by Grant Mccrea
So Maxie’s a bit of a freak. But he’s a good guy. He loves to play, doesn’t care about the money. He loves a good joke.
One night, we’re playing in the high-limit room at the Borgata, in Atlantic City, and another guy at the table is this big old Texan, with the cowboy hat and all, a mindlessly happy rich guy with a hundred-thousand-dollar stack and an easy way with losing it. I don’t remember his name. Tex, probably. So, Tex orders some food, which in the high-limit room you can get delivered to the table, and it takes a long time to come, and he’s bitching and whining about it, and meanwhile Maxie’s giant chocolate ice cream sundae’s arrived, and he’s sucking it down like only a fat man can, when Tex’s food finally comes, and it looks like greasy fried rice with green over-boiled lasagna piled on top, the most revolting thing you’ve ever seen short of a rat-mole colony, in one of those crinkly aluminum takeout things, and the waiter puts it down, and Tex plows into it, and Maxie looks up, and totally deadpan and without missing a beat, he says:
That come with a toilet brush?
Louise smiled. I could see she was trying to keep it to a smile. But she couldn’t. She started to laugh. She took out a handkerchief. Coughed into it a while. She lifted her head. Looked at me with still-smiling eyes.
I like a man who can tell a story, she said.
Thank you.
I think it speaks well of you.
I thank you again.
As an investigator, I mean. It gives me confidence. If you can tell a story, you can see the story in things.
I hadn’t thought of it that way, I said. But perhaps you’re right.
She gave me a Look that said, Of course I’m right, you fool. I’m always right. And don’t you think for a second that the momentary loss of studied equilibrium your story occasioned is going in any way to give you some kind of advantage in your relations with me. Quite the contrary. I’ve given you a gift. And now you owe me.
There was a whole lot in that Look.
26.
IN THE CAB, WHICH SMELLED OF OLIVE OIL AND AMBIGUITY, I thought about that last laugh. It’d been a good laugh. A real one. And when she’d unbuttoned that jacket. There was something awfully handsome going on under those elegant clothes.
I called Kelley. I hadn’t spoken to her in days. I was worried. I felt guilty. I was a father, I reminded myself. I reminded myself to remind myself. More often.
Kelley didn’t answer. I got her voice mail message: Don’t leave me a message! Okay. She’d see that I’d called. She didn’t need the message on top of it. She’d call when she damn well felt like it.
God, it’s awful. When they turn eighteen. Start getting a life of their own. She was twenty. It was getting worse.
We were stopped at a light. To the left, miles of low buildings, russet and ochre in the fading light. The hills beyond turning to a fine powdery ash. It had a pull to it. I thought about the Europeans who’d first seen this stuff. Stumbled up to the Grand Canyon one day. There had to have been a first one. What the hell could he have thought? I reminded myself to look it up.
A mammoth red thing pulled up beside the cab. It looked like a forties Ford. In fact, it was a forties Ford. A ’47 half-ton panel truck, to be exact. I recognized it from the abstract arrow design on the side of the engine compartment. Amazing how far a little eclectic information from a misspent childhood can get you. Although, at the end of the day, I wasn’t sure what guessing the vintage of this hulking vehicle actually had bought me. It wasn’t restored to original condition. It was tricked out. The windows were tinted dark. Huge chrome exhaust pipes snaked out of the hood, raked back past the rear bumper and flared out, like an angry camel’s nostrils. The wheel rims were spinning, shimmering, doing their best imitation of the end of the world. Someone told me once you could spend twenty-five grand on rims like that. Each. A hundred grand for a set.
For some reason the thing made me nervous. It was throbbing and pulsing with the growl and shimmy of a classic giant V-8 engine. As though ready to rear up on its hind wheels. Maybe it was pimp associations. Though every two-bit casino manager had a pimped-out set of wheels by now. There just seemed to be something specially ominous about this one.
The cab inched ahead. The Ford’s engine gunned and slowed, gunned and slowed. It was loud. Obnoxious. The light was taking forever to turn green. I had an urge to tell the driver to floor it. Run the light. Get the hell out of there.
