“My brother gave it to me,” Kellen said. “Twenty-fifth birthday present.”
Eric raised his eyebrows. “That’s one hell of a present. What’s he do?”
“I’ll show you in a while,” Kellen said, and he didn’t elaborate as he started the engine and drove them away from the hotel. Eric didn’t question him. On another night, the remark might have caught his curiosity more. Tonight, all he wanted to do was press his head back against the seat, shut his eyes, and believe that when he opened them again, the only things he’d see would be of this world.
10
JOSIAH BRADFORD WOULDN’T HAVE minded just sitting on the porch with his feet up and having a few beers in privacy that night, waiting on the heat to settle and letting a day’s work ease out of his muscles. Danny Hastings had a wild hair in him, though, way Danny tended to on Fridays, and so Josiah found himself away from the porch and at the casino instead.
Danny was maybe the dumbest son of a bitch had ever learned to walk upright, but he still had more brains than money. Despite that, he found his way down to that casino about weekly. He was the sort of dumb that thought he was one pull of the slot lever away from rich, one righteous shuffle and deal away from flying first class to France.
Pathetic shit, if you asked Josiah.
Could’ve stayed home, of course, but once Danny called, Josiah relented pretty easy. That had nothing to do with Danny or the casino and more to do with the fact that Josiah’s mood was darker than normal after working in that blistering sun and dodging Amos and watching the weekend crowd arrive at the hotel. A distraction seemed like a good choice. Josiah knew his own moods pretty well by now, saw ’em coming like storm clouds, and tried to get out of their way when he could. There’d be times, though, when he’d see them on the horizon and just not give a shit, let them come on and wash over him. And on those occasions, heaven help you if you got in his way.
He was inclined, as he often was, for a good screw. That was fortuitous, because the women did more drinking on a weekend night, a circumstance in his favor. He and Danny got to the casino around eight, and Josiah downed a few bourbons and watched Danny gamble away the forty bucks he had in cash—money that was supposed to get him through till next Thursday’s paycheck—then go to the ATM and take out a fifty-dollar cash advance on the last credit card any bank would ever be fool enough to give him. Josiah left the blackjack table then, ordered another drink, and shot the shit with a few old boys he knew who were hanging around the bar waiting for Danny to get cleaned out one more time.
It was carrying on toward ten when he walked by the blackjack tables on his way to take a piss and saw Danny haggling with the dealer, two dollars in chips left in front of him. Couldn’t do nothing but shake your head at that. Stupid bastard.
Josiah took a leak and came out and stared around the room, feeling the weight of his anger again, anger driven even deeper because he hadn’t found a woman. Oh, there were some tens around, no mistake about that, but they were all hanging off somebody else’s arm already, rich bitches come down for the weekend with their boyfriends. Wouldn’t look at Josiah but would look through him, same as the hotel guests always did. There were people—Danny Hastings, for one—who were comfortable with that sort of thing, slipped into their anonymous little life like it was skin that fit them. Didn’t fit Josiah, though. He wasn’t the sort who could tolerate being an unknown. That was what he realized as he studied some of the men in the casino, men who controlled whatever crowd of assholes they’d arrived with. He didn’t want their damn money or their slut wives or their ass-kissing buddies. What he wanted—deserved—was the role. People took notice of these pricks and treated Josiah like he was furniture.
Hell with it. He’d have one more drink and call it a night.
He was halfway back to the bar when he heard someone scream, a wild impression of a rebel yell that came out more like a little girl’s sound, or maybe a pig’s squeal, something that made the hair rise up along his arms and neck, not because it frightened him but because he knew the source—it was Danny.
Danny had won.
There were wild bells and chimes going off somewhere back among the slot machines, and Josiah fell in grudging step with a handful of other onlookers and walked toward the sound.
“Josiah! Josiah, where you at? You got to see this!”
Danny shouting for him even though Josiah was just five steps away now.
“Josiah!”
