Graveland: A Novel Read Online Free

beachfront, the Hamptons—“this is the wealthiest generation of people we’ve ever seen, not just in U.S. history but in the history of the entire fucking world . So you think they’ll spare any expense when it comes to their artificial hips and knees and whatever? When it comes to, I don’t know, stem cell therapies and assisted living technologies? No? Me neither. It’ll be whatever’s required, and that’s going to mean more and more of GDP getting channeled into health care.” Everyone nodding now. “So in my view, over the next ten, fifteen years, investments in the sector will do pretty well.”
    This isn’t some big secret or anything, but coming from him, with his signature delivery—conspiratorial, almost whispered—it very much sounds like one. It’s certainly enough to please the assembled pack.
    Howley glances over at Jessica. She’s deep in conversation with some chunky, hatchet-faced woman he doesn’t recognize. A member of the board of trustees, no doubt, or the wife of a principal donor. He looks at his watch. He’d like to get out of here soon.
    “So, Craig,” Terry Hasselbach says, “what’s this I keep hearing about an IPO?”
    Howley turns and glares at him. The IPO story isn’t a big secret either, far from it, there’s been plenty of speculation about Oberon going public in recent days—but it’s not something he’s willing to discuss, not with these guys.
    He peers into his glass and swirls what’s left in it around. “Speaking of rumors, Terry,” he says, looking up, “did I read somewhere lately that you were a nosy little cocksucker?”
    No one reacts to this for a moment.
    Howley keeps looking at him.
    Then Terry Hasselbach laughs. It’s a weasely laugh, but it breaks the tension. To move things on, someone brings up Jeff Gale.
    Again.
    The subject has been unavoidable all day.
    “They’re saying he might have been into some mob guys for—”
    “Oh, what, gambling debts? Get out of here. That’s ridiculous.”
    “No, that it was an escort thing, some agency, and that after Spitzer and all they didn’t want to lose—”
    “No way. Besides, a mob hit in Central Park? Fuhgeddaboudit.”
    Everyone laughs.
    Except Howley, who’s looking at his watch again. He knew Jeff Gale—not well, but he knew him, saw how the man operated, could read him like a book, read all his moves. Gambling and escorts? It’s about as far as you could get from a plausible explanation for this.
    That’s what bothers him, the seeming randomness of it, the casualness.
    He glances across the room and catches Jessica’s eye.
    Ten minutes later they’re in the car and on the way to dinner at Mircof’s in East Quogue.
    *   *   *
    Sitting alone in a booth at Dave’s Bar & Grill, Frank Bishop sips his second Stoli. It usually takes more than one for that exquisite hot-coals-in-the-belly sensation to hit, but it’s coming now, he can feel it.
    Slowly, he takes another sip.
    Blue. Icy. Viscous.
    This is the sweet spot, alright, portal to a brief sun-kissed season of illumination and understanding. It won’t last very long, a few minutes at most, but that’s fine. In a while he’ll order some food—chicken, fries, plenty of carbs, a club soda—because if he orders a third Stoli he’ll only order a fourth and then a fifth and that’ll be it for the night. He won’t eat and he’ll get stupid and sloppy. He’ll end up feeling like shit and be hungover all day tomorrow. Then, before he knows it, it’ll be Monday morning again and he’ll be back at work .
    For now, though, it’s Saturday evening.
    He holds up his glass of filmy liquid.
    To the LudeX console upgrade, and a long, strange day at Winterbrook Mall.
    He takes a sip.
    Frank used to be an architect.
    Up to a couple of years ago, and for a couple of decades—designing office buildings and airport terminals, frozen music, he ate, drank, and slept the stuff. Worked for Belmont, McCann Associates and had an office in