Six Bad Things ht-2

by Charlie Huston

  – There’s a shitload here, man. Guy’s got a record

  – What for?

  T clicks around.

  – SEC violations.

  – What?

  He clicks on the heading.

  – Looks like he was investigated for insider trading and some other shit.

  I shake my head.

  – I don’t think that’s him.

  He clicks a couple times and a photo starts to resolve on the screen.

  – This your boy?

  I look at the pic. It’s Dylan. He’s a few years younger, standing in a big, partitioned office space, surrounded by a group of very young and geeky-looking men and women.

  – Yeah, that’s him.

  T clicks through a series of articles from the New York papers.

  – So dickhead here was some kind of financial whiz kid in the stock market. Kind of a flavor of the week broker in the early nineties, but then he got busted for manipulations and shit and disappeared for a couple years. Didn’t do jail time, of course. Fuckos like that never go to jail. Then he pops back up just in time for the fattest part of the Internet boom. He got money from somewhere to get a start-up rolling in Silicon Alley. Well, he was the flavor of the week again, and his company is a big fucking hit, and then the market folded. No criminal charges this time, but he disappears again, except for some gossip column shit about him. Stuff like, “Dylan Lane was MIA for fashion week, but several of his comrade investors were in attendance in hopes of giving a bear hug to the former dot-com darling.” And more of the same. Innuendo about him being a shady character, but no details. Any help?

  I flop back on the bed.

  – It explains why he talks like an asshole.

  T spins the chair around to face me.

  – So?

  – What?

  – What now?

  – What now? I’m fucked, that’s what now. I don’t know how to find Tim. I can’t go to the cops without risking Mom and Dad. I don’t have anything to use to cut a deal with Dylan. I have a few days till Sunday to do something, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. You know this town. How do I find Tim?

  T shrugs.

  – Fucked if I know.

  I stare at the ceiling. My heart is jumping and sweat is starting to break out all over my body. I know what this is. It’s panic. A scream has been living in my gut for years, and now it wants out. I don’t have any moves left to keep it down and the Xanax has worn off and it’s going to come out.

  T sits next to me on the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  – You OK?

  I shake my head side to side. The scream is in my chest now. Climbing.

  He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pill.

  – Here.

  I look at it. I don’t want any more drugs. I want to feel this. I deserve to feel this. But I can’t afford to feel it right now. I can’t scream now. If I start now I’ll never stop. It’s in my throat.

  T presses the pill against my lips.

  – It’s Percocet. It’ll chill you out.

  I remember the Percs my doctor gave me after my leg broke, the ones I shared with Wade and Rich and Steve. They killed the pain and made the world balloon off and bob at the end of a string.

  I let the pill into my mouth and swallow. It chases the scream back down into my belly, and, almost instantly, long before it can possibly be taking effect, I feel better.

  – I don’t know what to do, T.

  He picks something up from the floor and hands it to me. It’s one of Tim’s pot boxes.

  – I think I know someone who can help us.

  T DRIVES us to the North Strip. We park the car, leave Hitler inside, and walk down Fremont Street. A few blocks of Fremont have been converted to a pedestrian mall and covered by a canopy about two stories high, its underside lined with lights. Christmas carols are blaring from a PA system as the lights flash, creating a variety of holiday-themed images that flicker across the canopy. A crowd of tourists fills the mall, their heads dropped back to gape at the spectacle as candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, and Santa and his reindeer all twinkle overhead. T nudges me and points ahead.

  – It gets better inside.

  In front of us is a strip club; a huge neon cowgirl in white boots, a bikini, and a cowboy hat hangs above the door. A long line of cowboys waits underneath her to get in.

  – No way, T.

  He looks at me.

  – What?

  – We can’t go in there.

  – Why not?

  – Way too many people.

  – So what? They’re all drunk and they’re all dressed like you.

  – No.

  He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a pair of big black Wayfarer sunglasses, and puts them on my face.

  – There. Now you look even more like every other rube in town.

  I take the sunglasses off and start to head back to the car. He grabs me.

  – Look, man, this place is my office, right? I kick back to the house and they give me the franchise in there to deal speed to the strippers.

  – So?

  – I have the speed franchise. Someone else handles all the pot.

  He shows me the little plastic box Tim’s pot came packaged in.

  – And last time I checked, it came in these.

  I put the sunglasses back on.

  WE JUMP the line. The bouncer gives T a hug and we’re inside. On one side of the bar is a long runway with a pole every few feet. Each pole is being worked by a G-stringed former aerobics instructor who realized she could make ten times as much money by taking her clothes off. Screaming cowboys waving dollar bills in the air fill every square inch of floor space. On the other side of the bar is a row of smaller stages. Each has a single pole and a dancer. Banquettes line the walls, occupied by a rail of cowboys being lap danced in the shadows. At the back of the club is a separate room, Champagne Lounge spelled out in pink neon above the door. Flecks of red and green light spray from a Christmas-colored disco ball and bounce off the mirrored walls that have been flocked with fake snow. T puts his mouth next to my ear so I can hear him over the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.”

  – Merry Christmas.

