No Sleep till Wonderland

  Advance Praise for No Sleep till Wonderland

  “No Sleep till Wonderland delivers on the tremendous promise of The Little Sleep, simultaneously paying homage to classic noir fiction while creating a damaged and irrevocably lost antihero in PI Mark Genevich, who is always on the verge of emotional and physical collapse. This is a novel filled with black humor but an even blacker subtext that makes the reader question the nature of reality and self; heady stuff for a crime novel, for sure, but Paul Tremblay is a fearless writer and No Sleep till Wonderland is positively magnetic fiction.”

  —TOD GOLDBERG, author of Other Resort Cities and Simplify

  “Snappy prose, a brilliantly original detective, and a cast of sharply drawn lowlifes—Paul Tremblay mixes it up with style. In the end, No Sleep till Wonderland is much more than just a crime book—it’s all about the narrator’s unique take on the world. Thoroughly recommended.”

  —SIMON LEWIS, author of Bad Traffic

  “Paul Tremblay somehow manages to channel Franz Kafka, write like Raymond Chandler, and whip up a completely original, utterly whack-a-doodle reinvention of the detective novel. This book rocks.”

  —MARK HASKELL SMITH, author of Salty

  For Lisa, Cole, and Emma, always

  When he realized that this one was here to stay

  He took down all the mirrors in the hallway

  And thought only of his younger face.

  —UNCLE TUPELO, “BLACK EYE”

  Say you will, say you will, put all the random pieces together.

  —SUPERCHUNK, “SCREW IT UP”

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  It’s too hot, even for mid-July. The mercury pushes past ninety degrees even as the sun stuffs its hands in its pockets, turns its back, and walks away for another night. I feel the same way.

  We’re inside, though, momentarily away from the heat. Tan carpeting, blue wallpaper, white ceiling with track lighting. Six of us are in chairs, sitting in a circle, an obedient shape. We’re quiet. We’re trained. The hum of the central air conditioner is enough to keep us occupied while we wait for further instructions. No one wants to look at the other, or engage in conversation, not before the designated time. Normally, it’s the kind of situation I wouldn’t mind tweaking, but I’m still exhausted and overheated from my walk over here. Besides, we’ve all been tweaked enough.

  This guy named Gus sits next to me. He’s been coming here as long as I have. He’s short and wiry, and he wears black horn-rimmed glasses. He has thick beard stubble that has been cultivated and encouraged and colorful tattoos on his pale, thin arms. Behind one less-than-impressive bicep is the face of a green cartoon dog that winks and chomps on a cigarette. The dog has the right idea.

  Gus is around my age, early-but-aging thirties, and like me he’s dressed in vintage clothes: black leisure pants, black wingtips, a white, skin-tight V-neck T-shirt tucked in and underneath his unbuttoned powder blue guayabera, a canary yellow porkpie hat that struggles to hold down purposefully greasy tufts of black hair. He pulls off the look better than me. I look like I stumbled out of your grandfather’s closet, mothballs and all.

  Gus is done with his drawing, and it rests on his lap. He taps his pen on the metal chair, working out something in double time. I sneak a peek at his picture. He took up an entire page. His head and hat are detailed and accurate. His body is a cartoonish mess. Legs and arms are broken, twisted. His forearms, hands, shins, knees, and feet and other unidentifiable pieces of himself break off and fall away, toward the bottom of the page. It’s a good picture.

  Gus catches me looking and says, “Don’t judge me,” but then he winks, just like his tattoo dog. That’s supposed to be a joke. I don’t find anything funny.

  Here’s my drawing:

  It’s a smaller, doodle version of my head. It’s all anyone ever need see of me. Rembrandt, I’m not. I’m not even that paint-the-happy-tree-there guy.

  Gus leans in and gets an eyeful. I say, “I did better when I tried drawing that turtle and the pirate for those art tests in the backs of magazines.”

  Doctor Who announces his return to the circle. “Okay, everyone,” he says, and that’s it. It’s enough for us to know what to do next. He hands out bonus smiles while collecting the pens and our composition notebooks, the kind I used in elementary school. My notebook has chunks of paper torn out. The black-and-white cover is warped and cracked. Our assignment was to draw a self-portrait, but we’re not going to talk about it until next week. This is my sixth group therapy session at the Wellness Center, and I’m feeling well-er every day.

  If I sound skeptical, I don’t mean to. I’m just practical. My landlord and mother, Ellen, made my weekly visits to the center compulsory if I was to continue running my little private detective business rent free in her building. We’re at a point where she thinks my narcolepsy is some kind of social disorder, not physical. It’s all depressing enough to make me want to attend group therapy.

  The doctor pulls a chair into our circle. He’s not British or into science fiction, but he tolerates me calling him Dr. Who. He’d tell you that my naming him is an attempt at asserting some control in my life. He’d tell you that my everyday existence is usually about naming and piecing together my reality even if the pieces don’t fit. I’d tell you that I just like calling a tall, skinny, bald guy Dr. Who.

