by Sharn Hutton
“I live in England.” Adam sighed, pushing himself upright and stretching out his back. He had to stop waking up in bad places.
“Alright, your hotel then, dumbass. You can’t lie around out here.” Rita threw her shoulder bag around to her back, grabbed Adam by the hands and pulled him up. “This place ain’t safe for someone like you, don’t you know that?”
Adam wobbled onto his feet, made a mental appraisal of his body, and found things had improved. He could straighten up easier than the last time he’d been conscious and the onset of darkness took the strain off his eyes.
He followed Rita out onto the street, rubbing at his hair and shuffled along behind her.
“Come on, we need to get out on a busier road or we’ll never find a cab,” she said and bounded on ahead.
She was right, of course, what was he still doing here? He needed to get back, get back and find Jerry. Get back and sort out this mess. Rita waved and shouted at passing cars in a manner that Adam thought was more likely to scare them away, but eventually one did draw up to the curb and Rita yanked open the door before it had even rolled to a stop and pushed Adam inside.
“So, which is it? Which hotel?” she asked, twitching at her nose again.
“I’m at the MGM,” Adam said and the driver looked over his shoulder from the front. “You got money?” he asked and Adam felt around his body with genuine curiosity.
“I’m good for it,” he said and produced a small leather wallet for Rita to see.
“Well if that ain’t nothing short of a miracle,” she cooed, “Can’t believe you still got that. You must of scared Seb off with that stunt of yours.” She shut the door and the cab pulled away, before Adam had the chance to raise his hand in farewell. Saved by the hooker who’d sold him drugs: Adam’s world kept getting more bizarre.
Acceleration pushed him into the seat’s shabby upholstery, low sweeps of the cab’s suspension bouncing him along unfamiliar streets, until finally they turned out onto The Strip and Adam was able to get his bearings. The MGM was just up ahead: a great blue-green monolith that stuck out of the skyline and the sight of which filled Adam, suddenly, with trepidation. He cringed at the idea of going back through its doors. He wasn’t ready, couldn’t face it. The cab was stuffy and small. “Pull over here. This is fine,” he blurted out and throwing too much money at the driver, he launched himself out of the car.
The pavement was busy with people out for another night on the town. Adam turned his back on the offending hotel and the memories it radiated, joined their flow and washed along with the strangers, all in a hurry to be someplace else.
It reminded him of carrying Jerry through the crowd that short time ago; how the masses’ obsession with themselves had rendered him invisible. Adam remembered Jerry’s dead weight and felt the lightness of his currently empty arms. Then he felt the painful emptiness inside his chest and remembered Rachel.
Adam had hoped that finding love would turn his life around. Adam had hoped that Rachel would be the one to lift him out of his dire slump and deposit him back in the world of decent people. But engineering a crossroads where she could turn to him had taken him further into the world he was trying to escape. Never mind getting away from the thugs and the murderers and the dealers, he’d actually immersed himself further. How had it come to this? Hotshot lawyer with the world at his feet to drug-addled maniac in the blink of an eye. He had to pull himself together.
Still living that déjà vu moment, he took the next side road and turned into a diner that smelt good from the street. He wasn’t hungry for solitude anymore, but he was desperate for food.
The hostess looked him up and down with disgust, but seated him in a small booth near the rest room, where Adam gave himself a hasty going over.
The man in the mirror looked like hell. Sunken eyes, greasy hair and a scraggy beard, to say nothing of the rumpled shirt and body odour. The fabric of his jeans was thick and crusted at the knee and it was only in the toilet cubicle that Adam found rusty smears on his skin and realised that all this time he’d been wearing Jerry’s blood. He’d scrubbed at his knees until they were red and raw, but he had no choice other than to keep wearing the trousers. At least his jeans were black and hid the stains.
When he returned to the booth, his cheeseburger, fries and coffee awaited and Adam fell onto them, virtually inhaling the calories. When had he last eaten? He had no idea. Time had turned into a mush of confusion where he’d lost himself and his deeds. He sat back in the booth, slurped coffee and ran an eye around the place, now feeling more able to take it in.
