Lucky Stiff

by Elizabeth Sims

  "OK," I said, "I'll fix up a box and we'll be over later."

  "Make it late, OK? I'm working closing."

  "OK, after one?"

  "Yeah, that'll be good."

  What the hell, I thought, who needs sleep anyway?

  I tried to nap through the afternoon, then gave up and listened to more music, some Vaughan Williams, a smattering of Grieg. I ate up some vegetables and bread that might go bad while I was away. At around eleven-thirty I got out my Cambridge Buskers CDs and put them in my purse. I found a cardboard carton in my closet, shredded a few brown paper bags into it, and added Todd.

  "You're going to meet all your good friends again," I told him. "'Member Billie? And Salome the cat and Nini the cat and Butch the friendly dog and Roscoe the mostly friendly dog and Pammy the rat and all her kinfolk?"

  He looked at me balefully, I thought. We'd been having such a nice, quiet time at home. Who the hell wanted to go out at this hour? I put a few timothy nuggets in the box too.

  "Sorry, Toddy, it's important," I explained. "If I can talk to a treacherous bitch in a faraway desert land where water flows like gold and pictures of cherries roll on thousands of little wheels going nowhere, I can get some answers."

  He looked up at me with his shining black eyes as I folded the box flaps over him.

  "Course," I added, "it'll all depend on what the questions are."

  I slung my purse over my shoulder and carried the box downstairs to the Caprice.

  Chapter 13

  On the street, I inhaled the night-city air: the moisture from the tall old trees in the neighborhood, warm asphalt, cut grass, exhaust fumes from a passing motorcycle. I put Todd's box on the grass and unlocked the passenger door. As I was opening it I had a sudden uneasy feeling. I turned to look behind me, but no one was there. I glanced up and down the street.

  "Just as well to get out of town for a few days," I muttered, loading Todd onto the front seat.

  Riding in the car appeared to bore Todd; I'd noticed that news radio seemed to hold his attention, so I put on AM 950, the CBS affiliate, and together we listened to the drone of the announcers.

  I drove down to Greektown and cruised the streets for a free parking space, not that I expected to find one. Busy time down there, lots of people out enjoying Friday night. Partaking of a little kebab action, a little gambling action. I saw Blind Lonnie playing to a semicircle of listeners.

  With resignation I swung into the parking structure. No spaces on the lower floors, but when I got to the fourth it was practically vacant. The air was cooler in the concrete structure.

  "Todd, be good, OK? I'll be right back."

  I left the windows cranked down a little, grabbed my bag and scooted out, cursing having to pay to park my car for ten goddamn minutes.

  The stairwell smelled like urine.

  I hurried up Monroe Street to Lonnie. He was playing "Margie," bluesing it up like a ballad to a dead prom queen instead of the perky tune it'd been written as. The semicircle of people stood listening, hands on their hips or in their pockets. Lonnie hit his final chord in his signature way, an upstroke, except he hit this one with such force that he snapped his E string.

  "Aw, sumbitch," he murmured as a small shower of money plopped into his case. He bent forward, reaching for the compartment where he kept his spare strings. The people moved off.

  "Hey, man," I said.

  "Lily, hi. Where's your axe?" He hadn't heard me set my case down.

  "Didn't bring it. I just stopped by to give you these CDs I was telling you about, 'member, the Cambridge Buskers?"

  "Oh, yeah!" He straightened up holding a string envelope. He reached out and I put the jewel boxes in his free hand. "Thank you! You need 'em back soon?"

  "Naw, whenever."

  "So how are you? Did you do some listenin'?"

  "Yeah, I did."

  "And?"

  "I'm going to Las Vegas in the morning."

  "Would that be a positive, bold step, then?"

  "Yes. Yes, Lonnie, it would."

  "Awright! When you comin' back?" He extracted the broken string and threaded in the new one.

  "Few days, I guess."

  "Well, stay away from the blackjack tables."

  "I don't even know how to play blackjack."

  "All the worse!" Lonnie let out a grand laugh. He cranked his string. "All the worse!"

  In the parking garage I took the elevator, avoiding the pee-saturated stairwell. As I hurried toward my car near the end of a row, I noticed that that end of the garage was dark, much darker than it had been.

