Business

by J. P. Meyboom

  Numb, I wandered through the casino contemplating my next play, until two paramedics shouldered their way past me to a bank of slot machines. They lugged big black plastic cases of emergency supplies and a stretcher toward an old woman collapsed on the floor. Her cigarette still dangled from her soft camel lips. The paramedics tried lifting her onto their stretcher. The old bird fought back. She thrashed her arms about and yelled, “I got one more. I got one more. Let me play.”

  They paused their rescue to let the old lady insert her last coin into the slot machine. Everyone stopped to watch. The wheels spun round and round. One orange. Two oranges. A collective gasp of anticipation from the crowd. A lemon. The crowd groaned. The old lady buckled back onto the floor and the paramedics resumed their revival of another loser in the City of Sin.

  That was my sign. I returned to the cashier for more chips. All or nothing, that was the way to go. Play like the old lady. Play it all to the end. An urgent message went out to the universe: Paging Mr. Hornsmith, paging Mr. Hornsmith. Mr. Hornsmith is requested to report to the gaming tables immediately.

  Back on the floor, my first hundred-dollar bet on a new table summoned the king of hearts and the jack of diamonds. The dealer showed the eight of spades. An easy hundred bucks for me. The next round I bet another hundred for an ace-three combination. I took a hit for another jack. Common sense said to stand. Instead, I took a hit for a six and held on twenty points. The dealer busted and another hundred came my way. My game finally started to climb.

  Heady now, caution went out with sense. A thousand-dollar bet on a double down while the dealer drew twenty-three put me up five thousand dollars. In the next hand, the dealer returned with an ace-king combination. I blindly pushed out all my remaining chips and hit a blackjack. Hornsmith was doing his thing.

  Soon, I was up thirteen thousand. I did the math. I ran the numbers. I was on my way. I was going to dump the car and start a new life. Make a payment on a little place on the beach. Get a motorcycle. A Ducati. I liked the sound of it. Ducati. Like a dangerous ice cream.

  Then, in a moment of sheer inspiration, I took the entire night’s win and bet it all. The dealer showed the ace of diamonds. I held the ace of hearts and the jack of spades to back me up. Blackjack again. I was up over thirty thousand dollars. The money had doubled. I hadn’t wanted to come to Las Vegas. Akinwole had made me do it and Hornsmith had blessed me. Across the casino, Graham and his girlfriend laughed at a craps table. He kissed her hands before she tossed the dice. They hugged and kissed some more while everyone around them applauded and cheered. They were gambling their way into their dreams. We were all on fire.

  Inspired, for my last play I bet the entire wad. A hush washed over the room. One by one, the players at my table watched their own hands play out to naught. In the end, with nothing left to do, their sole source of amusement now was to see if fortune would crush me. That’s how it is when you’re winning, people will stick around to see you lose. A sickness comes after the drive to self-destruct has wrung out all self-respect, and the loneliness of losing seeks solace in the destruction of another. I smelled their sour disappointment without counting myself one of their miserable ranks. I would finish a winner.

  For my sins, the six of spades and the nine of spades lay there like the two turds they were. The cards snapped on the table. No one cared. Only my hubris locked in combat with Lady Luck, who sent out the queen of hearts, that violent monster of mayhem. I was bust. Wiped out in one play. A satisfied grunt circled the table. The game broke up and people drifted off to other diversions. Across the crowded casino, over by the hotel lobby, I caught the back of a blue sharkskin suit going out the door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A Bad Turn

  THE BENIHANA was what you’d expect if some designer conjured up an antique Japanese village from plastic, paint, and foam. A fortified gate of fake timber and iron protected the entrance. Inside, past the monstrous fanged statues in Ali Baba shoes were huts and trees. A mossy brook babbled between the tables while a demure staff and a bevy of chefs performed theatrics with knives and flames by the hibachi tables. Diners gasped and clapped.

  Mercifully, the lounge stood apart from the village. It vibed more conventional bar than an ancient Nipponese evening in some bogus shogun hideaway. There was nothing left to do. I’d wait here for Akinwole. The money was gone. My confidence shattered. I’d wait for him, if it meant forever. It was the only plan left.

