Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  Perfect.

  I flagged it down.

  Bruno was back on the sidewalk. Trying to get himself upright against the black wrought iron fence.

  Fuck, he moaned softly. Why’d you have to do that?

  I don’t know, I said. Manifest destiny. Something like that.

  Butch was having some problems making his legs work. I hooked him by the armpits, dragged him in the general direction of the cab. I hauled him up, pushed and shoved. He collapsed into the back seat. I got into the front. The driver had to move his copy of the Post, his thermos of coffee and several cartons of what looked to be Egyptian cigarettes.

  Sorry, I said.

  Where you going? he said.

  Manhattan.

  Where Manhattan? he asked in an unplaceable accent. Romanian, maybe.

  Just get the fuck moving, I said.

  He gave me a Look. The Look started out as a get-the-fuck-outta-my-cab-you-creep Look, but soon gave way to a shit-this-guy-looks-seriously-deranged-I-better-listen-to-him Look.

  I noticed that I still had the Mauser in my hand.

  Ah, I said to myself. Yes. The thing could come in handy.

  Get you home faster. All sorts of things.

  The cab smelled of gun exhaust and fear.

  Or maybe that was me.

  In any case, it got us home fast.

  19.

  THE GASH OVER MY LEFT EYE WAS OOZING. Somebody was playing marimbas in the back of my skull. Or steel drums. Some thing percussive. I recognized the rhythm, but not the tune. I was still wearing my clothes from the previous night. I suspected they were rank, but since my nose was completely blocked with snot and blood, I couldn’t tell. I stumbled to the shower, stripped off the rags and threw them in a corner. I eased into the shower. The water was hot. Not pleasant. But necessary.

  After a year or two I turned off the water. I stood for a while, fearful of the frigid air outside the frosted glass. This turned out to be a mistake. The immobility, that is. Thoughts intruded. Memories. Thoughts and memories of the night before. Shit. Had I really shot somebody? Why did I do that? Couldn’t I get in trouble for such a thing?

  Yes, I answered myself. Serious trouble. Trouble of all kinds. Not just the legal kind. Though that was bad enough.

  What the hell was I going to do?

  I didn’t think Sheila would be much help. And I didn’t have a lawyer. Other than myself. And I knew what they said about a lawyer who represents himself. Fool for a client and all that.

  I called Butch. Maybe, I thought, he’d tell me the whole thing never happened.

  He didn’t pick up. I left a message. Put down the phone.

  I did the only thing left to me.

  I panicked.

  I threw on some unobtrusive clothes. I dredged an old pair of prescription sunglasses out of the far reaches of a drawer. I put on a pair of fast sneakers. The holster. The Mauser. The leather jacket.

  I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like a bit player in a bad Harvey Keitel movie.

  What the hell was I doing? Where was I going to run?

  I sat back down on the bed.

  The phone rang.

  Tell me it isn’t true, Butch said.

  What isn’t true?

  You didn’t really shoot Bruno last night, did you?

  I have some kind of recollection to that effect.

  Damn. So do I. Shit.

  My thought exactly.

  Okay. Stay there. I have to make some calls.

  I’m not going anywhere, I said.

  Good, he replied, and hung up.

  I made some coffee. Read the Times. Stuff was happening, apparently. There was conflict. Things were beginning, ending. Some things were good, some bad. More bad than good, it seemed.

  The phone rang.

  The good news is, it’s not official, he said.

  What does that mean?

  He didn’t report it.

  No cops? No jail?

  So far.

  Jesus. That’s a weight off.

  I put the phone on speaker, put it on the counter. I was out of coffee. I figured I’d just pump some hot water through the used grounds. They spilled into the water container. I tried to fix it. Coffee grounds got all over the counter. I left them there. I’d get a cleaning lady. Tomorrow. Sure. Melissa used to take care of that stuff. Sometimes. I’d have to learn to do it myself. I could still learn stuff. Hell, I’d learned how to shoot a gun.

  Yeah, well, said Butch. The bad news is, the word is all over. You’re not welcome at the game. Any game, actually.

  Ah, shit.

  Could be worse, man. Could be worse.