  I walked over something crunchy. Broken glass. I stopped, looked up, and saw a light fixture overhead, busted out. The scattering of glass was fresh and more or less compact: hadn't been driven over, hadn't been trod around.

  There was another splash of shards twenty feet along, then the suggestion of another in the deep darkness beyond. The garage was dead quiet.

  "Shit," I whispered.

  Cautiously, I advanced down the row. I saw no one. I slipped my keys out of my pocket. My scalp tightened. I took another step, then another. I stopped uncertainly. Everything felt wrong. My saliva went metallic. Go back down, I thought, and find a security guy or somebody. The very air of that parking garage felt poisonous.

  The quiet was suddenly broken. It came from the darkness, a hollow scratchy sound, like something being shaken back and forth in a large container. It was something.

  It was Todd in his box.

  I heard the box hit the concrete floor and silence for a moment, then Todd scrabbling hard.

  "Todd!" I shouted.

  Someone had watched me. Someone had watched me carry a box to my car, followed me here, and jimmied or busted the car door, peeked inside the box, and got an idea.

  In a swoop I understood the plan. Todd had become an impromptu decoy. I, being the sloppy-hearted animal lover, would risk coming to his rescue and be lured into the clutches of evil.

  I needed only a few frozen seconds to consider. Todd was a treasured friend, a faithful friend, and I was as fond of him as I was of Uncle Guff. Todd's life with me flashed through my mind. Our first meeting at the state fair so long ago—an old farmer, a crabby livestock judge, a bitten finger (mine); our battles with Mrs. Gagnon's dog, Monty; our games—Mad Scramble, Find Punkin', Jump on Monty, and all our nameless fun. Todd's alertness whenever danger came around had saved my bacon more than once. Ah, the naughty times, the good times. He was an exceptional rabbit, tractable and patient, yet inquisitive and plucky.

  But he was, after all, a rabbit. In another lifetime I might have raised rabbits for slaughter, or hunted them. I ate meat. I caught and killed fish and ate them.

  In the final analysis, whoever was there in the shadows had sadly overestimated me. While I would grieve if something bad happened to Todd, I'd be alive to do it. Perhaps I could support another bunny in memory of him.

  All this, though not in the fully formed way it takes to tell it, rolled through my mind. I stood poised in the dimness. I guess half a minute had passed since the elevator doors slid closed behind me.

  I turned and ran.

  A rough voice in the shadows said, "Goddamn!"

  I took off fast, but the elevators and stairs were a good thirty yards away. I heard the terrifying sound of footsteps behind me.

  I reached the metal stairwell door and grabbed the knob. I turned it this way then that, but the door didn't give. I realized that in my haste I was pressing hard against the door, and my body weight was making the latch bind. I was too panicked even to swear. I backed off, tried the knob again, and swung the door open. I practically threw myself down the concrete staircase. I could move rapidly, but my little ballet with the doorknob had cost me.

  I was grabbed from behind, a sweaty arm flung itself across my throat, and I was yanked backward into a solid, round belly. The man felt like a cow or a pig, some broad animal. Smelled like one too. I willed myself not to struggle, for the moment; I wanted a
second or two to size up the situation.

  The hairy arms spun me around, and I beheld my attacker wearing a black ski mask with a yellow pompon on top. I believe the rest of his ensemble comprised a dirty T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.

  We were on a landing between floors. He threw me up against the wall and hauled back with his fist to punch me. His eyes, small and bloodshot, were on my midsection.

  I sidestepped. He checked his fist and grabbed for me again. I flung one hand skyward, which caught his eye, allowing me a split second to drive my knee into his crotch.

  My knee hit something very hard. He bellowed, but to my astonishment he remained upright. The son of a bitch was wearing a cup!

  Panting, he backhanded me in the face, then delivered the gut blow I'd avoided once.

  I can't begin to describe the pain of that. I know this wasn't the kind of pain Minerva LeBlanc had warned me about, but it was pretty goddamn bad. It felt like an express bus plowing into my belly all the way through to my spine. My knees buckled and I went down on all fours. Gasping, I looked up. I saw the Coors belt buckle. I knew it: Hawley.

