Rovers

by RICHARD LANGE

I took a bag of ice and a bottle of water out to Sally. Czarnecki would’ve said, “Fuck him,” but I wanted the kid in decent shape, ready to hunt. The air inside the camper was so hot, it was hard to breathe. Sally was gasping when I opened the crate. He guzzled the water and laid the ice on his chest.

  “You’re a good man,” he said.

  “I’d do the same for a dog,” I replied and locked him up again.

  It was too hot to sleep in the truck once we got to Vegas, so I splurged on a motel just off the Strip. I closed the drapes, turned up the air conditioner, and took a cold shower. Lying on the bed afterward, I was snoring before my body dried.

  I woke at dusk. Next to the phone was a menu for a Chinese restaurant that delivered. I called and ordered the works, the Emperor’s Feast, for two. The food arrived, and when I’d had my fill, I decided to bring Sally in to eat his share rather than carrying everything out to him.

  The sun was down, but it was still stifling in the camper. I unlocked the crate and said, “You can come inside for a while, but if you so much as twitch in a way that spooks me, I’ll kill you.”

  “You got my word, boss,” Sally said.

  I covered him with the .45 as he climbed out of the box. I’d backed the truck into the space in front of the room, so all he had to do was cross the walkway. He sat at the table in his chains and ate out of the cartons. I sat on the bed, keeping the gun on him. He used chopsticks at first but changed to a fork, said his fingers weren’t working right.

  When he asked if I’d turn on the TV, I couldn’t think of a reason not to. He finished his dinner watching a cop show and wanted to take a shower. I could smell him from across the room, so I tossed him the keys so he could undress. Though I’d seen him without clothes in Czarnecki’s shed, he seemed even more pitiful now: skin stretched over bulging bones, muscles wasted away, toothpick legs. The butterfly tattoo on his chest and gold tooth were like diamond earrings and a tiara on a corpse. I let him bathe without cuffs. There was no danger of him slipping out through the tiny window in the bathroom.

  He was steadier on his feet afterward, stood a little straighter. I gave him a T-shirt and a pair of pants from my duffel. They hung on him like he was a scarecrow, but at least they were clean. Then I told him to get back into his chains. We were going hunting.

  He locked himself in next to me in the truck, and we drove up and down the Strip. When we passed the Sands, I recalled when you and I stayed there. That was a good time. We saw Redd Foxx and Wayne Newton, laid out by the pool, and ate steak and lobster two dinners in a row. I’ll have different kinds of memories after this visit, terrible ones. That’s how it is now: Everything good in my past is being swallowed by a rising tide of horror.

  After an hour with no sign of a rover, I switched to Fremont Street downtown. Remember how it is there, casinos crammed together cheek by jowl, tourists overflowing the sidewalks? You said the lights and noise hypnotized them into throwing away their money. Sally and I crawled past the crowds with our windows down, and it was like bees buzzing in a sparkling hive.

  The kid had been quiet since we left the motel. Czarnecki accused him of playing games, of not pointing out rovers when he spotted them, and I wondered if he might be doing me the same way. A block later, though, he whistled and said, “Bingo.”

  It was a white woman, tall, skinny, blond hair piled on top of her head. She looked to be in her thirties and was wearing a short dress and the kind of high heels meant to attract attention. I kept pace with her as she bopped down the sidewalk, but then she ducked into the Golden Nugget.

  “Are you sure?” I asked Sally.

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  I found a spot on the second floor of a parking garage and, as soon as the coast was clear, hustled Sally into his crate. My heart was pounding as I ran down the stairs and through the back entrance of the casino. The place was packed with gamblers hovering over blackjack tables and slouched in front of slots. A celebration broke out at a craps game, clapping and whistling and shouts of “Attaboy” and “Keep ’em coming,” and waitresses dressed like Old West saloon girls chanted, “Cocktails, cocktails.”

  I squinted through the cigarette smoke for the blonde, found her posing at the bar. The bartender set a drink in front of her and she reached for her purse, but the guy sitting beside her, a balding, paunchy white man in a cheap suit, laid a hand on her arm. “Pretty ladies drink for free when Mark Arcamonte’s around,” he said. He and the woman began to flirt.

