‘Shit, how much?’
‘It was a lot. At least like thirty thousand.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘And before this, someone else even came to my house when I had the baby with me and I was freaking out. I called G Dog and told him, “I can’t find Skinner and some fucker’s outside my fucking house.” G Dog came to my house, drove from Tempe, got out there in like not even ten minutes. With a gun in the middle of the day, G Dog was running after him and told him to get in his car. G Dog gave me a gun and I went and hid it in my house. He grabbed the guy, threw him in his car and was like, “Don’t you ever come around here again or I’ll kill you,” you know, scaring the shit outta him. G Dog took the guy and dropped him off somewhere and the guy never came back after that.’
Chapter 42
Since the attack on Skinner, I can barely sleep. In bed, I shift from side to side. Every sound springs my eyes open out of fear the cops or Sammy the Bull’s crew are coming. During the day, I constantly peep out of the windows. I ask my friends not to tell anyone where I live or to show up with strangers. I’m warned that Sammy the Bull has put a bounty on me and that an Arab is in town offering $10,000 for my head on a silver platter. Outside of home, being around people is unbearable. I see imaginary enemies, working for Detective Reid or Sammy the Bull, everywhere: the grocery store, petrol stations, the gym, inside vehicles.
Exhausted from living on high alert, I flee 108 miles south of Phoenix to Tucson, which I hope is out of harm’s way yet close enough that I can keep a grip on my operation. In a hotel room, scouring real-estate ads, Amy and I settle on a five-bedroom million-dollar mountainside home, with a swimming pool and jacuzzi, in Sin Vacas, a private community. To view the house, we have to stop at a gate and tell the guard the address and realtor we’re visiting. He calls her and, with permission, raises the gate. Just the security I need.
Moving into the southwestern-style one-storey home – multiple fireplaces, plush carpets, tiled floors, impressive log beams running across the ceiling – I’m thrilled to be realising the goal I set in 1991 of living in a massive house like the ones I admired in Paradise Valley and on Camelback Mountain. From the north, the house has a view of the city. It’s nestled into the Catalina Foothills, on plenty of land, guarded by an army of saguaros, our neighbours so far away they’ll never know what I’m up to.
We go on a furniture shopping spree. A Sony plasma-screen TV. A customised pool table in rust-coloured felt. A dining table imported from Italy. A massive bed, its thick columns stretching almost to the ceiling. A waterbed for guests. Egyptian art. We furnish the master bedroom’s anteroom with a peach sofa set.
The cooler climate is a relief. In the evenings, it often rains hard and a waterfall appears behind our house as if by magic. It runs into a stream that gargles and bubbles past our little wooden gate. Lightning sometimes bounces down the mountain, reaching out like the fingers of a hand. When it strikes our roof, it leaves a strange burning smell. During the heaviest rain, Amy demands sex on the lawn.
What we lack in human contact, animals compensate for. Leaving the house to collect mail, I encounter deer, regarding me with large eyes. Baby bobcats with leopard spots frolic on the lawn, watched over by their mother. Around dusk, bats swoop on the pool after mosquitoes. Tarantulas creep over the French windows like hairy hands. When a pack of wild pigs called javelinas come snorting at the gate, I let them in, sit down on the lawn, feed them Froot Loops – much to Amy’s horror – and recoil from the bad breath they blast through long-fanged smiles. Snakes shelter under our cars, revealing themselves when we back out. Praying mantises glide around the house like fairies. After monsoon showers, frogs rise from the ground as if resurrected from the dead and I have to fish some from the pool. Gila monsters, impressive lizards the size of small dogs, plod across the roads like dinosaurs, holding up traffic, showing off their dappled contours: vivid pink, yellow, orange, silver … The presence of so many animals provokes a passion for wildlife.