The cab driver inched forward a bit.
The Beast inched forward, too.
Now I knew I had a problem.
I mean, normally, they do that. Itchy macho guys with big wheels. They want to get off the blocks first. Show you what they have. But I was in a cab, for Chrissakes. An old, belching Chevy Impala. We weren’t about to take on Mr. Drag Racer Hot Rod Big Penis in a race to the next red light. There was something about it. I knew. I just knew. It was bad news.
The window of the Beast rolled down.
Shit, I thought. If I dive to the floor and cover my head, and it turns out it’s not a guy with an Uzi but some tourist looking for directions to Caesar’s Palace, I’m going to look Really Fucking Stupid.
Bruno’s fat smiling head leaned out the window of the Beast.
Redman! he called out. On your way back to the motel?
Fuck me with a spoon, I said to myself, feeling my bladder weaken.
Yeah, Bruno, I said. Maybe I’ll see you at the Bellagio later.
Sure, he said, laughing. Later.
The Beast roared, jerked ahead, screamed to the right. Ninety degrees across the road. Directly blocking the cab.
Shit. Retribution. It wasn’t going to feel nearly as good taking it as dishing it out.
There wasn’t anywhere to go. Which, even if there was, it was clear we weren’t going there. The cab driver was paralyzed with fear. He began jabbering at me in some sort of language I not only didn’t understand, I had no recollection of ever having heard before. But the import was clear: what the fuck is going on and why did you get me into this? I tried to explain, that there was nothing to worry about, beyond serious bloodletting and violence of the most extreme sort, but he seemed disinclined to listen. He dove across the front seat, wrenched open the passenger-side door, leapt out and ran down the expressway, waving his hands at nobody in particular.
Which was about the amount of time it took Bruno to exit the Beast, grab open the back door of the cab, drag me into the street by my shaking shoulders, and slam me up against the Ford.
Quite a feat, considering his right hand, arm and shoulder were immobilized by a heavy-duty sling and vast swathes of bandage.
Bruno, I said. Let’s be reasonable.
Fuckhead, he replied, kneeing me in the groin. You really thought you wouldn’t have to pay for that shit?
Well, no, I said, bent over and gasping. I’d be happy to pay for it. Never thought otherwise. The surgery, pain and suffering, whatever. Just that I’m in a temporary cash crunch, right now.
He leveled me with a fist to the chest. It felt just like I’d imagine it would if you were under a car, changing the oil, and the jack collapsed. Two tons of metal on your rib cage.
I slumped to a seated position against the panel truck. I marveled at the fact that I still was conscious. The cab driver was long gone, the distant sound of impatient gamblers honking at the traffic delay providing a comforting backbeat to the scene. I looked up at my certain demise: Bruno with a tire iron.
Redman, he said. I could kill you right here, right now.
You could, I said. But isn’t it a little public? You’d be taking some chances.
Sure. You’re a smart guy. You figured that out. But I don’t have to do it now. I can do it later. Any time. You think I can’t?
Of course you can. Yes. You can. Perhaps I can do something for you? To stave off the inevitable?
The what?
My imminent death. My demise. You beating the living shit out of me.
Yeah, he said, lowering the tire iron to his s
ide. Maybe.
The pain in my chest multiplied. Triplified. Breathing was beyond an effort. I was quite certain that I needed medical intention. Attention. Whatever they called it. But what had he said? Maybe.
Yeah, I said. Yeah. Name it. I owe you one.
Okay. We got a deal?
Unfortunately, the lawyer in me took over.
What kind of deal? I said. Let’s get the terms straight.
Terms? he said, raising the tire iron again. The terms is, you do what the fuck I say or I beat your brains to yesterday’s oatmeal. You got the terms?
I do. Yes. I get the terms, Bruno. Now would it be okay, before we get to the details, if you let me get these broken ribs treated?
Shit, man, he said to some invisibly large presence behind the wheel of the Beast. Luiz? Mikey Z.? Some other meatball? It didn’t matter.
