The Darkest Evening of the Year

rose to its usual height, bearing the cadaver.
    “Excellent,” Billy said.
    They rolled the gurney into the crematorium. Juliette adjusted the height of the bed to match the door on the second cremator, and then the bed telescoped forward, carrying Gunny into the furnace.
    Holding a toilet plunger by its long wooden handle, pressing the rubber suction cup against Gunny’s head, Juliette held the body in the crematorium while the telescoping bed retracted into its original position.
    “That’s damn clever,” Billy said, indicating the plunger.
    Hearing this simple praise, Juliette ducked her head almost shyly. “A technique I developed.”
    As the woman closed the door and fired up the furnace, Billy said, “Gunny makes the best rack of lamb. Sorry if it’s overdone.”
    “I’m sure it’ll be perfect. You want to stay for dinner?”
    “I’d love to, but I can’t. My day isn’t done yet.”
    “You work too hard, Billy.”
    “I’m gonna slow down.”
    “How long have you been saying that?”
    “I mean it this time,” he assured her.
    “All you do is work. You don’t take care of yourself.”
    “I’m having a colonoscopy next week.”
    “Is something wrong?” she asked.
    “No, I’m good. My internist just recommends it at my age.”
    “Maybe he’s some kind of pervert.”
    “No. He doesn’t do the exam. I go to a specialist for that.”
    “Me, I’ve got high cholesterol.”
    “Have an arterial scan. I did. My cholesterol’s high, too, but they didn’t find any plaque.”
    “It’s all about genes, Billy. If you have good genes, you can eat nothing but fried cheese and doughnuts, live to be a hundred.”
    “You look like good genes to me,” he told her.
    From the funeral home, Billy drove the Shumpeter Cadillac to the hotel where he had previously booked luxurious accommodations in the name of Tyrone Slothrop.
    He left the Cadillac with the valet, presented his Slothrop American Express card to the registration clerk, and got his key. He carried the white trash bag to the elevator and went up to his suite.
    Harrow wanted to see everything in the bag, especially the snapshots from Amy Redwing’s previous life. Until Billy could turn the bag over to Harrow, he needed to keep it safe.
    The suite consisted of an immense overfurnished living room, two large overfurnished bedrooms, and two baths. The bathrooms were glittering wonderments of marble and mirror.
    He didn’t need the extra bedroom and bath. He didn’t need to drive a Hummer, either, but his personal collection of vehicles included three of them. He had time-shares in a private jet, and never traveled in scheduled airlines.
    Billy believed in fun. Fun was the central doctrine of his philosophy. For him, having a giant carbon footprint was essential to having fun.
    One of the businesses Billy had a piece of, through Harrow, was selling carbon offsets. He held binding commitments from three tribes in remote parts of Africa, which required them to plant huge numbers of trees and to continue living without running water, electricity, and oil-powered vehicles. The environmental damage they didn’t do could then be sold to movie stars, rock musicians, and others who were committed to reducing pollution but who were required, by the nature of their professions, to have humongous carbon footprints.
    Billy also sold carbon offsets to himself through an elaborate structure of LLPs, LLCs, and trusts that afforded him tremendous tax advantages. Best of all, he didn’t have to share any of the carbon-offset income with the African tribes because they didn’t exist.
    Two locked suitcases awaited him. He had packed them three days earlier and had sent them to the hotel by FedEx.
    Also awaiting him were arrangements of fresh flowers in every room, silver bowls full of perfect fruit, a box of superb chocolates, a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket—and on the nightstand in the primary bedroom, a just-released hardcover novel by one of his favorite writers, which the concierge had purchased at his request.
    Billy Pilgrim—now passing as Tyrone Slothrop, a name he had waited literally decades to use—should have been in a fine mood, but he was not.
    The events at the funeral home should have been fun. They had not tickled him at all.
    He wasn’t depressed, but he wasn’t elated, either. Emotionally, he had slipped into neutral.
    He had never been in neutral before. As he sat idling in his luxurious suite, the emptiness inside