  The bartender comes over, a woman with dark skin and a pile of curly black hair. She’s in a red tube top and jeans cut so low you can see her hipbones sticking up over the waistband. Anywhere else, she’d have all eyes locked on her. Here, she is seriously overdressed.

  – Hey, T, what’s up?

  T points at me.

  – This guy’s my friend. Keep an eye on him, OK?

  She shrugs.

  – Sure.

  T puts his mouth next to my ear again.

  – You hang here, I’m gonna go set something up with the pot franchise.

  He squeezes into the mob of denim. I turn back to the bar just as the bartender sets a beer in front of me.

  – First one’s on me.

  – Ya know, I don’t.

  But she’s already gone to take care of the service bar.

  I look at the beer.

  The Percocet has smoothed the edges of the pain in my leg and ankle. The scream is still there, but has been drawn away into the distance where I can contemplate it without feeling it. I like this. I like feeling like this. Feeling so little.

  I look around the club. When was the last time I was around so many people, all crammed together, music blaring, that smell of beer and sweat soaked into the floor and the upholstery? Years.

  I look at the beer.

  I slide my finger through the drops of condensation on its side.

  Drinking this beer would be a bad idea.

  Something soft and smooth presses against my back. Hot breath hits my ear.

  – Can I have some of that, cowboy?

  I turn and look at the stripper standing behind me. Her face is inches from mine. Too much makeup, too much hairspray. I look at her hand, set lightly on my thigh. A woman’s hand touching me. I take in
her body in its translucent sheath of pink Lycra. Breasts patently fake, booth-perfect tan, ass and legs stair-machined to some ultimate balance of muscle tone and body fat. She leans into me, reaching for the beer, and her superhero breasts graze my upper arm. She holds up the beer in front of my face.

  – You mind?

  I shake my head and she takes a long sip, then hands me the bottle. She’s so close.

  – Thanks. Dancing makes me thirsty. Hot and thirsty.

  I look at one of the solo stages. A stripper has one knee cocked around the pole and is spinning like an ice skater.

  – I guess it would.

  – What about you? Dancing make you hot?

  She’s so close. She’s silly and fake, but she’s so close. And I don’t feel the panic, the visions that grabbed me when I scared the smiling Spanish girl on the beach.

  She scratches a fingernail against the nape of my neck.

  – You wanna dance with me?

  I remember my last time with a woman. I was still drunk. Once I stopped drinking, I started thinking. That was it for women and me. I don’t say anything.

  She smiles, mock sadly.

  – Your loss, cowboy.

  She turns and starts to leave, her hand slipping from my thigh. I grab her wrist. She turns to face me.

  – Is that a yes?

  I nod.

  – Well, come on then.

  She takes my hand and starts to pull me from the bar.

  – Hang on.

  She stops.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be doing any of this. I know that.

  I put the beer to my lips, turn the bottle upside down, and empty it.

  – OK, let’s go.

  And she leads me to the banquettes in the darkness against the far wall. She sits me down and the dress slides off. Wearing only a G-string and high heels, she takes my hat from my head and waves it in the air and rides my lap slowly, while “Sweet Emotion” plays.

  I FEEL great. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, this great. It makes me wonder why I haven’t had a drink in so long. I mean, it’s been at least five minutes since I had my last beer.

  – Hey, yo, ’nother Bud down here.

  The bartender nods in my direction as she sets a couple drinks on a cocktail waitress’s tray.

  – Comin’ up.

  A guy with a buzz cut, wearing tight Levis and a PBR Tour T-shirt, shoves into the space next to my stool.

  – Sorry, been tryin’ ta get myself a beer for ’bout a half hour.

  I smile.

  – Hell, no problem.

  The bartender comes over with my beer and sets it in front of me.

  – Eight bucks.

  I pull out a twenty and hand it to her and point at the guy in the PBR shirt.

  – Here, get this guy one too and keep the change.

  She takes the money and looks at the guy.

  – What ya having, cowboy?

  – Burt Light.

  She slides open a cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coors Light, yanks an opener from the back pocket of her low-rider jeans, pops the cap, and puts the beer on the bar.

  – Thanks, fellas.

  Me and the PBR guy watch her ass as she walks back to the service bar to take care of another cocktail waitress. PBR shakes his head.

  – Damn. That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

  A dancer in a formfitting green slip dress presses herself up against PBR’s back. Her hand slithers through his buzzed hair.

  – Cowboy, if that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen, you need a dance with me.

  PBR looks her up and down.

  – Honey, you are damn right about that.

  – Well c’mon, Hoss, I’ll give you the rest of this song and all of the next.

  She walks away with him trailing behind like a dazed child. He looks back at me.

  – See, ya ’round, pal. Thanks for the Burt Light.

  He hoists his beer in the air. I stand up on the foot rail of my stool to keep him in sight.

  – Hey, why ya call them that?

  But he’s gone.

  – That’s what they call them in Oklahoma. ’Cause Burt Reynolds drinks Coors.

  The bartender with the lowriders is in front of me. She places a Coors Light on the bar.

  – Burt Light.

  She places a Coors Original next to it.