We got to take care of Mr. I’m-All-Busted-Up, Bruno said, before he’ll take care of business.
Fuck him, said the Interchangeable Meatball Behind the Wheel in an impossibly deep voice from way up and beyond where I sat slumped to the pavement. Take his head off.
Wait, wait, I said weakly, the last vestiges of consciousness rapidly receding, that might not be in your best interest …
Nah, I later remembered Bruno saying. Him we’ll use.
In my intermittent moments of consciousness during the long Beastly ride to a superior medical facility, as I vaguely recalled later, at least three major orifices were threatening to spew. I addressed them one by one. No, I said, not here. It wouldn’t be respectful. And you’ll have to pay the owner of the Beast, Basso Profundo presumably, likely to be an insistent fellow, for the cleaning. And you can’t afford it. You’re just a poor, overused stuff and nonsense of orifices.
I reminded myself to see my personal physician. Get my testosterone checked. See about a testicle transplant.
The emergency staff, when they saw my condition, looked worried, began that scurrying around and barking out stuff that they do on medical shows on TV.
This did not help my state of mind.
The last thing I recalled before they put me under was Bruno telling me that he would be in touch. Tell me what the deal was.
I couldn’t wait.
27.
AT SOME HOUR OF SOME DAY SOME TIME THEREAFTER I AWOKE, the world wavy and confused. I was compos mentis enough to know that I just had to wait. The wait was not unpleasant. They had filled me with something good, something that took the fear away.
The room had started to take on something resembling definition—I could see there was a green plastic chair nearby, that there were curtains surrounding me, hung on tubes by metal rings, could hear that someone next door, next curtain, was wheezing—when a scrubbed and cheerful fellow, far too young to inspire confidence, ducked in, clutching a clipboard.
Hi, he said, I’m Dr. Weiss, and you’re a very lucky man.
I am? I said. Funny, it doesn’t feel that way.
He chuckled. As though we were sharing a private joke. Which we weren’t. The result being, he pissed me off.
I tried to repress the urge to tell him as much. Or worse.
You are, he said. You suffered a brief infarction. Fortunately, you were here when it happened. We were able to get you back quickly. As far as we can tell, no permanent damage.
Infarction, I said.
Myocardial infarction. Some people call it a heart attack. Sorry. I didn’t mean to get technical on you.
Yeah. I know what a fucking infarction is. But thanks for your concern.
Anger is a natural reaction, he said, relentlessly cheerful.
It’s my normal reaction, I said, to almost everything. Don’t think anything of it.
He chuckled again. It still pissed me off.
At any rate, he said. Everything looks okay. We’re going to let you go home. We’ll give you some painkillers. But you need to rest. Take it easy. And call us if you feel anything untoward. Chest pain. Nausea. Shortness of breath. Anything. We think this was just a result of the blow to the chest. Nothing organic. Nothing likely to recur. But we have to be cautious.
We do.
Yes, we do.
Well, thank you, I said. Cautious is my middle name.
This time I got an ironic smile.
Yes, he said. Well. Ms. Cratchett will be by in a few minutes. Some paperwork. Then you’ll be free to go.
You’re kidding, I said.
No, no. You’ll be on your own shortly. She’ll give you some instructions. But I’m pretty sure you’ll be okay.
That’s not what I meant.
Oh?
Nurse Cratchett? Are you fucking kidding me?
No, I’m not kidding, he said, the good humor gone. She’ll be by in a few minutes.
Victory at last, I said to myself. I’d wiped the stupid smile off his face.
A few minutes being in hospital time, I was permitted the luxury of wallowing in the sweaty twisted sheets for two hours before the esteemed and horrifically overweight Nurse Cratchett arrived. She was business like, efficient, and exhibited a not terribly subtle air of contempt that I surmised was not put on just for me. There’s a breed of nurses who seem to think that anyone sick or injured must have brought it upon themselves, or, if not, was in any case causing them unwarranted aggravation, aggravation that could have been avoided had you not foolishly stepped in front of the truck that ran that red light at the corner of Flamingo and South Whatever. Nurse Cratchett, untrue to her moniker, was one of them.
