Teddy put the page on top of the others in the box. Later, he’d have to put them all back in order, see how many were missing and re-edit those. “It’s a book I’m going to publish later this year, actually.”
Troyer studied him for a long beat, his brow knit. “Why?”
Since this was a question Teddy had been asking himself, he couldn’t help smiling.
“Okay,” Troyer said, scratching his hairy, sunburned chest, “then answer me this. Because I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it. You’re the same three guys from before, right? You and Moser and the big guy?”
“If by before you mean 1971, then yeah.”
“What, you’ve been, like, roommates this whole fucking time?”
“Hardly,” Teddy said.
“Because that would be truly pathetic.”
Indeed, the notion, even after Teddy had disabused him of it, seemed to fill him with profound disgust, as if enduring friendship were both unnatural and vile. What unsettled Teddy even more was that this man, though he bore little resemblance to the person Teddy remembered from ’71, inspired the same visceral loathing. “Lincoln’s not here,” he said. “I assume he’s the one you’re looking for.”
Troyer leaned back on the chaise and locked his fingers behind his head, as if settling in for what remained of the afternoon. “Lincoln,” he repeated. “Why would a white man name his kid Lincoln?”
Teddy resisted the impulse to tell him that the white man who’d done it was himself named Wolfgang Amadeus. “Maybe because he hoped his son was destined for greatness? That he might even grow up to be president?”
Troyer snorted. “And get shot in the head?”
“This being America, there’s a decent chance he’ll get shot no matter what he’s called.”
Troyer groaned, looking skyward. “It must be summer,” he said. “The libs are returning. And speaking of liberals, remind me. What’s the name of that college all you guys went to?”
“Minerva.”
“That’s right, Minerva. Jesus.”
Evidently, for him Minerva College ranked right up there with enduring friendship.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Teddy said.
The man scowled. “Yeah. You can tell President Lincoln that he can take this place of his”—he threw his arms out wide open—“and shove it right the fuck up his ass. Tell him I don’t need him or it. Can you remember all that?”
Teddy nodded. “Got it. You’re no longer interested in purchasing his property. You wish him luck finding another buyer.”
Troyer, sitting up now, ignored this. “This next part is even more important. Tell him I had nothing to do with that hippie chick going missing.”
Teddy felt his head jerk back, as if from a good, stiff jab, and he swallowed hard. “Are you talking about Jacy?”
“Whatever the fuck her name was. The last time I saw her was the day the big galoot sucker punched me. You know I had to go to Boston to get my fucking jaw wired shut?”
“Gee,” Teddy said, “that must’ve been unpleasant.”
“Yeah, you could say that. For a month I ate my meals through a straw.”
“Well, you had it coming,” Teddy reminded him. “Also, it happened over forty years ago.”
“Okay, but here’s the thing. You know where I’ve been that whole time? Right here. See, I don’t visit this island, I fucking live here. And I don’t need some Vegas dickweed spreading rumors about me.”
“What rumors?”
“The fucking guy Googles me? Digs up some twenty-year-old court appearance? Finds out that some Beacon Hill twat took out a restraining order against me after I slapped her big fat mouth for her outside the Edgartown Yacht Club? And decides he knows me? Like that gives him the right to wonder out loud if this Jacy girl from the fucking seventies maybe’s buried somewhere out here?”
“Question,” Teddy said. “Is Lincoln going to have any idea what you’re talking about?”
If Troyer heard this question, he gave no sign. “Okay, so I copped a feel that day. She had great tits, that I do remember. But we were all what? Twenty? Twenty-one? And you come here in twenty fucking fifteen and accuse me?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Teddy said. “And I doubt Lincoln is, either.”
Troyer got to his feet now and came over to where Teddy sat, looming over him. “Then why the fuck is Joey Coffin knocking on my door and asking me a bunch of bullshit questions?”
“Who’s Joey Coffin?”
“You know what?” Troyer said, his face flushing now. “Fuck you. Fuck all three of you.”