  Yeah, I know. Of course. Of course. Listen, can you come over? We got to figure out what to do now.

  About what? What’s done is done. We let it blow over. You’ll be back in spades in no time.

  Well, money, for one thing. I blew the whole Vegas bankroll.

  You what?

  Yeah. Not only that, I owe Evgeny twenty grand.

  You’re not fucking serious.

  Yeah. Dead serious, I’d say.

  Evgeny’s not a guy you want to owe money to.

  Don’t I know it. Anyway, we got to figure out what to do.

  What’s with the ‘we’?

  Come on, Butch.

  I looked in the fridge. Maybe there’d be some cold coffee in there. Strangely enough, there wasn’t.

  All right, said Butch. I’ll be over. After I take care of some stuff.

  I never put cold coffee in the fridge, I remembered. Or hot coffee, for that matter. But who knew? Stranger things had been found in my fridge.

  I’m sure the stuff appreciates your concern, I said.

  What stuff? What the fuck are you talking about?

  The stuff you’re going to take care of.

  Oh. Yeah. That stuff. You can count on that.

  I tried making the coffee again. This time I half succeeded. It was still full of grounds. But didn’t the Turks drink it that way? I drank some down. It was revolting. How did those Turks do it? And anyway, all it did was make me anxious.

  More anxious.

  I found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Mirabile dictu. It calmed me down. A bit.

  The doorbell rang. It was Brendan. He was all smiles. All our problems were solved, he said.

  You’ve got to be kidding, I said. I just shot a guy.

  It’s okay, he said. More than okay.

  He’d been hanging with the Russkies all night, he said. They hadn’t been offended by my assault on Bruno. Quite the contrary. They couldn’t stand the meatball either. They admired me for it. I was the kind of guy they could do business with.

  Come on, Brendan, I said. You starting on that again?

  What do you mean?

  You can’t do business with those guys. They do business with you.

  There’s a lot of money involved.

  Yes, Brendan. I would imagine there is. Problem is, it’s not for us. It’s for them. You work for them, you get a wage. It’s not a charitable organization. Dedicated to the care and feeding of washed-up lawyers. And carpenter-actors.

  Not this deal.

  I saw that Brendan was wearing something on his wrist. Something silver, expensive-looking. Looked to have Maltese crosses on it.

  The hell is that? I asked.

  It’s a bracelet. You like it?

  I don’t really know. Where’d you get it?

  At a place.

  Brendan, Brendan. They’re setting you up. Or me. Using you to set me up.

  Why would they want to do that?

  How the hell would I know? Because I pissed off Evgeny. For the fun of it. Because they figure I have more money than I actually do. Because they don’t like my teeth.

  You have nice teeth.

  I better. They cost thirty thousand bucks.

  You’re kidding me.

  I’m not. But let’s not go there. I’m still making the payments.

  There you go. You need the
money.

  No, I don’t.

  But I did need the money.

  Damn it.

  Give me a minute, I said to Brendan.

  I went to the bedroom. Took off the jacket, the holster. Lay down on the bed. Tried to be rational. What the fuck to do? Make priorities. Well, shit. There was only one: getting the twenty grand back to Evgeny. This was a guy you paid back quick. You didn’t, all sorts of nasty shit happened. But short of a lucky run of cards, the only cash I could get my hands on was … Louise Chandler’s retainer.

  A nice coincidence, I suddenly thought. Hunh. Twenty grand. Were the Gods telling me something? Well, maybe it wasn’t the Gods, exactly … I took a slug off the Jack Daniel’s that I’d wisely thought to bring with me to the bedroom. Yes. Had to be. And anyway, what choice did I have? Hey, I’d use the Chandler money. Stick to easy games till I got it back. Refill the bank account. She wouldn’t know the difference.

  Jesus. Was I really thinking this? How low had I fallen? I wasn’t welcome in any game in town. Wasn’t that what Butch had said? How bad could this get?

  Before I could give myself the depressing answer to that question, the doorbell rang. Brendan went to get it.

  I closed my eyes. Spare me, I said to myself. Spare me anything but sleep.

  Yo, Rick, called out Butch’s baritone. Get the fuck down here.