  – Burt Heavy.

  I pull out another twenty.

  – I’ll take one of each.

  She pops both tops, puts the beers next to my almost full Bud, takes the twenty, and looks at the three beers.

  – Got some catching up to do.

  – Baby, I’ve been resting up for this.

  A hand lands on my shoulder and I slip off my stool. T catches me.

  – Whoa!

  – T! T, where ya been? This place is great! I’m having a great time.

  I guzzle beer and some of it slops onto my shirtfront. T grins.

  – I thought you weren’t drinking.

  – Who me? No, you have me confused with some limp-dick, pussy motherfucker who doesn’t know what’s good for him.

  – Well, what ain’t good for you is drinking while you’re on Percocet. You’re lucky you can stay on that stool at all.

  – Stay on the stool? Stay on the stool! That’s the least of what I can do.

  I start climbing up to stand on the stool and T pulls me back down.

  – C’mon, King Kong, let’s get you back in your head.

  He’s tugging me from the bar.

  – Wait a sec, wait a sec.

  I grab at my beer, but it’s not where it looks like it is and I knock it over.

  – Aww, fuck man, look what ya made me do ta Burt.

  My head bobs around on the end of my neck. Colored lights whirl through the air, cowboys and pole-dancing beauties orbit irregularly around me. The sweat covering my body goes cold-hot-cold-hot.

  T leads me into the john. We walk past the condom machine and the line of occupied urinals, to the second of three stalls. We both squeeze in and he closes the door. I lean against the partition and start to slide down. T grabs me and sets me on the toilet seat. He takes a fold of magazine paper about half the size of a matchbook from his vest pocket, leans over me, and shakes its contents onto the back of the toilet tank. A tiny heap of rough yellowish crystals. He gets out his lighter and presses it flat against the pile and rocks it firmly side to side, the crystals making little crunching noises as he pulverizes them into powder. He lifts the lighter away and licks some dust that is clinging to its side. Finally, with an old Kinko’s copy card from his wallet, he shapes the brown powder into two fat lines, gets out a twenty, rolls it into a tight cylinder, and hands it to me.

  – Batter up.

  I look at the twin lines of crank.

  – I don’t think I’m up to that, T.

  – Hank, this is your doctor speaking. We have people to talk to, things to do, and you’re about set to go all gape-mouthed and drooly on me. You need to wake up and get your head back in the game, superstar, and this is what’s gonna get you there.

  What is he talking about? People to talk to? Man, I just want to relax at the bar. I look again at the crank. But hey! I seem to remember being able to drink like a maniac on this shit. I stick the rolled bill in my nose, place the other end against one of the lines, and inhale.

  It burns. It burns like a motherfucker. Like a hot razor blade being dragged down my nasal passage to the top of my esophagus, where it stops and a bitter, mucousy poison drips down the back of my throat. I rip my face away from the line and tilt it back and press the heel of my palm against my nostril.

  – Fuck me!

  T laughs. He grabs the bill, neatly whiffs half of the other line into his right nostril, half into the left, and hands the bill back to me.

  – Clean your plate.

  The burn has crept up behind my right eyeball. I look down at the half line lef
t on the toilet tank. I do the remainder into my left nostril and it feels like scrubbing ground glass into an acid burn.

  – Jesus! Jesus fuck!

  T runs his finger over the specks of crank left on the tank, licks it clean, and does the same with the residue on the inside of his twenty.

  – C’mon. Let’s go see my friend.

  He leads me out of the bathroom, and I’m already starting to think he was right about the crank because things are really starting to fall into place and make sense to me, who I am, why I’m here, what I’m doing, how, in an amazing way the shit I’m in has given my life purpose and meaning; I mean, here I am, a man with a mission, a real mission, how many people can say the same, I mean, for the first time I can remember, I know exactly who I am, where I am, and what I’m doing.

  I’m Henry Thompson.

  I’m in a strip club.

  And I’m trying to save my parents’ lives.

  SHE’S A big girl, probably five ten in her bare feet, but well over that with her fuck-me stripper heels on. She’s all tits and ass and pale white skin, her black hair clipped in a Betty Page. There are Vargas-style pinups tattooed on both of her shoulders and a row of emerald-green, quarter-sized stars trace the edge of her collarbone above the bustline of her black vinyl minidress.

  – This is Sandy Candy. Give her three hundred dollars.

  The Champagne Lounge is a small, very dark room set off from the main club. I’m half-blind in here, what with the sunglasses still on my face, but I make out big padded chairs, small cocktail tables, and a handful of cowboys getting some serious full-contact lap dances from their strippers.

  – Why?

  – Because it costs three hundred dollars to be in the Champagne Lounge.

  I peel three bills off my depleted bankroll and hand them to Sandy.

  – Sandy, what do I get for three hundred?

  She tucks the bills into a miniature Hello Kitty! lunch box she’s carrying.

  – Tonight, you get to talk to me while I get off my feet.

  – That’s some expensive talk.

  – I’m known for my conversation.

  T takes the little plastic pot box from his pocket and puts it on the table.

  – We’re looking for a guy.

  She picks up the box and shakes her head.