“Sounds a bit out there,” I said.

“They’re into Indian shit. Dancing naked in the woods. Performing rituals. Heap bad medicine.” He laughed nervously at his own joke.

“Except it’s not native, is it? Bunch of soft white folks playing games. Fake voodoo. Fake satanism. These parts, it’s fake shamanism, huh?”

Superfly was antsier by the second.

“We through here?”

“We through,” I said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The bowling alley’s crimson and royal-yellow marquee had fallen to pieces. OWLING AL Y remained. Good enough. Distinct 1980s vibe and odor. Brick walls that partially absorbed every lackadaisical paint job. Rippled, uneven floors; tiles worn and chipped. Carpet, where it hadn’t come untacked, was stained with continental maps of alternate realities. Flat, diffuse lighting. I’m not any great shakes at bowling, although, like most Americans, I’ve whiled away a few hours down at the lane. In my teen years, it was expressly to hang with the posse and maybe meet girls. Latter days, such as today, found me there because it was the destination of choice for low-rent criminals.

This represented a potentially beautiful shortcut for my intelligence-gathering mission. Mini-kingpins who operate legitimate fronts, such as motels, hotels, restaurants, supermarkets, and bowling alleys, not only swim with the denizens of the underworld, they rub shoulders with everybody else.

Two fogies in baggy shirts and sweats were rolling the rock to mellow pop hits of yesteryear. Neither appeared overly happy to be alive and bowling on a winter’s afternoon. Well past lunch, the young guy at the counter said the grill was closed. No dogs, no pretzels, no nachos, nothing. He could pull me a soda, if I wanted. I said I was there to see the Boss Man. The kid said the Boss Man wasn’t available as I walked toward a door with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign.

“Sir, you can’t go back there!” He wrung his bony hands. He couldn’t have foreseen how lingering in Horseheads after graduation might present such quandaries.

“I do as I please and I do it all the time.”

■■■

On the other side of the door lay a corridor, a tiny bathroom, a closet, a supply room, and a windowless office. Boss Man stoically observed my arrival from behind a surprisingly neat metal desk. A balding fellow in a red and yellow BOWLING ALLEY T-shirt and the weight of the world on his shoulders. To his right was a much older man. Flabby, suspenders, nose buried in the local paper. He didn’t get excited when I appeared.

I plopped into an uncomfortable swivel chair. Boss Man waited bemusedly as I studied the plethora of bowling trophies, bowling plaques, and posters and photographs chockablock full of bowlers and bowling teams. There were a disquieting number of “businessman of the year” and “our school loves this guy” certificates littering the walls.

“Hi,” I said when I finished. “Is this really called the Bowling Alley?”

“Sure is. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’d hope you can guess my name.”