In love with Amy and surrounded by nature, I reduce my drug intake. It’s been three years since I actively traded shares, but I have Internet access for the first time since I left the brokerage and it reignites my enthusiasm for the stock market. I submerge myself in online investment research and order numerous company annual reports. When the reports arrive, I ignore the pictures of smiling directors and the rosy highlights and forecasts near the front. I flick straight back to the notes to the accounts and scrutinise the small print, where the dirt is hidden in incomprehensible accounting terminology. After weeks spent screening thousands of companies, I sell the stocks in Hammy’s name and make aggressive investments in technology shares. My largest position: 30,000 shares of PT Pasifik Satelit Nusantara, an Indonesian satellite company, that I pick up for $5. It rockets right away, reaching more than $50 during the dot-com bubble. I convince Amy to borrow $10,000 to invest. I turn it into more than $100,000 and she buys an SUV, a white Nissan Pathfinder. I have so much at stake, I hand the running of the Ecstasy business over to Cody and spend every work day focused on the stock market.
My ex, Desirae, ends up in a thousand-dollar-a-day rehab not far from my home. She invites me over. Excitedly, she says that famous people stay there and that the waiting list is months long, pricking up my business antennae. The staff confirm business is booming. As soon as I get home, I google the rehab. It’s owned by Nexthealth, trading on NASDAQ under NEXT at $1 a share. The company has a clean balance sheet and seems undervalued, so I buy 10,000 shares. Within months, they rise to $5.
‘Why don’t we go on holiday abroad?’ Amy asks, during a bath together.
My body stiffens. My first marriage ended before I became eligible for a Green Card. As an illegal alien, I’ve avoided the issue for years. Shit! Why now?
‘What’s wrong?’ Amy asks.
Should I tell her? I trust her. But what if we fall out? I love her. We’re going to stay together. Ha! Your relationships never last! But it feels right with her. She won’t use it against me. Fuck it! Tell her. One phone call and I could get arrested. The end of everything. Just tell her. She might tell the wrong person. I love her. Must tell her.
‘Shaun, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh, Jesus, look, I wasn’t expecting you to ask that. There’s … er … something I’m going to tell you, but I need to know you’ll never tell anyone, as it might be used against me.’
‘What is it?’
‘You sure?’ I ask, raising my brows.
‘I promise I won’t tell anyone. Of course I won’t tell anyone.’
‘OK, then. I’m in America illegally. I can’t leave the country.’
‘Are you fucking serious?’
‘I came on a visitor’s visa in ’91 and just stayed. If I leave the country, they won’t let me back in. They can even arrest me and put me in prison.’
‘Can’t you apply to be a citizen because you’ve been here for so long?’
‘No. The only way I can apply for citizenship is if I get married.’
‘Oh. Aha! You did propose to me already when we first met.’
Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I say, ‘Let’s get married, then. Las Vegas, eh?’
‘What’re we gonna tell our friends, family, parents?’ she asks, her voice speeding up. ‘Yes, I’ll do it, but is it gonna be real, like really real? If I’m getting really married, I want a big wedding and a ring and—’
‘It can be real for me and you and for getting-me-legalised purposes. It won’t be a big wedding, just a quickie, but I’ll definitely get you a big ring.’
The next day, I give Amy’s best friend $10,000 to buy a ring – as she knows exactly what Amy likes – instructing her to keep quiet. I drop the subject for a while, trying to create the impression that I’ve lost interest. Months later, I whisk Amy off to Las Vegas to see the Siegfried & Roy show.
I take my seat in the theatre, nervous, excited, convinced marrying Amy will make us happier, stronger and keep us together forev
er, the ring in a box bulging from my trouser pocket.
The show starts. Classical music. Blue light and mist bathe the stage. Coloured laser beams fan out, rave style. Siegfried and Roy materialise in outfits with more baubles than Christmas trees.
Wait a bit before you pop the question. ‘They’ve got great smiles and teeth,’ I say, holding Amy’s hand.
‘Not like you snaggle-toothed Brits.’ Amy laughs.
A menagerie of giant white lions and tigers appears on raised platforms. Siegfried and Roy cuddle them, kissing the lips of mouths big enough to bite their heads. While robot dragons breathe flames, Roy rides a tiger through the air. The applause and music grow louder.
All right, go for it. Trembling, I dig my hand into my pocket. I extract the box, almost dropping it. I turn to Amy and show her the ring. ‘Will you marry me, Amy?’
‘This is so sweet,’ Amy says. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll marry you!’