  I had in fact hurt him a little, as he belatedly grabbed his groin with one hand and, bending down, cuffed me on the side of the head with the other.

  This all happened in a few seconds. My mind struggled to keep up. I realized he wasn't trying to kill me, or he would've done it by now, either by strangling me when he first caught me, or hitting me hard in the face, then stomping my head when I went down.

  The advice from a dozen self-defense minicourses, magazine articles, and angry-dyke bull sessions came to me in the form of voices shouting in my head.

  Gouge his eyes out! hollered one.

  But I have to get to my feet first.

  Use your keys as a weapon! screamed another.

  I need to get a breath first.

  Drive your fist into his throat! insisted yet another.

  "Help," I croaked. I rose to my knees.

  Hawley slapped me across the mouth and treated me to another gut punch. He stood back.

  I didn't hear any of the blows he laid on me.

  My mind was slow now. I began the process of what I thought was getting up, in order to fight back or flee, but found myself sitting on my butt, my back against the concrete wall.

  Satisfied that I didn't have the means to mount any more defense, he crouched down to my level.

  Dimly, I saw his eyes studying me through the holes in his mask. Up close, I felt the man's viciousness, his menace. His contempt. It was there in his hate-bitten eyes: his belief in his own privilege, in the violent supremacy of his needs over those of anyone else.

  Clearly and loudly, he said, "Drop it."

  I slid all the way to the floor and watched his sneakers stride away. The sneakers pattered quickly down the stairs. I lifted my head, but didn't have the strength to hold it up, and it kunked down on the stinking concrete.

  .

  I was out for a few minutes, maybe ten, who knows. It couldn't have been long, because no one had found me. I roused and shifted my body on the concrete. With every move the muscles in my back and stomach cramped and clenched. I felt cold.

  Opening my eyes required conscious effort. The first thing I saw was a giant Todd, wavering darkly there, out of focus, then in, then out again.

  The stairwell door had stuck open somehow, and he had chewed out of his box and hopped around and down the stairs until he found me. He eyed me, then moved closer. He put his brown face right up to my nose. I crawled up a few steps, then had to stop. Todd bumped up at my side.

  I had to work to remember what had happened.

  "Hey!" a voice called out. "Ellert, zat choo?"

  I crawled up another step as someone came up from below. "Hey, yurrat music lady." It was Drooly Rick, one of the street people. He smelled like a thousand bar rags and his nose was running. But he helped me up the steps to the next landing.

  I told him I'd slipped and fallen.

  "Oh," he said. "Well, I just come inna take-a piss, you know how it is, 'n' I thought yurrur Ellert. But I guess he ant here." He bent closer. "Yur mouth's bleedin'. Here." He dug in his overcoat pocket and pulled out a wad of filthy tissues and pressed them to my lips.

  I gagged and pushed his hand away. "Thank you, but I think I'm gonna be sick."

  He backed off. I coughed but didn't throw up.

  "I'm OK," I told him. "Thank you, Rick. Thanks a lot, OK?"

  "Got 'ny cigs?"

  "Ah, unnh." It hurt to take a deep breath. Man, did my gut hurt. "Not on me."

  He exclaimed, "Where'd at rabbit come from?!"

  "Never mind, Rick. It's my rabbit."

  "Oh."

  "You run along now, OK?"

  The only time I'd felt even a tenth this bad was after getting talked into joining a rugby game with some women who had been the kind of girls who scared the crap out of me in junior high school. They needed a substitute at the last minute and were desperate enough to ask me. Once the game started I realized it was a long-awaited grudge match between two bloodthirsty teams. I was clobbered around in the scrums like a rag doll. My ears rang for a week.

  I sat and breathed awhile, feeling my face and head with my fingers. A couple of goose eggs were coming up on my head. My lip hurt but didn't feel badly torn. I pulled up my T-shirt and wiped blood off with the hem. I looked down at my belly. A couple of vast red marks spanning my midsection were starting to turn purple. I pressed on them and wondered if I was bleeding internally.

  When it became clear I wasn't going to feel much better anytime soon, I grunted to my feet, palming the wall for support. My vision cleared after a minute. I scooped up Todd.