  Damn, I thought. Had to do it. Wouldn’t be polite to leave the guests alone.

  I dragged myself downstairs. Butch and Brendan were in the kitchen. They were smiling.

  What’s with all the goddamn cheer? I said.

  Why not? Butch asked.

  Well, I said, let’s start with the basics. I almost killed a guy last night …

  Shut up, Rick. We know.

  Have some pretzels, I said.

  Thanks, man, said Butch. That’s more like it.

  We munched the stale pretzels from a plastic bag. I passed around the Jack Daniel’s. There wasn’t much left. I rummaged around for something else. Found an ancient fifth of Cutty Sark. It would have to do.

  Camaraderie is a wonderful thing.

  So, I returned to the topic, what about this Bruno thing?

  Ah. That. Yes. I can see how you might be concerned.

  But I told you, said Brendan, it’s okay.

  That’s the problem with you, Brendan. Everything’s always okay. Well, this one isn’t okay.

  Yes it is, he said.

  Oh?

  Yeah. I was trying to tell you. They said they’d take care of it.

  Who said they’d take care of what?

  The Russians. The Bruno thing.

  Ah, yes. The trusty Russkies. Take care of it. They didn’t happen to tell you exactly what they were going to do to take care of it, by any chance, did they?

  No.

  Did it involve kneecaps?

  C’mon, Rick.

  Dismemberment?

  Stop it.

  A long stretch in a dark place with concrete floors? Brawny meatballs serving knuckle food for lunch?

  All right, all right.

  Then I don’t know it’s okay, do I?

  Once in a while you could maybe take my word for something.

  Don’t take offense, Brendan. But we’re dealing with my life here. Or at least a limb or two. Three, four fingers at a minimum. I’ll take your word for something else, how about that? Tell me where there’s a good M club.

  M club?

  Yeah, M, without the S. I need somewhere to go get myself a good flogging. Punish myself. For being such a fucking douchebag.

  I’m telling you, Rick, it’s going to be okay.

  Butch, I said. Can you tell this guy to shut up?

  Shut up, Brendan.

  There’s a meet in Vegas, said Brendan. Thursday. You guys come. You’ll see.

  Okay, Brendan, I said, that sounds great. We’ll go to a meet. That’s what I need. We can purge our anxieties. Reach a higher plane of consciousness. Cross the cultural divide.

  Where’s the beer? said Butch.

  It’s ten in the morning, Butch, I said. We finished the Jack. Have some Cutty. And anyway, only I start drinking at ten in the morning.

  Rick, said Butch.

  Yes, Butch?

  It’s four in the afternoon.

  20.

  I SPENT SOME MORE TIME IN BED. I wiped the pus from over my eye. I considered my situation. It didn’t take long. I summed it up in one sentence.

  Life sucked.

  I slept. I woke up. Things hadn’t gotten any better. I watched some football on TV. I watched a movie. Something with an aging Paul Newman and an awful lot of shadows. It depressed me. I slept some more.

  When I woke again, it was the next afternoon. My eyes wouldn’t focus. My mouth felt like well-chewed newspapers. My heart was pounding. The pounding obsessed me. Was it real pounding? Or was it my hyperactive hypochondriacal imagination, zoning in on natural phenomena, inventing life-threatening conditions from woodpeckers hammering on trees in neighboring yards? Or was I really going to have a heart attack? Maybe that was good. It might be a lot less painful than other things that were likely about to happen. Get the fucking thing over with. Get into a hospital bed. Soft nurses with powdery skin, administering to my every need. I got lucky, the insurance would pay for long-term care in a plush facility.

  It didn’t make the fear go away. If it wasn’t the heart, it was the other stuff. Either way, I was fucked. I had to do something. Distract myself from the heart thing. Didn’t a heart attack involve pains down the left arm? I felt my arm. The arm was okay. Shortness of breath? Well, come to think about it, I definitely had that. I breathed deeply in and out. That gave me a little relief. But not enough.

  Damn it, I was dying.