  The doc, he’s nice, plenty enthusiastic, and obviously means well—the ultimate backhanded compliment. There’ve been times when I wanted to tell him everything, tell him more than I know. But there are other times when I’m ready to take a vow of silence, like now, as I look at his faded khaki pants with the belt cinched well above the Canadian border and his white too-tight polo shirt. That shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

  He swoops the drawings up and away. Now it’s story time. Everyone is to spill their tales in a regimented, predetermined order. I think that’s what I hate most about this whole setup. It’s disrespectful to stories. Stories don’t happen that way. There’s no order, no beginning, middle, or end; no one simply gets a turn. Stories are messy, unpredictable, and usually cruel.

  I try not to listen. I’m not being selfish. It’s not that I don’t empathize, because I empathize too much, and I can’t help them.

  I say I try not to listen, but it doesn’t work. The man across from me goes on about how his cats are trying to sabotage the fragile relationship he has with his third ex-wife. Or maybe I’m asleep and dreaming it.

  It’s Gus’s turn. He has a smile that’s wholly inappropriate for the setting. I kind of like it. He talks about how his mother—who died two years ago—used to make her own saltwater taffy when he
was a kid. He tells us that since her death, he craves social settings and has become a compulsive joiner. If you have a club or group or association, he’ll join it. He pulls out a wallet full of membership IDs. He gives me two cards: one for the Libertarian Party and the other belonging to some anarchist group that’s clearly fraudulent because anarchists don’t make ID cards. He seems particularly proud of that one.

  Dr. Who holds up his clutched hands, like he’s arm wrestling himself, and says, “You’re always welcome in our group, Gus.”

  Gus tips his hat and sags in his chair, clearly at ease in the group setting, a junky getting his fix. Despite his earlier protest, I’m judging him. I don’t feel guilty. I never promised him anything.

  Dr. Who asks, “Mark, do you have anything to share with us today?”

  Last week he phrased the question differently: Do you feel up to joining our conversation this week? I answered with a rant concerning his poorly phrased question, about how it was domineering and patronizing and made me feel more damaged than I already was. It was a solid rant, an 8 out of 10. But I don’t know how much of the rant I let loose. I woke up with my circle mates out of their chairs, standing, and staring at me like I was a frog pinned up for dissection.

  Gus wiggles his fingers at me, a reverse hand wave, the international Let’s have it sign.

  All right. Let’s have it.

  Two

  Here’s what I don’t tell them:

  I don’t state the obvious; things are not going well for Mark Genevich. About a year and a half has passed since I broke a case that involved the Suffolk County DA and his dirty secret: the disappearance of a girl more than thirty years ago. My personal not so dirty secret was that my business had never been profitable, had never been anything more than a hobby, something to occupy my time and mind; private investigation as babysitter. But after the DA case went public, I had my fifteen minutes. Everyone in South Boston knew who I was, and my kitten-weak business experienced a bump.

  Initially, I handled the bump okay. I had this one lucrative gig where I ran background checks for a contractor who was hiring locals to build the nursing home going up on D Street. I verified income and places of previous employment and the like for his applicants. My shining moment was ferreting out one guy who was illegally collecting disability on the side. But soon enough I started getting small-time cases—a popular subset of which were complaints of Facebook harassment and other online misdeeds—from people who’d read about the DA and only wanted to rubberneck, collect anecdotes for their friends. Because the money was good, I had an impossible time saying no, which means I didn’t play it smart. I played it desperate, like I always do. I took on too many cases, and I flamed out on most of them. I even tried taking an online course from some Private Investigating Training School, thinking it would help me organize and prioritize my schedule, identify my investigative strengths. Six months into the three-month course I identified only my growing stack of bills.

  Narcolepsy was and is my only constant. It did not improve during the business bump despite renewed attempts at lifestyle changes and adaptations. I quit coffee, smoking, and booze for almost two months. Okay, maybe two weeks. I tried new and aggressive drug therapies, but it didn’t help and it left me washed out and washed up, and with a list of dissatisfied clients and an ever-growing monster named Debt.

  Oh, what else?

  I don’t tell the group that my business is just about dead, kept barely breathing in a monetary iron lung only because Ellen continues to begrudgingly fund it.

  I don’t tell them about Ellen’s version of desperation, her Hail Mary: the humiliating group therapy deal. She even had me sign a contract. It was pathetic. I was asleep on my couch, and I woke up with her standing above me, the contract on my chest like a scarlet letter, and a pen in my hand, which leaked black ink onto my fingertips. After she sprang the deal on me, we had an argument that went atomic. We’re still in its nuclear winter. I avoid talking to her, and she does the same. She used to come to Southie and crash at my place two nights a week, but Ellen has quarantined herself on the Cape for the entire summer.