“Shut up, I’m right here.” He shouldered up beside Danny to look at the display. Dollar slot machine, thing still buzzing and clattering, designed to draw a crowd of fools who’d want to rush off and shove their own cash into one of these glittering garbage disposals. It took him a second to find the figure—$2,500.
“You see that, Josiah? Twenty-five hunnert!” Danny gave another one of those damn squeals and slapped Josiah on the back. It took all Josiah had not to knock his ass to the ground.
“I put in a dollar, was all. One dollar, you believe that? Had myself some luck on over at the blackjack table, was starting to feel it ’cept for the last hand.”
Except for the last hand. Brilliant. How many broke sons of bitches had said that?
“So I’d lost my money but I knew I had the luck going, right? Didn’t have nothing but two dollars left, and I only played one of them here. Took a pull and won, took another and won, and then this one, this one was just the third pull.”
Some stupid blond chick was clapping for him now, trying to get others involved, and Danny turned and grinned at them and held his hands up over his head, clasped them together like a boxing champ. Shit, but he was ugly. Josiah didn’t know that he’d ever yet seen anyone uglier. Ugly breed, of course, redheaded men. Women could pull red hair off, but men? Damned disgusting.
Danny was heavy with beer weight, too, and freckled and sweaty. Looking at him now was almost too much to bear. Dancing around with his hands over his head like that, all over twenty-five hundred bucks. He’d give every cent back to the casino by next weekend, still be telling this story like it was some sort of accomplishment.
“I’ll tell you one thing, hoss,” Danny said, hitting the print button and watching his ticket come out, the blond girl still whistling and clapping. “Drinks is on me for the rest of the night.”
“Better believe it,” Josiah said, reaching out and—this took great effort—punching Danny in the shoulder, light, friendly. “Go on and cash that out, then come on back to the bar and spend it.”
“I always said it, I always said it,” Danny crowed, his voice thick with booze and excitement, “one day, the name Danny Hastings will be anonymous with success!”
Anonymous with success. Holy shit, he’d actually said that, and not on purpose.
“It already is,” Josiah said, and Danny just grinned and slapped him on the shoulder again, still not getting it, as the rest of the onlookers snorted with laughter.
“Like I said, go on and cash that out. I’ll be at the bar,” Josiah said.
Danny was gibbering on enthusiastically as he went. Josiah let him get all the way up to the cashier before he circled around the slot machines and left the casino.
He found his Ford Ranger in the parking lot and fired it up, drove away from the casino, and then hesitated on 56, unsure of which way to turn. He sure as shit wasn’t going to be able to sit in there and watch Danny carry on all night, not in this mood. Maybe if he’d been a little drunker. But he was still sober, and still angry. Could go home, but home was out in the hills between Orangeville and Orleans, and driving away from town now felt like cowardice, running off to sulk. No, go on to another bar.
By Monday—hell, maybe by Sunday—he’d feel some sense of regret for leaving like this. Mostly because Danny was going to be dumb enough to buy drinks all night; partially because the idiot had actually wanted Josiah around to share his windfall. Right now, though, there wasn’t any way he could take it. It was only twenty-five hundred dollars, but it had fallen into Dann
y’s fat, sweaty palm, not Josiah’s.
He was at the parking lot exit, foot on the brake, waiting for a chance to pull out, not paying any of the passing cars a bit of attention except to look for a gap, until he saw a black Porsche Cayenne fly by.
That son-of-a-bitch student, still in town. The car incensed him, made him want to stamp on the Ranger’s accelerator and ram right into the back of it, watch those taillights bust. He pulled out behind it and did hit the gas a touch, as much of a burnout as his worn tires would allow, then felt stupid for it. Peeling out in front of the casino on a Friday night was almost like yelling for the police on a bullhorn, asking to be arrested.
He drove more slowly but stayed behind the Porsche, followed it up the hill and out of town and then thought, Oh, man, it’s going to be hard to pass this one up, when he saw its turn signal come on just in front of Rooster’s, then watched it slow and pull into the bar’s gravel parking lot. Just what he needed to tempt him tonight—some rich kid going into a local bar like it was a damn tourist attraction. Stare at the country folk, maybe take some pictures. Ask more questions about Josiah’s own flesh and blood.