  I sat at a nearby slot machine and eavesdropped on the man’s life story, or at least the version he told women he met in bars: Illinois, insurance, top salesman, only the best for him. He took out his wallet and showed the blonde photos of his car and his boat. When he flipped to a picture of his kids, he kept his thumb over the face of his ex-wife, who was also in the shot. “You don’t want to look at her,” he said. “You’ll turn to stone.”

  The blonde laughed when she was supposed to, offered sympathy when Arcamonte asked for it, and thanked him for the free drinks with cheek kisses and cuddles. Finally, though, it was time to close the deal.

  “This has been fun and all, but you know I’m on the clock, right?” she said.

  “Sure, sure, I get that,” Arcamonte replied.

  “So what now?”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I tailed them as they walked out of the casino and east on Fremont. The crowds disappeared after a few blocks, casinos giving way to liquor stores, pawnshops, and budget motels. The blonde and Arcamonte turned into the parking lot of a low-slung dump called the Sky Harbor Inn. I caught up in time to see them step into Room 104 on the ground floor.

  It hit me that Arcamonte might be the blonde’s next victim instead of a customer. I crossed the street, sat on the curb, and pictured her talking dirty to him, nuzzling his ear, then pulling a knife to cut his throat. God was kind to the man, however: An hour after he went into the room with the blonde, he left alone and slunk back toward Glitter Gulch.

  Fifteen minutes later the blonde came out. She walked two doors down, to Room 106, and used a key to let herself in. It was 2 a.m. I kept watch until 5, but she never reappeared.

  I was wide-awake as day broke, buzzing with nervous energy. Knowing the blonde would have to stay put, I hurried back to the truck and grabbed Czarnecki’s duffel bag, the one he carried into the Mexican’s room in Reno. It held everything I’d need. Then it was back to the motel.

  Fremont was deserted now, except for one crazy drunk shadowboxing in the window of a casino. The slot parlors’ recorded spiels echoed down the empty street, and daylight dimmed the neon to almost nothing.

  Nobody was stirring at the Sky Harbor, either. My chest was tight as I approached Room 106, my hands shook when I took the crowbar from the bag and wedged it into place, and I was going on pure instinct when I forced the door open.

  The blonde, wearing only a bathrobe, flew at me from the bed. She went for my eyes, but I backed her off with the crowbar. Her skin smoked when she stumbled into the sunlight streaming through the doorway. She kicked the door shut and charged again.

  I swung the crowbar and caught her in the head. Blond wig askew, she fell onto the bed, bleeding from a gash on her scalp. I pulled out the ice pick I’d slipped into the pocket of my coat and dove at her. As I straddled her, ready to stab her in the heart, a child’s voice rang out.

  “Mommy!”

  I glanced over to see a girl of seven or so, dressed in Raggedy Ann pajamas, cowering near the bathroom. My pause gave the blonde time to recover. She bucked me off, and we wrestled for the pick. “Please don’t kill my daughter,” she said. This was something I hadn’t planned on, something I hadn’t even imagined. “Do what you want to me, but don’t kill her.”

  I got on top of her again and drew back the pick. The child was crying now. The blonde lifted her hands, fingers laced together. “Please,” she said, then punched me in the nose with both fists. Blinded by pain, I stabbed wildly.

>   The child jumped onto the bed and grabbed me around the throat from behind. She bit my ear, digging her teeth in and shaking her head until I fell back on top of her.

  “Kill him!” she yelled.

  The blonde came up with a knife, rolled over, and brought the blade down. I blocked her arm and stuck the ice pick in her neck. Blood spraying out of her mouth spattered my face. I yanked the pick free and jammed it into her chest. She stopped coughing and went limp.

  I pried the child’s fingers from my throat, bending them until some broke, then picked her up and flung her across the room. She bounced off the wall and lay moaning on the floor. I grabbed the crowbar.

  “You motherfucker,” the child hissed. “You piece of shit.”

  I brought the bar down on her head. That shut her up.