We hug, kiss, cuddle in the theatre.
In a suite at Caesars Palace, we dress in black for the ceremony: for Amy, a skirt and beaded spaghetti-strap top; a pinstripe suit for me. We stop at the courthouse for a marriage certificate. We set off for the Little White Chapel, hand in hand, hurriedly, excitedly, almost breaking into skips, every male in the vicinity slowing down to admire Amy, some stopping completely, causing a logjam of tourists on the Strip, their heads swivelling, even married men – oblivious to the disbelief on their wives’ faces – hypnotised by Amy, some even brushing their wives off to soak up Amy’s beauty, to inhale the vanilla and cinnamon scent wafting from her bouncy blonde mane, their bodies rotating, wrenching from their wives like cells dividing, and the more they react, the more I feel as if I’m marrying a movie star.
At the chapel, I trip on the step and almost fall over. Inside smells like a funeral home: fresh flowers, candles, wood polish. The sign on the wall reads:
MARRIAGE MESSAGE OF THE DAY
A marriage may be made in heaven,
but the maintenance must be done on earth.
A chubby, balding minister ambushes us like a waiter in a hurry to seat diners. He rushes through the paperwork and jumps right into the ceremony, assisted by a female.
‘Do you Shaun Attwood take Amy Rae Faulkner to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do you part?’
‘I do,’ I say, eager to get the diamond on her before my shaky hand drops it.
We giggle through the ceremony and, at the end, kiss. Gazing at her big, happy eyes, I feel so much in love with her. I thank the minister and head for the door. My wedding band slips off, clinks on the floor and rolls away so quickly I lose track of it. We get down on our hands and knees to search, joined by the minister and his assistant, but the ring has vanished.
‘No worries. I’ll buy a ring that fits better,’ I say.
At Treasure Island, we dine and guzzle two bottles of dessert wine. Through the restaurant window we watch a battle between the pirate ship Hispaniola, which catches aflame amid heavy cannon fire, and the British frigate ship HMS Britannia, which eventually sinks. On the walk back to Caesars Palace, a hobo hands us a sleazy magazine. Amy grabs and studies it.
‘I’ve heard there are real whorehouses out here,’ Amy says.
‘Why are you so excited about that?’ I ask.
‘I wanna go to one!’
‘On our wedding day?’ I ask, smiling.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, if you want to, I’m up for anything.’ I thought I had no boundaries, but Amy running wild in a brothel: wow!
‘Good. Let’s call the numbers in the book then.’
Back in our room, I wait till dusk and call a brothel in Pahrump. ‘I’d like to make an appointment to come over there with my wife.’
‘Sorry, sir. This is a gentlemen’s club only. Women aren’t welcome.’
‘But she’s bisexual.’
‘Sorry, sir. Women aren’t allowed.’ Click.
I tell Amy.
‘Keep trying!’ Amy says, pouting.
‘Look, if I can get you into a brothel, what do you have in mind?’
‘I want a woman to pleasure the both of us.’
Mercy! I redouble my efforts, but the brothels all say the same thing: no women allowed. I’m disappointed. Amy is on the verge of a tantrum.
‘I’m extremely distressed! It’s my fucking wedding night and I want to go to a brothel!’ Amy snatches the magazine. Leafing through it, she says, ‘I’ve got a better idea. If we can’t go to a brothel, why don’t we just order someone to our room?’
‘Good idea!’
‘Here. Try this escort agency.’
I dial. ‘Hi. We’re a couple looking to be pleasured by a female. Do you offer that kind of service?’ I ask, bracing for the same response as the brothels.
‘I have just the girl for you. Brunette. Tall. Slender. Bisexual.’
Twenty minutes later, a woman arrives in a short red outfit and high heels. ‘Can I get the money up front, please?’
‘How much?’ I ask.
‘One hundred and fifty for the hour.’
‘And you know what we want, right?’ I ask, worried she might take the money and run.
No answer.
I turn to Amy. ‘You’d better tell her what we want first.’
‘We only just want, er, just give him a blow job and go down on me. We don’t want to have sex, full-on sex, with you.’