  I slumped in a lounge chair beside the walkway between the Hilton and the convention centre. Like an indoor laneway, it was lined with a few other bars and restaurants. The busy foot traffic completed the feel of an intimate little street somewhere in limbo. In Vegas, inside felt like outside, only better.

  A waiter came from the village with a steamed face towel on a lacquered tray. He offered it with bamboo tongs.

  “You look tired, sir,” he said. “This will revive you.”

  The hot towel soothed my eyes. Road-weary and fed up, I felt depleted. Stuck in a rut. Unable to turn. Headed toward an uncertain end, with an ill-conceived, rootless plan. The threats from Courtney and the twins. The death and resurrection of Hornsmith. My misfortune in the casino. I was tearing at the seams. It was a miracle I didn’t have a stroke. A drink was in order.

  A porcelain carafe of warm sake and a glass of iced vodka Red Bull arrived. The booze soon coursed with a welcome rush over the cracked mud flats of my brain. The power grid came back online. The shock of defeat was rounded off. Sanded down. Ghosts didn’t exist. I’d been moved by a delusion brought on by a general grinding of my spirit over the past months. It could’ve been worse. I had eight hundred dollars left. Far from the fortune that had slipped through my fingers, but if I was careful, it was enough to get me to California. That was a small consolation.

  By my watch, Akinwole was twenty-five minutes late. Most likely, he’d pissed away the money and gone for a walk. Taken the elevator up to the thirtieth floor in search of the Elvis suite. Lost track of time. Gotten caught up in pursuit of the King’s ghost. If he didn’t come back soon, there’d have to be some new plan. Meanwhile, I was content to sit and drink. The waiter who’d been skulking in the shadows reappeared. My order for another sake and a vodka Red Bull slurred out wrong.

  “A sed rull and bakay,” I said. Earlier, I wouldn’t have mixed that up. That was then. Now, I was a new man.

  The waiter leaned in close enough for me to smell his cologne. Stale Pine Sol.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Somewhere a woman screamed like she’d been goosed with something cold. People laughed and cheered. I zoomed in on a group of drunks at a fake French bistro across the way. I watched while the waiter hovered. A woman poured a shot into the mouth of a man on his knees, his head tilted back, eyes closed in prayer. The others cheered her on. In the middle of the group, Akinwole laughed on a bar stool.

  “Was there anything else, sir?” the waiter said.

  “Bill.” I groped through my pockets for some cash. “The bill.”

  When he saw me, Akinwole waved me over.

  “Paul, you found us at last. Come and meet the Mississauga Duplicate Bridge Club,” he said, “fellow countrymen on a weekend excursion.”

  “We were meeting at the Benihana,” I said. “I’ve been waiting there.”

  “Cheer up,” Akinwole said, “you sound like a pouting girlfriend. You found me, which is what matters. You look like shit. Have a drink.”

  He reached back and, from the bar, produced a shot glass of thick green liquid. It looked like snot. There were about thirty more shots lined up. I knocked it back. It tasted like mint with a good kick. I passed one eye over his new playmates, who laughed and shoved one another. A few of the men talked in loud, enthusiastic voices about the marvels of a new lawn tractor one of them had recently bought back home in Mississauga. The second shot went down like the first. Easy.

  “What’re we celebrating?”

  “I struck it rich,” Akinwole sai
d. “I hit the jackpot.”

  “And these folks? They strike it rich, too?”

  “No,” he said, “I picked them up along the way and bought them some drinks.”

  “What happened?” I said. “How much money did you win?”

  “I selected a machine, like you said. One I liked. It had a painted safari scene. Elephants in silhouette. I dropped in a coin. Pushed a button. It spun around for a while until lights went off and bells started ringing. And out popped a slip of paper.”

  “Which you took to the cashier?”

  “I was unsure what to do with it until a gentleman who looked like Sherlock Holmes in a blue sharkskin suit stuck his head out from behind the machine and told me I was a winner. He showed me where to take the slip.”