Behind the counter, a waitress heaped slices of pie into dishes and a TV, that hung high on the wall, relayed news. A sandy-uniformed police officer was addressing the camera, but the sound was down so Adam couldn’t tell what he was saying. The next image on the screen, however, was far easier to fathom: Adam’s own passport photo. Suit and tie, tidy hair and clean shaven. A long way from the dishevelled tramp he currently resembled. Pennies started to roll. Jerry’s photo flashed up next on the screen, then a short jumpy video of someone being hustled out of a hotel and into a squad car. All the while a scrolling red tape of words spelt out the information that was all Adam really needed to know: Jeremy Brian Adler, British man, missing presumed murdered. Any information to LVMPD Detective Dinwiddy, hotline number…”
Adam’s coffee cup fell to the floor and smashed.
SEVENTY-THREE
THE CHEAP MOTEL DOOR HAD TO BE PULLED HARD TO CLICK THE LOCK SHUT and Adam walked away from it not knowing when or if he’d ever be back. His surprise appearance on last night’s evening news had left him in no doubt that sliding his MGM room key into its lock was tantamount to slapping on his own handcuffs. And he really didn’t want that, not when Jerry was missing and he appeared to be in the frame for his murder. A cheap motel was a much better option. That, and a change of clothes. He’d have to be careful—the dollars left in his wallet wouldn’t last long and using his cards would give too much away.
Adam walked the length of the first floor open balcony, running his palm along the metal handrail that flaked and caught on his skin. The police didn’t know where Jerry was, but at least Adam had a head start on them there. Calls made last night from the payphone in the lobby had been fruitless: deflected by steely operators at the end of their patience. He knew from experience, persuasion would be much easier in person, so today he’d be making personal calls.
He dumped a knotted carrier bag of his clothing into a bin at the base of the stairs and moved out onto the street, smoothing down his new Kmart ensemble: beige supermarket slacks, blue button-down shirt and a cap. His clothes were stiff and itchy, but they were also anonymous and that seemed like the most important thing, now that he was famous. He’d even kept the beard.
Today Adam would search for Jerry himself. Find him and convince him not to have him arrested. He had to explain and clear his conscience, had to work it out for himself, for that matter. He just hoped that Jerry was still around to convince. What if he really had killed him? Adam would have made the final appalling leap and become one of the terrible monsters he so despised and the idea of that was too much to bear. He had to know if Jerry was alive. He had to find him to see for himself.
The truth was Jerry could really be anywhere. What if he’d come round in the hospital, discharged himself and wandered out into the night? He could be walking the streets, concussed and amnesic. He could be in this very neighbourhood or miles away.
There, a shaggy mop of mouse brown, bopping along in a group: red T-shirt, walking away, on the other side of the street. A bus pulled into a stop and obscured the view. Adam squeezed his eyes shut in silent prayer: please let it be Jerry.
He sped up his pace, jumping up, trying to see through the grimy windows. The bus doors eased open and group of tourists poured out, making an obstacle course of people for him to negotiate. The hubbub of conversation, the growl of the engine, they melted together into the skin of the bubble that c
ut him off and kept him whole: the cyclone reborn. A glimpse of red: nearly there. Adam stepped around a gaggle of suitcase-wheeling girls, into a clear expanse of pavement where he could pick up speed.
That was when the police officer stepped into his path. Sharp pressed uniform and shining badge, he wore an expression of determination and inside the bubble slow motion kicked in. Adam’s arms wind-milled backward to slow him down and change his course. He shifted left and steered behind the bus shelter, chancing a sideways look. The police officer continued on his trajectory, toward a destination unknown. He hadn’t noticed Adam or wasn’t interested.
Adam’s heart beat in his ears as he searched again for the red shirt. A gap in the crowd expanded and contracted. There. Adam was on its tail, closing in. The man that wore it turned to speak to his companion and revealed a profile that did not belong to Jerry.
