by Mara Jacobs
Lurch pulled his textbook higher up on his lap. Mr. Smith flashed me a toothy grin.
It was impossible not to like the kid. Which only made me feel shittier.
“Yeah, that’s fucking right you owe me.” I disconnected the unconnected phone and threw it into my god-awful purse. I reached into the grocery bag and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a six-pack of Coke. “Christ, I need a drink.”
“All right. Let’s get this party started,” Mr. Smith said, walking toward me.
“Hey, Raymond, man, you better not,” Lurch warned.
“That’s right, Raymond, you better not. You got a game or something tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but man, we can beat Minnesota with one hand tied behind our backs.”
“Really? But can you beat them with a hangover?”
“I’ve played with ‘em before.”
“Come on, Raymond,” Lurch whined.
I grabbed three glasses from the vanity area, poured Coke in all three, opened the bottle of Jack and turned to Raymond. “You sure, sugar?” Raymond nodded. I turned back to the desk I used as a bar. I made sure neither man could see the glasses and then grabbed a small baggie from my purse and quickly dumped the contents into two of the three glasses, swirling them until the powder dissolved. I poured just a drop of the Jack into one of the glasses, then turned my body slightly so they could see, and made a show of pouring Jack into the third glass.
I took one of the glasses and handed it to Lurch. “This one’s virgin, honey.” Raymond snorted. “That’s about right,” he said. Lurch gave him a scowl.
I handed Raymond the glass with the Jack, took the Coke only glass myself. I raised my arm in a toast. “To the Somewhere Iowa…what did ya say you were?”
“The Hogs,” Raymond and Lurch said simultaneously. Proudly. It was the most emotion Lurch had shown during the whole evening.
Never again, I told myself. Never again will I put myself in a position to snatch the pride from young kids who have nothing to do with my stupidity.
But I’d said that before, and yet here I was. Again.
“What’s your name?” Lurch said. Raymond looked at him with surprise that Lurch would think of something so practical.
My hand went to my neck, but what I was looking for was gone. Idiot. I never wear it in these situations. I quickly dropped my hand. “You can call me JoJo,” I said, then took a long sip of my drink. I sat down in the desk chair and nodded for Raymond to sit, which he did on the other bed. “Just give me a minute to finish my drink, boys and I’ll be outta here. There’s still a lot of night left for JoJo.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Raymond asked. I could almost see him mentally tallying how much cash he had in his wallet.
“Can’t, sugar. Just another minute to make sure the coast is clear and I’m a ghost. Like I never existed.” I took a large gulp of the drink and the guys followed suit. That’s right, boys, follow the leader.
Ten minutes later both were unconscious.
I took all three glasses, went to the bathroom and washed them thoroughly. Hanging on to the towel, I wiped them all down and put them back on the vanity, careful not to touch the now clean glass with my bare fingers.
Overkill, probably, but why take chances.
I slung the towel over my shoulder and returned to the desk. I picked up the bottle of Jack, the cans of Coke and placed them back in the grocery bag.
I looked back at the men sleeping. Boys, really. I walked over to them, brushed Lurch’s hair off his forehead, lifted Raymond’s feet up so he was in a more comfortable position. I pulled their bedspreads up over each of them.
I grabbed my purse and the grocery bag and walked to the door. I used the towel to open the door handle, then tossed it onto the vanity.
I took one last look around the room, only able to see the guys’ feet from the angle of the doorway. Lurch was already snoring loudly. “Sorry, boys,” I whispered and walked out the door.
Never again, I promised myself, knowing full well it was a promise I would probably end up breaking.
I took the stairwell down two floors. Opening the door a small crack, I looked down the hallway. Seeing it was empty, I entered the hall and quickly walked three doors down to my room. I took the key from the waistband of my skirt and entered the room.
I had the tacky clothes off in seconds, my face washed free of the garish makeup soon after. Pulling on blue jeans, a nondescript white blouse and brushing my hair out took all of five minutes. A quick ponytail and I looked like fresh-faced college co-ed.
I took another look in the mirror. A slightly older co-ed.
Okay. A world-weary woman well past her college days.
I yanked on my suede boots, zipped them up, pulled the jeans down and over. In the bathroom, I took the empty baggie from the purse and washed it out. Twice. Then I put it back in the grocery bag. I put the bag, the gaudy purse and the clothes I’d just taken off into a small carry–on bag, zipping it up tight. Putting on my leather jacket, I took a last look around the room, careful to make sure I left nothing behind. Satisfied, I grabbed a smaller, more demure purse from the desk, pulled up the handle on my carry-on and wheeled the bag behind me as I left the room.