  I don’t tell them the irony is that I should be the one sequestered and tucked away on the Cape and Ellen should be living here in Southie. Ellen is of this place and is only happy when she’s here, and I’ve never understood why she continues to stay on the Cape and not relocate her photography business. We’re both too stubborn to swap out. I’ve lived and worked in Southie for ten years, but I grew up on the Cape, where neighbors lived too far away and tourists were a necessary evil, a commodity. I grew up in a vacation spot, transient, by its very definition and purpose, so I do not understand identity by proximity, by place. I do not understand the want and will of a community, which is so insular at times, even after growing up in the considerably long shadow thrown by Ellen and her Southie, the Southie she always told me about. It is hers, not mine, will never be mine, and that’s okay. Granted, my South Boston years have been influenced, shall we say, by narcolepsy. Who am I kidding? It’s been ten years of me as Hermit T. Crab.

  I don’t tell the members of my group therapy circle that I hate ketchup and pickles. I don’t tell them that I think the Godfather movies are overrated.

  I don’t tell them—the hallowed members of our kumbaya circle—that I hate them and their cats and their problems and their we-can-stay-awake-on-command asses.

  Three

  Here’s what I do tell them:

  Last week I tailed Madison Hall, wife of Wilkie Barrack, the local CEO of one of the Northeast’s largest investment firms, Financier. Mr. December thought his May bride was cheating on him. Standard kind of job. I usually don’t take on infidelity cases. Not because of some moral high ground I don’t have. I’m just not well suited for surveillance gigs. That said, the payday was too big to turn down.

  Barrack’s lawyer was my contact, and he e-mailed me Madison’s photo and their Commonwealth Ave address, some high-priced in-town apartment they rented but rarely used. Apparently she used it more often than hubby thought.

  Madison left her apartment building at seven each evening. I spent the two nights tailing her from a safe distance. She was easy to spot: a Marilyn Monroe–style platinum blonde wearing big Jackie O sunglasses, a white scarf, and a yellow sundress. She spent her evenings wandering over to Newbury Street and window-shopped all those overpriced fashion boutiques, exotic restaurants, and cafés.

  The only place she entered was Trident Booksellers & Cafe. It looked like the perfect place for a rendezvous. Inside, she swapped out her Jackie Os for wire rims and wandered the stacks. She wasn’t meeting anyone there. She didn’t stop to talk to anyone, not even the staff. She bought a book on both nights, set herself down in the café section, ordered a coffee and tiramisu, and then read by herself until the place closed at midnight.

  I spent my surveillance time hunkered in the stacks or across the street smoking cigarettes, and managed to stay mostly awake the entire time. Mostly. The second night I ventured into the café and sat as far away from her as I could, she with her back to me. It was a slow night, and there was only one other person in the café. He nursed his coffee, newspaper, and considerable thoughts. The three of us spent a solid hour in silence. It was like I’d walked into that Boulevard of Broken Dreams painting. Would it be too self-indulgent of me to say my dreams have always been broken?

  After closing time she took a cab back to her apartment. I hung around in front of her building until about 2:00 a.m., waiting to see if anyone rang her bell; no one did. A handful of men entered the building with keys but never the same guy on consecutive nights. She wasn’t cheating on her husband, at least not while I watched her.

  After that second night, I e-mailed the lawyer an update, reporting her so-far chaste activities. That same morning, the Boston Herald’s gossip section, Inside Track, ran shots of Madison leaving some flashy and splashy nightclub, arm in arm with a professional indoor lacrosse player. I didn’t know we had a tea
m. The woman in the paper wasn’t the same woman that I’d spent two nights following. Oops.

  In the retelling for my fellow circle freaks, I leave out the names and Financier details, of course. If any of them really want to figure out who I am taking about, it won’t be difficult. I don’t really care. Timothy Carter, the CEO’s lawyer, is already threatening me with a lawsuit. Haven’t told Ellen about that yet. Don’t think it will go over well.

  Dr. Who quickly thanks me for sharing, reminds us that our conversations are to be held in confidence—even if we don’t have any—and dismisses us. I closed the show.

  Everyone is fixed and saved, at least for another night, and the circle disintegrates into its disparate points, everyone but Gus standing and slowly ambling away. He’s still in his seat, next to me, and he has his inked arms folded behind his head. I think about his picture and hope his arms don’t break off and into pieces. He sees me looking at him, laughs, and says, “Man, great story. You talk slower than a sloth on Quaaludes, though.”

  What are you supposed to say to something like that?

  He says, “Come on. Let’s go get a drink. I know a place. I’ve got the first round.”

  I think I know what to say to that, even if I’m out of practice.

  Four

  Gus does most of the talking during our trudge down D Street and onto West Broadway. I’m not keeping up my end of the conversational bargain. He doesn’t seem to mind. He also seems to know half the city, nodding or semisaluting at the scores of pedestrians we pass. Everyone knows his name and they’re glad he came. It’s goddamn irritating. Me? I’m like my home base brownstone. People know I’m there, but I’m just part of the scenery.