  I didn’t bother carrying the bodies into the bathroom. I used the hacksaw to turn them to ash where they lay, the blonde on the bed, the child on the floor.

  After catching my breath, I put the ice pick and crowbar in the bag and took a winding route—side streets and alleys—back to the truck, stopping often to make sure nobody was following. I didn’t notice I had blood on my hands until I pulled into the parking lot of my motel.

  Even though I was in the blonde’s room for less than five minutes, I feel like I was transformed there, like I burst and shed my old skin. What I fear is that I’m now more akin to one of the monsters than to a man, and farther away from home than ever. Pray for me.

  June 30, 1976, Las Vegas

  I took water to Sally in the hottest part of the day yesterday and brought him in to finish the Chinese food when the sun went down. He looked even steadier and more clear-eyed, and I thought of Czarnecki’s warning about keeping him weak.

  “Did you get the woman?” he asked as he broke open a fortune cookie.

  “None of your business,” I replied.

  “You don’t seem too happy about it,” he said. “The old man, shit, he’d celebrate afterward, get drunk, fry up a steak, play his cowboy records. You look like someone kicked you in the balls.”

  “I don’t take joy in killing, even if it’s monsters,” I said.

  “So you’re in the wrong line of work then,” Sally said. “You want my advice? If it doesn’t sit right with you, don’t do it. Walk away. Cut me loose, and walk away.”

  “I’ve got a score to settle.”

  The kid picked up a chopstick and sighted down it like you would a pool cue to check if it was bowed.

  “A rover took someone you knew?” he said.

  “My son,” I said. I’ve grown so used to talking about Benny’s death with strangers that it slipped out before I could stop it.

  “And how many rovers are you gonna have to kill to get even?” Sally said.

  I wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion, especially not with someone who’d say anything to regain his freedom.

  “Shut your mouth or it’s back in the box,” I said.

  “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

  “Shut your mouth,” I said again, this time acting like I was about to get up and do him harm.

  “It’s cool,” Sally said. “Everything’s cool.” He turned to watch television. A news program was on, something about preparations for the Fourth around the country.

  I stared at the set too, thinking about Sally’s question regarding getting even. I wondered at what point the thirst for vengeance becomes a sin of pride. I remembered God’s warning against lashing out at those who’ve wronged you, Him saying, “It is mine to avenge, I will repay.” And then I questioned whether all that wasn’t just me looking for an excuse to cut and run after getting a real taste of what my life will be like if I take up Czarnecki’s crusade.

  After a while, Sally said, “What’s going on in Vietnam?”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I’ve been in a hole for ten years, man. I don’t know anything.”

  “The war’s over,” I said. “They say we lost.”

  “How about the Yankees? How are they doing?”

  “Looking good this year. Might go all the way.”

  “Who’s dead? Who’s alive? Louis Armstrong?”

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  “Coltrane?”

  “Dead.”

  “I bet fucking Sinatra’s still kicking though. Fucking Bing Crosby.”

  “Both alive,” I said.

  “Figures.”

  Sally quieted down again, then said, “I’ve got a score to settle too.”

  “With who?” I said.

  “DC? My pal?” Sally said. “You know who dusted him? Rovers. Three nigger-hating rovers.” He started to fidget. “We were in Memphis,” he continued. “Him and this kid were walking back to our hotel from Beale Street where he was playing, and these rednecks jumped them. They said they didn’t need another rover in Memphis, especially not a black one, and tied DC and the kid up and drove them out to the sticks.

  “The kid got away but hid close by and came to me later and told me what happened. He said the hicks beat DC until all his bones were broken. He said one of them blew on DC’s horn while the others took turns stabbing him. After that they put a noose around his neck and threw him off a bridge. Dumb as they were, they didn’t think about the drop. When the rope snapped taut, it tore DC’s head right off. He was dust before his shoes hit the river.”

  Sally bent double in the chair and went silent for a while, then suddenly sat up and said, “I loved that man. I still can’t think about what happened to him without wanting to die myself.”

  “I loved my son,” I said.