  Right after I’d given up on ghosts.

  “What was he doing behind the machine?”

  “I suppose he was playing on the other side and heard the commotion. It attracted a small crowd.”

  “So, what did you win?”

  “At the cashier they gave me three hundred and seventeen thousand dollars,” he said. “They asked how I wanted it. I said cash. In response, they gave me a briefcase to carry it in. On the house.”

  He pointed to a metal briefcase on the bar next to him. Gobsmacked, I stared at Akinwole. He smiled back and counted fifty dollars from a wad in his pocket.

  “Thank you for the loan,” he said. “This would never have happened otherwise.”

  He peeled off some more bills without counting and pressed them into my hand.

  “You are a good man, Paul,” he said. “You need to find your way back to the light.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Come, have another drink with our new friends before going,” Akinwole said.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Not we, friend — me,” Akinwole said. “I have decided not to continue to Los Angeles with you.”

  He passed me another glass of green snot and took one for himself. With a nod, he offered up a wordless toast, swallowed, shuddered, and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “I have my own plan, Paul,” he said. “Now that I have some means, I intend to make a change. Do something constructive. Have some fun.”

  “How does that translate?”

  “I plan to return to Detroit. There is a beautiful woman waiting there. I think I will give her a call. See if she will have dinner with me.”

  “And then?”

  “And then see what happens.”

  “That’s your plan? Have dinner with Shirley Rose and see what happens?”

  “I see many opportunities in that city. A chicken place. A literacy drop-in centre. A Jiffy Lube franchise. Who knows? We will see.”

  “LA has so much more to offer,” I said. “It’s a big place with all sorts of interesting people. A person could do anything he wants in that city.”

  Akinwole wasn’t moved. “Good needs to be done elsewhere. Besides, she is not in LA, is she?”

  The Mississauga Duplicate Bridge Club had settled under an alcohol mist around their table. They murmured amongst themselves, reeking of jet lag and shooters. One woman rested her head on the table. Two of the men arm-wrestled.

  “When are you planning to go?”

  “I checked with the concierge. There is a plane early this evening. I would like it if you brought me to the airport.”

  His pronouncement left me winded. He grounded me. He gave me courage. The notion of his departure filled me with loneliness.

  “Do not be upset with me,” Akinwole said, as though he sensed my despair. “Something is calling, and I must go.”

  “And go you shall,” I said. “It wasn’t part of my plan to have you come along with me. Finally, I’ll be rid of you.”

  “You’re an asshole, Paul, and you’re still my friend.”

  He grinned and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “I am, and you are,” I said to keep it light.

  I could’ve dropped him off on the curb. Instead, we parked the Firebird in the airport garage and together found the counter inside for Akinwole’s ticket. I needed to be sure he left without complications. I also needed to keep our connection. His departure wasn’t yet complete, and already a quiet sorrow crept in on socked feet at the notion of my travelling on without him. Not that I mentioned it. Instead, I made sure he had his ticket.

  Afterward, there wasn’t much time, so we hustled over to security, where we said goodbye.

  “You have her address,” Akinwole said. “Get in touch in a few days. She will tell you how to find me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll have finished the drive by then. I might come back to Detroit.”

  “Yes. Do. And thank you for taking me this far,” he said. “Do not become a stranger.”

  “See you around,” I said, and with that, we parted in different directions. Despite our well-intentioned words, I didn’t believe we would share the same highway anytime soon.

  With a walking waking hangover and unsure of what to do next, as usual when faced with uncertainty, I moved into a bar to refuel and regroup. This time, a fake little beach bar with a plastic swordfish mounted on the wall. Little white Christmas lights over the cash. A plastic pelican perched on a plastic barrel marked Rum in stencilled letters. Thin reggae music piped through tinny little speakers. A soulless spot with two stand-up tables across from the car rental counters. A place people stopped for a few fast shots before they carried on with whatever had led them to the need for a drink.