  "I'm sorry, boy," I murmured.

  He snugged his hind feet under my arm and looked up at me.

  "God, I'm sorry, Todd. You would never desert me. Yet I abandoned you. Oh, Toddy."

  His expression was calm.

  I made him a promise. "I'll never let anybody hurt you."

  His whiskers stirred. He understood.

  Together we trudged up another flight to the Caprice.

  .

  I drove to Billie's and stood in the glare of her porch light. I rang the bell. When she opened the door I just handed Todd to her, saying, "Don't even ask."

  Her eyes were huge, scrutinizing my face.

  "Jesus Christ, Lillian, come in."

  "Can't, hon, gotta go. Everything's all right. I promise I'll fill you in later. 'K?

  Cradling Todd, Billie ran her hand through her frizzy Lucy Ricardo hairdo and shifted her weight in her pink scuffs. She heaved a tree-bending sigh and said, "'K."

  Chapter 14

  Morning came damn soon. I nursed myself with a shower and ice packs, longing for a beautiful loving girlfriend to croon over my injuries and feed me broth. Calico Jones always had a brand-new beautiful loving girlfriend to croon over her injuries and feed her broth. By the time I had to get up and dressed, I didn't look all that bad. Fat lip, bruise on one cheek, granted, but I got out the baggie full of makeup I'd accumulated from one occasion and the other and used it to good effect. I applied a swath of scarlet lipstick, widening my lip line, which helped a lot.

  However, I deliberately did not do the best job I could. I realized almost as soon as Bob Hawley had finished kicking the living shit out of me that I could put the beating to good use. I stood back from the mirror. You could tell, all right. And you could tell I'd tried to hide it.

  I was waiting on the stoop when Duane pulled up in his knights-in-white-satin Thunderbird at 6 o'clock on the nose. He noticed first that I was moving slowly, then got a look at my face. As I dropped into the passenger seat he looked me over closely.

  "Oh, no," he said.

  "I'm all right. Really. Put 'er in gear." I related my evening to him as we made good time to Detroit Metropolitan. "So you see," I concluded cheerfully, "we're on the right track."

  "I sure don't like it." He had come to accept the possibility that T
rix-Lynette-Patricia was alive. But he hadn't yet managed to get his mind around the fact that his mother was almost certainly dead.

  "That's irrelevant," I said. "Got the money?"

  "I got the money, Lillian."

  "You didn't shave, did you?" I reached over to feel his cheek.

  "No. I feel like a thug."

  "That's the idea. Got your shades too?"

  "Yeah. I brought my leather baseball cap too."

  "Oh, good. That sounds perfect."

  .

  The phrase off-season is much too mild a description for Las Vegas in June. Off-season suggests a merry-go-round that's been shuttered because the leaves have begun to fall. The Nevada desert in summer is so hideously harsh, so appallingly hot, so flat and dusty, that you fear your very eyeballs will shrivel in your head if you don't blink often enough. The heat feels like a mortal enemy.

  Plunked on a blazing plain between barren mountains, the extravagant buildings of the Strip and downtown look like mistakes. The whole town looks like a mistake, down to the last house—like temporary shelter for a wandering tribe. Our pilot informed us that the temperature this afternoon was 112 degrees.

  Another thing about Las Vegas, a good thing, is that there appear to be no deeply stupid people living in that town. The dryness and heat motivate everybody, the dull as well as the smart, to keep their lips closed. There might be yokels in Las Vegas, but none of them are slack-jawed.

  While Duane arranged for our rental car at the desk inside the terminal, I bought a detailed street map, borrowed a phone book, and made some notes.

  "Who in God's name would live here by choice?" I said, as we struggled to breathe while waiting at the curb for the shuttle. "I don't care that it's a dry heat. Don't talk to me about dry heat. This is worse than Palm Springs."

  "Nobody moves to Las Vegas expecting to live here on the cheap, and year-round to boot," answered Duane. "Everybody thinks they're going to make a big score, then they'll never have to leave their air-conditioned mansion…Or they'll do Switzerland in the summer. Or at least Lake George or someplace."