Diller’s eyes opened even wider and his mouth gaped. “Oh my God, why didn’t you say? Is this from …?” Diller pointed at his head and then looked around, before directing his finger towards the ceiling nervously.
Smithy sighed. “No, it’s not from the voice.”
Diller slumped in his seat, clearly disappointed. “Oh.”
“We’ve discussed this: it ain’t God.”
“I disagree.”
“You disagree? It’s in my head.”
“Exactly. You’re the worst person to judge. It’s like why you should never cut your own hair.”
“It’s nothing like that. The damn thing is just an auditory hallucination caused by post-traumatic stress following a car accident.”
“Or,” said Diller, “the voice of God is speaking to you following a near-death experience.”
“That’s a matter of interpretation.”
“Everything is.”
“Well,” said Smithy, glancing around and lowering his voice, “as it happens, it doesn’t matter, seeing as I haven’t heard ‘it’ in weeks. I think ‘it’ might be, y’know …”
“Gone?”
“Shush. Don’t say it. You’ll jinx it.”
“I hope I do. I liked the voice. I think it helped you to make very good life decisions.”
“You’re welcome to it in your head, then, my friend, because I was getting sick of it.”
“Speaking of voices of reason, what does Cheryl think of this plan of yours?”
Smithy shifted awkwardly. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“Meaning that you’re too chicken to tell her because you know exactly what she’ll say.”
“If we know what she’ll say, why do we need to tell her?”
“That’s …” Diller scrunched up his eyes. “It feels like all the words in that sentence make sense on their own, but somehow they’re collectively stupid.”
Smithy sat back in his chair and tossed up his hands. “OK. Fine. Don’t help.”
“What?”
Smithy was taken aback by the edge of outrage in Diller’s voice.
“If you don’t want to—”
Diller cut him off. “I said it was a terrible plan. I never said I wouldn’t help. I’m your friend. You ask me to help, I’m gonna help.”
“Oh. OK. Well, thank you.”
“Yeah, well,” said Diller, still looking put out, “you’re welcome.”
Smithy held up his drink in a toast. “You’re a good friend, Dill.”
“Yeah, and it’s still a terrible plan.”
Chapter Two
Smithy and Diller sat on the large wooden crate in silence, save for the quiet rocking motion of the van as it moved down the street. The only source of light inside the back of the truck was a sliver of sunlight at the bottom of the roll-top rear door. The heat was unpleasant – an unseasonably hot May in New York that felt more like July. There was an uncomfortable lack of air conditioning inside the vehicle – unsurprising, given that it was not designed for human transportation.
Diller pulled at his shirt, which was already starting to cling to him. “Do you think this feels like the D-Day landings?”
Smithy looked up in the direction of Diller’s voice. “Nope.”
“Y’know, the tension. Waiting to go over the top?”
“That’s the wrong war you’re thinking of. They didn’t go over the top in the Second World War.”
“Actually, they did. There were still trenches. I accept your point, though. On D-Day it was landing crafts. ‘Waiting to storm the beaches’ is what I should have said. Do you think this is a bit like storming the beaches on D-Day?”
Smithy shook his head. “No, Dill. I don’t think we can compare our current endeavour – namely, you delivering me in a dishwasher crate to a penthouse apartment on West 57th Street – to the sacrifices made by so many members of our greatest generation on the beaches of Normandy. The comparison falls down on several levels, not least being that, as far as I’m aware, on that fateful day nobody on either side came dressed in a silly costume.”
“I’m not in a silly costume,” said Diller, sounding defensive. “I’m wearing the correct costume for my part.”
“I know.”
“A costume you provided, I might add. I haven’t been to many costume parties, but I don’t think many people turn up dressed as a UPS guy.”
“True.”
“You, on the other hand …”
“Me being dressed as a leprechaun is the whole point. You know I hate it.”
Diller nodded. “I do. In fact, you hating it so much is what got us into this mess. Actually, come to think of it …”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s nothing?” insisted Smithy.
“You won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“OK, well, I mean – you know how you’ve brought your regular clothes in your gym bag? To change into before you make your escape?”
“Yes. So?”
“Could you not just have brought the leprechaun suit in the bag and changed into it later on?”
“No, because …” Smithy paused to consider this. “I …”
A moment of awkward silence followed, save for the van’s creaking suspension as they took a right turn.
“Damn it!” conceded Smithy.
Diller sucked his teeth. “That’s the thing with a plan. You think you’ve got it all laid out, but …”
“It’s nothing,” said Smithy. “It doesn’t affect anything.”
“Yeah, but if you missed that teeny-tiny detail, what else have you missed?”
The van took a left turn.
“Seriously?” said Smithy. “You’re trying to mess with my head this close to go time?”
“I’m just pointing it out. It’s not too late to—”
“I’m doing this.”
“Sure. OK,” said Diller. “I think maybe you should take one last long, hard look at the plan.”
A little more of that awkward silence fell between them.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Diller.
“It’s dark in here. How the hell can you know I’m looking at you?”
“I just know.”
“Hey,” said Smithy, “hang on a minute. You hate the dark. How come you didn’t ride up front with Big Dom?”
“It’s, like, y’know – your last few minutes before the thing. I figured probably you could do with some company.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“And besides, I don’t think we can call him Big Dom any more.”
“I know,” said Smithy. “He told me he’s lost 126 pounds. That’s basically what I weigh.”
“That’s incredible,” agreed Diller. “And I’ll tell you what else. He looks great. I mean, it’s not just the weight, it’s how he’s lost it. He’s not got that flappy, jowly skin that some people get.”