  “So you understand,” Sally said. “You understand that even though being locked up in that shed has been hell, I figure at least I’ve gotten a little payback for DC by leading the old man to rovers.”

  I was tired of listening to him, tired of having to think about things from his point of view. What I needed was clarity, not someone muddying the water even more. He stacked the empty takeout boxes one inside the other.

  “What if I gave you someone special?” he said.

  “What’s that mean?” I said.

  “A special rover, one more important than the rest, one who’s like royalty to them. A rover who could lead you to a hundred others. If I gave you someone like that, could we make a deal?”

  “A deal?” I said.

  “I take you to this cat and you let me go.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “I didn’t kill your son.”

  “You killed someone’s.”

  Sally drummed his fingers on the table. “How about this then,” he said. “How about you catch this cat, put him in the box, and dust me?”

  20

  NONE OF THE FIENDS SLEEP WELL AFTER BOB 1 IS DUSTED. Pedro and Johnny toss and turn and jump at every little sound. Yuma and Real Deal argue over nothing. Bob 2 smokes a joint, drinks a bottle of whiskey, and stares at the TV, trying to ignore the empty bed beside him as the day drags on, never-ending.

  When night finally smothers the sun and makes the world safe for her bastards, the gang emerge from their rooms and gather by the pool. Antonia and Elijah bring everyone foam cups of lobby coffee, and Pedro passes a pint of VO to sweeten it. They drink a toast to the dead Bob and get down to business.

  Antonia has a map of Phoenix. She’s divided it into three sections. She and Elijah will take one, Real Deal and Yuma another, Bob and Johnny and Pedro the third. They’ll crisscross the city, searching for the pair who dusted Bob and stole the baby. It was a young man and an old one, but Antonia tells them to grab anyone turned and put the screws to them.

  Bob’s not happy with the section he and Pedro and Johnny have been assigned. It’s mostly sleepy housing tracts and farmland that’ll soon be sleepy housing tracts. No dive bars, no whore strolls, no strip clubs or dirty bookstores—nowhere they’re likely to find a rover on the hunt.

  Hopped up on bathtub crank, he’s riding bitch behind Pedro. They pull over and ch
eck a miniature golf course, walk through a supermarket, and sit in front of a movie theater as the show lets out. Nothing but clean-cut squares and their clean-cut wives and kids.

  Eventually they come upon a discotheque glowing pink and purple at the edge of civilization. Next to it is a freshly uprooted orchard with a sign planted on it that reads FUTURE SITE OF SUNSET ESTATES. AFFORDABLE LUXURY. The disco is no massage parlor or dime-a-dance cantina, but the parking lot is full, so they decide to have a look inside.

  Two men guard the door. One is wearing a denim suit and a white polyester shirt unbuttoned to display the gold chains around his neck. The other is a big Indian bruiser in a tank top and tight jeans.

  “Ho,” Johnny says to the Indian. It’s the only Kickapoo he knows. Hello. The Indian ignores him.

  Gold Chains says there’s a five-dollar charge to get into the club.

  “What do you get for that?” Johnny asks. “A titty show?”

  The flashing lights make the gold chain guy’s mustache look like it’s bouncing on his upper lip. “This ain’t that kind of place, if that’s the kind of place you’re looking for,” he says.

  “Nah, nah,” Johnny says. “This is the kind of place we want.”

  “You sure?”

  “There’s chicks in there, right? Music? Beer?”

  “You dudes looking to dance?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Johnny says. “We’re dancing fools.”

  The music punches the Fiends in the chest when they step inside, the bass hitting like a steady jab. Swiveling lights, synched to the beat, disorient them, and the club is as hot and humid as a Florida swamp. They muscle their way through the crowd to the bar, a black schooner parting a churning sea.

  Johnny orders for them, three beers. The girl behind the bar frowns at the grubby five he drops as payment. She straightens the bill gingerly, using her long red fingernails, puts it in the till, and walks away.

  The Fiends find a wall to lean against. They sip their beers and watch the action on the dance floor. Everyone spins and claps in unison, the men shaking their asses as much as the women.