That was okay. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Which, after twenty minutes of swearing in writing and otherwise that anything that happened to me subsequent to my release was unequivocally, wholly and without question my fault and not that of the hospital, any of its staff or anyone related by commerce, marriage or any other notion of affiliation or salience with the former, I was permitted to do. So long as I agreed to be wheeled to the front door in a humiliating and utterly unnecessary wheelchair.
At which point I was free to hail a cab. Which smelled of camphor and wet bandages.
But maybe that was me.
When I got to the motel, I crawled painfully out of the cab—my chest still felt crushed, my bloodstream sluggish as a mononucleotic toad’s—and hobbled to the House of Beige that we called home. On the way, I resisted the urge to look behind me. I felt like a child walking down the stairs to the basement. Frightened and foolish.
In the Executive Suite, as we laughingly still called it, the gang was all there, none the wiser for my near brush with Annihilation by Italian. They’d opened a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, brought in a bucket of ice. The ashtray was already overflowing. The Yankees game was on. I staggered to the sectional, fell into it, braved a smile.
Hey guys, I said, I hope I haven’t missed out on too much of the fun.
The fun’s all over, said Butch, now that you’re here.
I ignored the remark. I recounted my recent adventures.
Shit, said Brendan.
Damn, said Butch.
Thanks for your sympathy, I said.
Let’s go fuck him up, said Butch.
Come on, man. We want to start one of those endless cycles of vengeance? We’re not in West Virginia.
You’re such a pussy, man.
You know I’m right.
Thank you.
Yes. I know you’re right.
How was the meeting? said Butch.
I just fucking told you, I said. You call that a meeting? More like a near-death experience.
No, Rick, that was a beating. I mean the meeting. Before that. Your tête-à-tête with Ms. Greeneyes.
Oh, that. I don’t fucking remember. Not very illuminating.
Rick. Please. Get yourself together. Give us the download.
Fuck you, I said.
Rick, don’t talk to us like that, said Butch. We’re not your girlfriend.
What the hell are you talking about?
Oh, sorry. We forgot. You don’t hav
e a girlfriend. Anymore.
Fuck the two of you, I said. And the lizards you rode in on.
I tried to remember, and described as best I could, my conversation with Ms. Chandler. The earlier one with the blonde in Henderson. I told the story in circles. I tried to make them concentric. From time to time I stopped. Short of breath. Sharp pains in my sternum. Aches in my ankle. Must have twisted it when I manfully slumped to the pavement.
Someone, I recalled eventually, was going to have to go check out that bartender.
Well, I guess we know who that’s going to be, said Brendan.
That was the deal, as I recall, I replied. Maybe you can make up for the last one.
Sure, he said. I’ll go. Which means I’ll need some sleep. Night all.
He went the bedroom. Firmly closed the door.
What’s sleep got to do with anything? said Butch. It’s Vegas, for God’s sake.
Seriously, I said. The fuck’s up with him?
I don’t know, Butch shrugged. The guy’s a square bolt in a round world. What do you want?
A square bolt?
Never mind.
Well, I can’t argue that he isn’t weird.
You know, he takes this Outfit stuff seriously. Really wants to be a part of it.
If that was true, he’d get off his ass and do what he was told.
He’s a kid, Rick.
He’s thirty-five years old, Butch.
That’s what I said. He’s just a kid.
Anyway, I knew enough not to ask Brendan what the problem was. Nothing, was the answer. It was always the answer.
We drank some bourbon. The Yankees lost. I didn’t care. I was an Expos fan anyway. Which meant, seeing as how they were long defunct, I didn’t care about baseball much at all. And I was eating too many corn chips. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, I knew it. Acid reflux. It’d kill me, if the infarction didn’t come back and do it first.
I went to the counter. Got another bag of corn chips.
Oh shit, I said. Something I forgot to tell you about.
Tell me about it. But first get me another bourbon.
I got him another bourbon. Hell, I got myself one, too.