  The vodka Red Bull combination should’ve been the right mixture to keep me engaged. But this time there was no effect. Unease and anxiety lingered. I missed Akinwole already and wished he hadn’t bolted. To reassure myself all wasn’t lost, I played with the diminished roll of bills in my pocket. My walk-around. At least it was something.

  At a car rental desk, someone tried to sort a ride. An uninterested clerk processed the reservation. The clerk shook his head. Something was wrong. The man tapped his foot. Black cowboy boots. Silver caps over the toes and heels. He wore expensive designer jeans meant to look old and faded. His hand straightened a beautiful black braid that ran down his back in contrast to his tanned buckskin jacket. A glint of silver rings flashed. He reached across the counter in what seemed like an attempt to grab the clerk. Or, he could’ve been reaching for a pen. Hard to say. The man looked both ways like he was checking whether anyone noticed. That was when I recognized his profile. Eagle Creek.

  I seized up at the table, afraid to move lest he spotted me. I visualized myself as another plastic bamboo pillar under the bar’s fake straw roof. I held my breath. Was that knife in his checked bag, or was it already tucked into his waistband? Eagle Creek peeled off his Ray-Bans. He scanned the scene. He started to look toward me when the clerk distracted him with a piece of paper. Eagle Creek turned back to address the clerk.

  I stepped out of the tiki hut bar and walked back into the airport, casual. I zigzagged around to make sure he wasn’t following me. I locked myself in a toilet cubicle for a while. After an hour, he still hadn’t caught up to me, so I retreated to the parking garage and slouched in the front seat of the Firebird, hidden from view, hyperventilating. My hands clenched the steering wheel until my knuckles ached. Sweat rolled down my armpits. Akinwole was right: telling the twins our location had been a mistake. They’d dispatched their man to hunt me. Now he was close enough to touch.

  I stared through the windshield at the hood spinning before my eyes. Overcome with nausea, I opened the car door and retched, the only sound in the garage the splash of vomit on the concrete floor.

  After a while, I sat up. Wiped my mouth. Locked the doors. Another hour passed before I felt sure he wasn’t near the airport anymore. Finally, I fired up the car. I knew what to do. Outrun the devil. Take the car and vanish. It wasn’t part of the plan but the plan had been shape-shifting since Toronto anyway. It had only ever included some cash and a ride out of town. The rest had been an impro
visation.

  Going back to the hotel wasn’t a choice. Eagle Creek would track me there soon enough. He’d waste a day or two staking it out once he found it. That would buy some time. I pointed the Firebird out of Vegas the way we’d come, back into the desert. He’d figure I’d left town for sure and with luck, he wouldn’t consider that I’d doubled back. The I-15 northbound stood straight and long. The land vast and wide. In the fading sun, any vehicle coming up from behind would’ve been easy to spot. No one followed.

  After a while, somewhere past Salina along the I-70, my eyes closed, and the car almost slipped off the road. Down came the windows to let the night air and the noise of the wind keep me awake. Useless. My eyes drooped again. My head bobbed down. Chin bounced on chest.

  I followed an exit off the freeway onto a darkened county road to find a place to pull over and sleep awhile. Disoriented by a crossroad, I turned onto a bumpy desert road. The Firebird’s high beams cut through the dark. You could’ve seen them from outer space. The car felt warm and safe. Silent. Except for the dull growl of the engine, content at work. Out of the night, something small flashed across the road. A rabbit. A fox. Hard to tell in the dark. I swerved hard to the left. It made no difference. There was a soft bump bump under the wheels.

  To stay out of the ditch, I oversteered hard in the opposite direction. The Firebird spun sideways across the road. At this speed, the tires lost grip. They squealed in protest. Burnt rubber smoked around the windows. Out of control, the car skidded off the road into a gully and rolled over onto its side. The wail of shearing metal and the dull crunch of shattered glass mixed with the roar of the outraged engine. The roof started to tear off its posts.

  The wreckage slid across rocks and brush to a halt on a gnarled stump under the stars. The motor fell silent. When quiet was restored to the prairie, a few night peepers cautiously offered up their commentary.