Then, to his left, a man with brown hair waiting to cross the street; could it be Jerry? No, not him. Another man, the right build, in a baseball cap. He turned, no not him either. Suddenly Jerry was everywhere, but nowhere and Adam was breaking out in a sweat. “Get a hold of yourself, Fox. Don’t panic,” he said out loud, “Jerry’s not here.” He took a few deep breaths. “You can find him.”
Up ahead a line of taxis waited for fares and as Adam stopped at its pick-up point a yellow cab pulled from the rank and rocked to a stop beside him. Adam squeaked to the centre of its vinyl back seat and acknowledged the smiling driver with a nod. He hugged at himself and wished for a jacket. The desert hadn’t turned out to be the place he’d thought it would be, not on any level.
Up front, a middle-aged Mexican sat in a haven of pink velour and tiger print. It boosted him four inches and wrapped the driver’s seat in an elasticated affirmation of who was king of this casa.
The dashboard was upholstered in gold damask with a swishing fringe of scarlet. Centre stage, beneath the rear view mirror, a crowd of seashell-encrusted picture frames displayed huddles of small happy children. Together they encircled a six-inch Virgin Mary who watched over them all from a glued-down wobbly plinth.
“Where to, Mr?” The driver’s forelock flapped in the breeze from an absinthe green windscreen sucker fan.
Adam’s eyelids flapped while he rummaged around his brains for words. At his feet a rhinestone-encrusted tissue box nestled between the two front seats. Its construction included a deep dish where a handful of brightly wrapped toffees awaited sweet-toothed customers. This late 80’s Ford Taurus was one heavily accessorised vehicle and Adam became even more convinced his life had shifted into the Twilight Zone.
“Er. Erm. The hospital,” he managed at last.
The driver looked up into the rear view and caught Adam’s eye. “Which one, my friend?”
“Which one?” Adam hadn’t really narrowed it down.
“Si. We have thirteen medical centres within ten miles of this place.” The driver turned in his seat to look directly at Adam.
“Oh. I don’t actually know.” He offered the driver a weak smile. “My friend got taken away in an ambulance. Where would they take him for the best?”
The driver laughed at that. “The airport, my friend! Jeez! Don’t you know what it’s like around here? You no heard?” He rubbed at his belly like this was the best joke he’d heard all week.
Worrying.
“Take me to the most likely one,” Adam said.
“Okey dokey.” The driver flicked on the meter and pulled away.
Adam cracked his window and air rushed in, pushing his hair around. He was glad of it, felt like he needed the ventilation to free up the old grey matter, to get back to himself.
Daytime Las Vegas slid by in a bright dusty blur and he worried about Jerry. What would he say to him? How could he explain his insanity? What if he’d never woken up? How bad was that head injury? There’d been a lot of blood—had he made it? The local health care sure wasn’t held in high regard by his driver.
After a time the edifice of Sunset Medical Centre filled his window and the cab drew to a halt.
“Do you think you could wait? I don’t want to get stuck out here.”
The driver pulled at his seat belt. “I don’t know… How long you think you’ll be?” The taxi permit dangled in its laminated pouch from the rear view mirror. His name was Alejandro Jose Antonio Florez Ortega.
“Mr Ortega, my friend got taken away in an ambulance and I don’t know where he went. Can you help me? Can you drive me around today until I find him? I’m desperate to find him.” Adam clasped his hands together. Mr Ortega was a religious man with a strong love of his family. A heartfelt plea might just swing it.
The driver squinted, sizing him up. “What are we talking?”
“A rate for the day. What do you think?”
“Five hundred.”
No chance. “Two hundred.”
The driver flopped his hand at him. “Come on. Three fifty and I’ll throw in some toffees.” He waggled a pink-wrapped sweet.
Adam looked at it, bemused; he couldn’t believe he was negotiating to ride around in this sideshow. Things just couldn’t get any stranger. He didn’t have that kind of money on him either, but if they found Jerry then it wouldn’t matter if he used his card.