‘That’s fine. It’s still 150,’ she says, her tone implying she’s going to vanish if the money doesn’t appear.
I pay.
‘I’ll go first, but I need a line of coke.’ Amy tips cocaine onto a table top and separates out a line with a bank card.
Watching Amy snort it, the escort’s eyes light up. ‘Mind if I try some?’
‘No. Go ahead,’ Amy says. ‘It’s pretty pure stuff because we live near Mexico.’
While the escort snorts two huge lines, Amy and I raise our eyebrows.
‘OK. Let’s do this,’ Amy says.
Anticipation heats up my body.
They undress and get on the bed, Amy facing upwards, smiling at me more than the escort. The escort kisses Amy, moves her lips to Amy’s breasts, belly, thighs … Everywhere the escort kisses, I feel my own blood rush to that region. Gripped by a desire to join in, I struggle to stay put. The escort licks Amy gently between the legs and massages that area. Amy closes her eyes, pants, shudders, gasps, wriggles and emits little shrieks, stirring my blood further. By the time Amy opens her eyes, her face is blotched pink, and I’ve stood up without realising it, entranced, sleepwalking, about to dive into the action. ‘OK, husband dearest. It’s your turn.’
Yes! I abandon my clothes and jump on the bed. The escort rubs my chest and massages my thighs. Her body movements speed up as the cocaine takes effect. She kisses my belly, takes my penis in her fingers and puts it in her mouth. Whereas she treated Amy softly, she does the opposite with me. She starts bobbing her head frantically between my legs. To anchor myself, I grip the bed. She comes up for air, panting, grabs my penis with an iron-welder’s grip, spits on it and slaps it against her tongue. She’s out of control on cocaine. While she simultaneously sucks and masturbates my penis, I employ my trusted method to prevent premature ejaculation: reciting the Pythagorean theorem: In any right-angled triangle – God, this feels great – the area of the square whose side is the hypotenuse – mustn’t say how good this feels or Amy will get jealous – is equal to the sum of the areas of the squares whose sides meet at a right angle. Sweet, Jesus! I can’t hold out much longer. God give me strength … ‘That was … er … we’d better stop now.’
The escort jumps up. ‘Mind if I have more coke?’
‘Go for it,’ Amy says, amused.
She shouldn’t be doing any more. She’s high enough.
She snorts two heaped lines, shocking us, and launches into her life s
tory, unstoppably, allowing no pauses for us to insert even a syllable. She’s from Ohio, new to the business, a proud mother. She yanks family photos from her handbag. Her parents are babysitting her children in Ohio. She’s making money to support them, doing things she sometimes doesn’t like. Amy and I are the coolest couple she’s ever met. I feel sorry for her, but as the monologue expands, Amy’s expression turns first impatient then annoyed. With spittle fermenting at the corners of her mouth, the escort finally slows down.
‘It’s really sad that you have to be separated from your kids like that,’ I say, hoping to steer her into leaving. ‘We’re out here from Tucson. Newly-weds. Today, actually.’
‘You’re shitting me?’ she says, her eyes glowing.
‘I shit you not,’ I say.
‘You guys are off the hook, calling me out on your wedding day! Why don’t you fly me back to Tucson to live with you as a kind of maid/sex slave?’
I laugh but regret it when Amy fires a nasty look, her lips hardening, head trembling.
Embarrassed, the escort goes to the toilet.
‘This is not what I wanted,’ Amy whispers. ‘The whole purpose of having someone you pay for sex is they’re supposed to leave.’
‘What should I do?’ I ask.
‘Tell her she has to go.’
‘It’ll break her heart. You tell her.’
‘Huh! OK. If you won’t, I will.’
‘Oh, God. I guess I better,’ I say.
When the escort returns, I say, ‘We’re off clubbing now.’
‘Where at?’
‘Club Utopia,’ Amy lies.
‘Hey, I’d love to come with you.’
Amy rolls her eyes, grits her teeth, flutters her eyelids. I suppress laughter.
The escort’s phone rings. Her boss complains she’s been with us for too long, another client is waiting.
Thank God!
‘I have your number from the agency,’ she says. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’ She leaves.
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