  Well, if I’m dying, I thought, I might as well dress for it. I pulled out my best poker hat, the one with Dead Money on it. My blackest pair of wraparound shades. A black t-shirt. The holster. The bomber jacket. I looked for the Mauser. Fuck. Where was it? I scrambled through the junk on my bed. Found the Mauser box under four pizza boxes and a well-thumbed copy of Gambling Theory and Other Topics by Mason Malmuth. Somehow I’d managed to put the Mauser in its box. I admired the eagle chiseled on the lid. Took out the pistol. Hefted it. Nice heft. I stuffed it into the holster. A pleasing weight against the chest. Pressing against my heart. Slowing it down. Relaxing it.

  I hoped I wasn’t going to have to go through any metal detectors. It’s okay, I told myself. I’m not getting on a plane, and I’m not in high school anymore. I should be all right.

  I looked in the mirror.

  Damn, I looked dangerous.

  Maybe I could fool somebody.

  I went to the bank. I took out twenty grand in cash from the Richard R. Redman Client Trust Account. The balance remaining was seven dollars and forty-three cents.

  I guess it was an interest-bearing account.

  Shit, I thought. I don’t just look like a criminal now, I am one. Well, maybe simply withdrawing the money wasn’t a crime. Though withdrawing it with intent to … aw, hell. It didn’t matter. I’d crossed a line. Not a line I’d ever thought I’d cross. Speeding, sure. Even the odd DWI—never caught at it, though. But embezzlement of client funds? Jesus. This was a whole new me.

  Sure, I intended to pay it back.

  But that’s what they all say.

  Like any criminal, though, I figured I’d get away with it. Double my money. Re-deposit. Even if the Bar Association audited the account, the fact that the money was missing for a couple of days, I’d get a slap on the wrist. It was the guys who took it and lost it that got creamed. Right? Sure, I said to myself. Not a problem.

  To be honest, I wasn’t really that stupid. Unless you measure stupidity by actions. In which case, I was exactly that stupid.

  I went outside. I looked up and down the street. It was a quiet, sunny day. Kids were playing stickball in the street. There wasn’t an assassin in sight.

  I sighed. I went back to the house. Took
off the getup. Lay down in bed.

  We were off to Vegas soon. I could win the World Series. All this could be history.

  There was still hope.

  21.

  A JOLLY BAND OF SELF-DELUDED POKER ASPIRANTS, we were, heading for Vegas. Indiscretions, misdemeanors, felonies left behind in the vapor trail. The plane ride was giddy. I’d splurged. Used up the last of my frequent flier miles on upgrades. First class. There was something about getting off the ground, all together in that tiny sumptuous world of free cocktails and unrelenting snacks. Something liberating.

  Along with the ground, we left the ugliness behind.

  Until we got to Vegas, of course. Then another kind of ugliness hit. Like a sack of wet shit. A sack of wet shit with many, many flashing lights. And sequins. Cubic zirconium. And noise. The relentless chime and jangle of the slot machines—the dark matter of Las Vegas. The Eiffel Tower, shrunk and comic-booked. A black, mysterious pyramid that anywhere else might provoke curiosity. Here, it promised … more slot machines. Fat people. More fat people. Badly dressed fat people. Badly dressed fat people dragging annoying children. Badly dressed fat people hypnotically playing jangling slots. And old people. Many, many old people. The sad and dying desperation of the fingers feeding slots.

  The worst thing about it was, they all seemed to be having a good time.

  The whole thing gave me a headache.

  That was only my opinion, mind you. Brendan thought it was cool. Better than Times Square, even. He really was a kid, still. In so many ways.

  Until later. Later, he was just dead.

  Are you still a kid, a wife, when you’re dead? Or are you an ex-wife, an ex-kid?

  We decided to save some money on the accommodations. We’d rather be off the beaten track anyway. Find some seedy little joint. Just close enough to smell the money. Not so close we’d get swallowed up by the kitsch.

  We stopped at a greasy joint along the way. Got some Buffalo wings. Extra hot. With the bleu cheese sauce.

  What, I asked, makes blue cheese better if you call it bleu? And shouldn’t it be either blue cheese, or fromage bleu? What’s with these people? Why not call white bread blanc bread? Red peppers rouge?