“All right, Mr Ortega. Three fifty.” He stuck out his hand for a shake. “I’ll give you the first fifty when I come out. OK?”
He was squinting again. “OK.” He reached out and grasped Adam’s hand, “and the name’s Toni,” he said.
SEVENTY-FOUR
FRESHLY MOPPED LINOLEUM STRETCHED FROM THE DOOR TO THE SHARP WHITE RECEPTION DESK. Disembodied bleach crawled into Adam’s nostrils and down his throat. He swallowed it away with a grimace. Dotted about, a couple of dozen sullen people sat bowed over clipboards or slumped, staring into fluorescent space. For a public waiting area it was eerily quiet.
Over by the desk a man shuffled foot to foot whilst talking to an unseen clerk. Adam stood a few feet behind, waiting for him to finish.
Eventually he backed away and scuttled off through double doors that swung out of sight then swallowed him up. The clerk, and source of the frightened silence, came into view. She was dressed in a smart uniform of navy and wore a badge that told Adam her name was Stephanie Gray. Her face was taut and unwelcoming.
“I’m looking for my friend, his name is Jerry Adler. Can you tell me if he’s here?” Adam blurted.
“Number?” She looked at him with cold blankness.
“Number?”
“You have to take a number and wait your turn.” She pointed at the foot-high red three-digit number board behind her without turning.
“Where do I…?”
She waved impatient fingers toward a round ticket dispenser on the wall by the entrance—Adam had completely missed it when he’d come in. She hitched the corners of her mouth up to reveal teeth, but nothing else about her was smiling. “You’re welcome,” she hissed.
Adam took a ticket: 317. He looked back at the red numbers behind the desk: 289. He sighed onto the closest vacant seat and glowered at the numbers, willing them on. Progress was slow and dehydration sucked at Adam’s fervour. Coffee. He needed coffee.
The machine, lurking in a shadowy corner, consumed his coins and spewed out a plastic beaker of frothy brown. Adam winced at the first sip: it was nasty but caffeine was caffeine. Toni appeared at Adam’s elbow and he showed him the number ticket.
“Good job you no sick eh?” He sucked on his teeth and eyed Adam’s coffee with disdain. “Don’t drink that shit.”
“Just killing time.”
“Killing something,” he mumbled and wandered off.
Time ticked, numbers clicked and eventually Adam’s turn came. He approached the desk with trepidation. The woman behind kept her head down until he cleared his throat, when she tipped her disinterested face toward his.
Adam spread his ticket on the desk before her. She didn’t look at it.
“So I’m looking for someone. Jerry Adler. Can you tel
l me if he’s here?”
“Are you a relative?”
“No, I’m a close…”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I am not authorised to give out information on patients to anyone other than next of kin.” She was reaching for the button to click the number on.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Adam jumped in, “I just need to know if he’s OK, alive even.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” No expression flicker. She did not waver from unhelpful autopilot.
Adam scrabbled around his head and found a lost lawyer. “My client is here on business with next of kin in England. I am the closest thing to family available.” She eyed him suspiciously and Adam pressed on, confidence growing in the ploy. “I’m already putting together litigation against those responsible for his hospitalisation. My client is an important man.”
She didn’t look convinced, but he could see his persistence was getting on her nerves. She took a moment then twitched her hands over the keyboard. “I’ve got no-one of that name.” She gave him a sour grin.
Adam frowned. “There’s a good chance he didn’t have ID on him and may not have been able to identify himself.”
“Well he won’t be on the computer then, will he?”
Adam took a deep breath. “So how can I find him?”
She reached around to the side of her desk and pulled out a wad of paper that she laid in front of him. “Fill these out. In triplicate.” That grin again. “The forms cannot be processed without a current photograph. Do you have a picture?” Adam scrolled through his phone. Yes. A supposed ‘before’ shot taken in the gym: Jerry with his arms curled up into a sarcastic muscleman pose. Adam showed it to her.