He pulled into the parking lot and watched the driver’s door of the Porsche open and the kid step out, big as a damn barn. Josiah had him in the headlights, could see the muscled-up shoulders and chest. There was someone with him this time. The second guy was white, with short hair and one of those three-day beards that was supposed to make him look casual, indifferent. Older than the black kid, but not so old you’d have to feel bad about beating the shit out of him.
They disappeared inside and Josiah cut his ignition and shut off the lights. He’d been spoiling for a fight all day, and now he was going to get it. Size of that black kid, it was clear this one would be a sight. Wasn’t nobody going to be talking about Danny Hastings and his twenty-five hundred bucks once Josiah finished this.
11
THE RAMSHACKLE JOINT Kellen drove them to had a neon rooster on its sign, but no name. Maybe the bar wasn’t even called Rooster’s. Could be they’d just taken a shine to that sign. Inside, it was a warm-looking place, old but clean. A handful of people were sitting in the booths that lined one wall, maybe six more scattered around the bar. Two guys tossing darts in a corner.
“You again!” the blond woman behind the bar said, squinting at Kellen. “Give me a minute, I’ll remember it. Hmm… got a K in it. Kelvin?”
“Kellen.”
“Darn! Should’ve had it. But you haven’t been down here in a long time either, so it’s really your fault.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he said, and ordered a beer, asking for whatever was light and on draft. Eric held up two fingers, figuring it would be a good idea to shade on the light side for the rest of the evening anyhow, the way his mind was playing tricks.
“You need anything else, yell for Becky,” the woman said, sliding the beers over.
Kellen nodded. “I’ll remember it. Now, think you could find TNT on that TV?”
Becky tried the remote and didn’t have any luck getting a response, tossed it down and stretched up on her toes to reach the TV. Good long legs, nice tan. Maybe forty-five. Older than Claire by a decade. Claire had great legs…
“Here we go,” Kellen said. “Thank you.”
He’d requested a basketball game, Timberwolves playing the Lakers. Eric despised the Lakers. He used to get dragged down to the games now and then by a producer friend who always considered it a business venture and spent the game with his back to the court, peering around the stands in search of A-listers. Eric, who’d been a pretty big basketball fan at one time, particularly of college ball, had hated the Hollywood aspect of the Lakers games, Jack Nicholson down there courtside in his damn sunglasses barking at the refs, other stars miraculously finding their way to the games only when they were on national TV.
“You wanted to know what my brother did,” Kellen said, and nodded at the TV. “Number forty for Minnesota.”
“No shit?” Eric said.
“None. I was recording this, hate to miss any, but what the hell.”
Eric found number forty and saw the resemblance immediately. A few inches taller than Kellen and lankier, without the bulked-up muscle, but the head shape and the facial features were clear matches.
“What’s his name?” Eric said.
“Darnell.”
“Younger or older?”
Kellen hesitated for just a beat, and his eyes flicked sideways before he said, “Younger. Three years younger,” in a voice that was softer than it had been.
They watched as the ball found its way to Darnell Cage. He took a kick-out behind the three-point line on a fast break, shot-faked and then drove to the foul line and put up a floater that caught the back of the rim and bounced long.
“Come on, D, come on,” Kellen said. “Give that ball up. Had the cutter.”
The teams went back and forth without Cage touching the ball. Then the Lakers scored and Minnesota ran a post set that didn’t generate anything, threw it back out, and worked it around the perimeter. There were eight seconds left on the shot clock when the ball came to Darnell Cage on the left baseline, and Kellen laughed. It was a low, almost devious sound.
“Oh, they in trouble now,” he said.
Darnell Cage faced up to his defender, ball held back on his hip, leaning forward.
“Crossover coming,” Kellen said.
