffee mocha plus two maple bars and the Post Intelligencer. A plane crash had pushed the bank job below the fold with more inside.

  They had identified both Larry and me, located our apartment, and searched it. There was even a quote from my mom, something to the effect of “We don’t know why Greg would do such a thing—and I feel terribly ashamed.”

  Poor Mom. I felt the tears push up and threaten to cascade down my cheeks. I wanted to run to the nearest phone, call my parents, and beg their forgiveness.

  But that would be stupid. The police might be tapping their line, or who knows? No, I’d get even with Larry, and then look for a way to contact my parents.

  Determined to be tough—I took another bite of maple bar and paged my way through the paper. Maybe Dilbert could make me laugh.

  I was almost there when a photo caught my eye. It was a shot of a young woman, pretty, and disturbingly familiar. Then I had it. Kathy Keenan! A cheerleader at my high school—and the object of considerable adolescent lust.

  There had been a time when I would’ve given anything for the chance to hold one of her perfectly manicured hands, to look into her big blue eyes, and hear the sound of my name on her lips. But that was impossible since Kathy had existed at the most rarified heights of our pubescent social structure, and I, if not at the very bottom, was close enough to see it, and know those who dwelt there, Larry being one.

  Yes, I showed for all the games, not because I cared who won, but because of Kathy’s legs. And when I cheered, it was for her, not the team.

  So I read the article fully expecting to hear something good. So it was a shock when I discovered that Kathy had cancer, was expected to die soon, and was taking part in a new “transition” program for people with terminal diseases.

  Kathy Keenan die? Impossible! I could see her in my mind’s eye, wearing the sweater with the red letter “L” on the front, and that short white skirt. For years she’d been an important part of my fantasy life. Now she was dying, heading for the other side, going with Larry. Wait a minute! I had an idea . . .

  I crammed the last bite of maple bar in my mouth, washed it down with a gulp of lukewarm mocha, and headed for the door. I had a crazy idea, a truly crazy idea, but so what? My whole life had turned to shit.

  It took twenty minutes to find the hospice, park the car, and work up the nerve to ring the bell. It was an older house, a mansion once, located just north of the university. There were maple trees all around, some shabby shrubs, and the last of summers flowers.

  The house seemed to radiate a dignified peace, as if it was special, and knew it. There was a brass plaque on the front door. It read GATEWAY HOUSE.

  I pressed the bell and heard a distant chime. A few moments later the door opened to reveal a pleasant-looking woman in her late thirties. She had black hair quickly turning to gray, intelligent eyes, and a sensitive mouth. Something about the clothes she wore indicated a lack of interest in worldly things. She smiled. “Yes?”

  I felt suddenly paranoid. What if she recognized me and called the police? Or worse yet, what if Kathy refused to see me? After all, why should she? We’d barely known each other in high school. “I’m here to see Kathy Keenan.”

  The woman nodded encouragingly. “Is Kathy expecting you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I knew her in high school, and read about her in the paper, I . . .”

  “You wanted to see Kathy before she makes the transition . . . Quite understandable. Your name?”

  I swallowed hard. If I gave the woman my name she might recognize it, but if I didn’t, Kathy wouldn’t see me. “Greg Altman.”

  The woman put out her hand. I shook it. “I’m Florence. Please come in. Have a seat in the library while I track her down.”

  The woman ushered me into a room full of books, freshly cut flowers, and comfortable furniture. Light streamed in through leaded glass windows and splashed on a well-worn oriental rug.

  I had no more than taken a seat when an elderly man in a wheelchair rolled in. His eyes lit up when he saw me and the motor made a whirring sound. Little tufts of white hair stuck out of his head at odd angles, his skin had a sickly pallor, and he smelled like unchanged diapers. But his eyes were clear and his voice had a cheerful ring. “Hello, son. Are you goin’ belly up? Whatcha got? Some kinda cancer?”

  I forced a smile. “No, not that I know of . . . I’m here to see someone.”

  “Oh,” the old man said, obviously disappointed. “I’m gonna check out any day now. Can’t wait. Phoned ahead. Got all sorts of friends and relatives over there. A lot of the guys from Korea. The ones that didn’t make it back. Hey, the folks here in hospice are giving me a party this afternoon. You wanna come?”

  “Thanks,” I replied, “but I’ll be gone by then.”

  “Okay,” the old man replied. “Suit yourself. In the meantime I’m goin’ out for a smoke. I mean why not? What’s it gonna do? Give me cancer?” The old man cackled gleefully and wheeled himself out of the room.

  After that I just sat there for a while and enjoyed the sunlight that pooled at my feet. For the first time since the robbery I was almost happy. Her voice caught me by surprise. “Greg? Greg Altman?”

  I stood and turned. She was thinner, much thinner than I remembered her to be. The gray jogging suit hung in loose folds around her body. She wore a hat too, a Diane Keaton thing, to cover the fact that her hair had fallen out. The thick blonde hair was no more.

  But it was her face which captured my attention. The face that I’d secretly studied during home room, stared at in the halls, and watched from the bleachers. It was still pretty, but more mature somehow, as if she’d learned a great deal since our senior year.

  Kathy smiled and held out her hand. I took it and felt a tingle run through my body. Here she was, dying of cancer, and she could still turn me on. “Hello, Greg, it’s been a long time.” Now that she was here, I felt silly, unsure of what to do or say. She squeezed my hand to remind me that I should let go. I did.

  “Hello, Kathy. I read about you in the paper. I . . . I . . . god I don’t know . . . I wanted to talk to you that’s all.”

  Kathy nodded as if my desire to talk with her was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m glad you came. Sit down. I’d invite you to my room, but I share it with someone else, and she’s close to death.”

  Kathy said it as if death were the most natural thing in the world, and come to think of it, I guess it is.

  She curled up at one end of the couch like a little girl in her daddy’s chair, while I sat at the other, basking in her presence.

  We talked about the old days for a while, about high school, about our classmates. It didn’t work too well, since we’d hung out with radically different crowds, but it was common ground of a sort.