Outside the hotel I politely declined the bell captain’s offer of a cab and instead began walking down the block. As soon as I was out of sight from the hotel, I found the nearest public trashcan. I unzipped my bag, took the grocery bag out. I pulled the empty baggie out and one of the cans of Coke and shoved the grocery bag into the garbage. Then I continued on until the next trashcan where I deposited the baggie.
I crossed the busy street at the corner and approached a different motel. Here I allowed the bell captain to whistle down a cab for me for which I tipped him well but not so well that he’d look at me twice.
No need to be memorable.
On the cab ride I drank the Coke and tried not to look at all the snow piled up in downtown St. Paul.
I’d left snow behind years ago.
I arrived with plenty of time for my flight, even having time to pick up a Sporting News at the newsstand. I had it mostly read by the time we boarded but I brought it with me in case I needed armor. I was in luck. I shared a row with a couple that was very into themselves and their upcoming vacation. Other than the initial hellos, I probably wouldn’t have to speak to them at all.
“First time going to Vegas?” the husband asked me.
I shook my head. “No,” I said with a small smile then turned away, pretending to look out the window.
Not even close.
I sipped my drink as I watched the waning seconds of the game on one of the eight large screens at the Bellagio sports book.
My hand went to my neck, found my horseshoe pendant. I tapped it three times, then placed my hand back around my glass.
Raymond Joseph threw a lazy pass to his center but it was easily intercepted by a Minnesota player and taken the length of the court for a basket. The buzzer sounded, the game was over. I strained to hear the commentary of the announcers, lucky that this television was the one the crew had chosen as the audio for the room.
“Well, the Hogs pull it out, Steve, winning by twelve, but not a very impressive showing,” one of the talking heads said to the other as college kids in the audience frantically waved behind them.
“Coach Wayne is going to be hot after this one, John. The Hogs came into this game heavily favored.” Yeah, twenty-one and a half points favored. “And even though they won, it was one sloppy game.”
“We heard reports during halftime that Raymond Joseph and David Pauls had both come down with a flu bug last night, and it sure showed in their play here this afternoon. Pauls only played five minutes in the first half. If Coach Wayne had another point guard that he could trust with the ball like Joseph, I’m sure he would have been on the bench as well.”
“It just shows…” The announcer went on to talk about the team’s depth – or lack of – and how that could b
e a factor come March. Nothing I didn’t already know, so I tuned out. Besides, I knew that before my drink was empty I’d have company.
“Hey, Anna,” he said and sat in the seat next to me.
“Hey, Paulie,” I said, but stared straight ahead.
“Nice work,” Paulie said, moving his elbow to touch mine. “Point guard and center, take no chances, hey?
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of my drink, careful to put my arm back down slightly away from his.
“Vince says to consider your debt paid.”
“Thanks,” I said again, my answer curt.
“Aw, come on, Anna. No harm done, they still won. Their record’s still intact.”
As if that was the point. I just nodded.
I could feel him looking at me, but I stared straight ahead, like I had money riding on one of the games. I didn’t. I couldn’t until I had my debt paid.
Finally seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere – Paulie never got anywhere with me – he sighed and stood. He buttoned his expensive sportscoat over his gut, like that was going to hide it. He ran his hands through his thinning, well-oiled hair. He looked down at me and said, “Boy, you probably made a killing today, hey? We’ll probably see you at a game tonight?”
“I didn’t bet on the game,” I told him.
“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.
I pointed to the big screen. “I didn’t bet on the Iowa game.”
“Why the hell not?” he said, almost mad. I suppose he was angry at my stupidity. In a way, so was I.
I took my eyes from the screens and looked up at him. “It would be wrong,” I explained.
He looked at me hard, as if trying to figure me out. After nearly a full minute he tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s rich, Anna.” He walked away from me, chuckling. “Because it would be wrong,” I heard him say in a soft, feminine voice; which sounded not at all like mine.
Not a great mimic, Paulie. A good enforcer, though.
This I knew first hand.
Purchase Against The Odds at www.marajacobs.com
Mara Jacobs' books come to her as movies in her head. She sees them so clearly, every movement, every detail. The tough part – the REALLY tough part – is getting them down on paper.
She has spent most of her adult life in advertising, primarily at daily newspapers.
Forever a Yooper (someone who hails from Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula), Mara now resides in the East Lansing, Michigan area where she is better able to root on her beloved Spartans.
Mara loves to hear from readers. Send her a note at [email protected]