Darnell Cage gave a slight shoulder fake, then put the ball on the floor, moving left before shifting to the right, the defender sliding with him, not fooled by the fake. Then came the crossover, a wickedly fast between-the-legs dribble back to his left hand, and Darnell Cage blew down the rest of the baseline in about two strides before going into the air and finishing with a tremendous one-handed dunk that brought the home crowd to its feet.
“Wow,” Eric said.
Kellen was grinning. “He owns that left baseline, man. Owns it. He’s a lefty, and you can give him some trouble if you force him to the right, but if he gets you off balance on that left baseline, you’re done. Just too damn fast. He gets you rocked at all, then there’s nothing to do but watch.”
Kellen had turned to look at Eric but now his eyes drifted higher and his brow furrowed and he said, “You got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
“You want to meet a relative of Campbell Bradford? My Campbell? He’s standing back there by the pool table. This is the cat who threw the bottle at me. Josiah.”
Eric turned and found himself staring into the dark eyes of a guy with shaggy brown hair and a black polo shirt who was standing beside the pool table, watching them.
“Appears he remembers you as well,” Eric said.
“Uh-huh. I don’t think I’ll ask him any more questions about the family tree.”
“I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Small town,” Kellen said. “Not many bars.”
But he didn’t seem confident about it.
“Well, there you go,” Kellen said, turning back to the TV. “There’s my brother, the family talent.”
“You got one in the NBA and another getting a doctorate?” Eric said. “What are the rest of your siblings, astronauts?”
Kellen laughed. “Just the two of us.”
There was someone beside them at the bar now, standing close and staring at Kellen. Josiah Bradford. He didn’t so much as glance at Eric, and Kellen seemed well aware of his presence but did not turn to face him, choosing instead to continue to watch the game. After a while, Josiah Bradford reached across the bar and grabbed the remote and hit a button. It exasperated him when nothing happened.
“Becky, I want this channel changed,” he hollered. “And bring me a Budweiser.”
“Those guys are watching the game,” she responded without looking back. “Come down here, change this one.”
The man dropped his eyes to Kellen. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“How you doing, Josiah?” Kellen said, finally looking at hi
m. “Been a while.”
The guy didn’t respond, just stood there staring into Kellen’s eyes. Becky seemed to sense the building tension when she set his Budweiser down and came over to talk to Kellen and Eric as if to diffuse it.
“You hear about the old guy whose wife makes him stop drinking, won’t let him go up to his favorite neighborhood pub anymore?” she said.
“Can I get that channel changed?” Josiah said. “These boys don’t mind at all.”
“In a minute, maybe,” Becky said, not even glancing at him as she continued with her joke. “Well, the wife keeps him from drinking, but she has to go out of town for a few days, visit her sister. Leaves him with clear instructions—you don’t even think about going to the pub, buddy.”
“I wouldn’t last long with a woman like that,” Josiah said, and then he turned away from the bar. When he did it, his shoulder collided with Kellen’s. Hard. Too hard for accidental contact.
“Watch it, Josiah,” Becky snapped, and Kellen just looked up at him and didn’t say a word, didn’t change his expression.
“Oh, he’s big enough it didn’t hurt him,” Josiah said. “Ain’t you big enough?”
Kellen held his eyes for a moment, then said, “Sure,” and turned back to Becky. “Let’s hear the rest of that joke.”
Josiah seemed disappointed.
“Okay,” Becky said. “So the old guy, he figures, how’s she gonna know, right? First night she’s gone, he heads up the street. Place is only a block away. Goes in and has a few, then a few more, and a few more after that. By the end of the night it’s catching up with him and the room’s starting to spin. Decides he better head on home. So he stands up to pay the bill and almost falls on his face, has to hold on to the bar to keep himself up. Puts his money down, takes a few steps and, whap, he falls down, smack on the floor. Has a hard time getting up, and now he knows he’s had too much. Good thing his wife won’t know. So he crawls to the door, pulls himself up, and steps outside and falls over again.”
Kellen was smiling, watching her, but Eric kept his eyes on Josiah. That shoulder move didn’t promise good things.
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