by Grant Mccrea
Nice plunger, I said.
He yelled something at my back. I couldn’t hear what it was. It didn’t seem important.
I followed an instinct. It was a large and luminous, orange-coloured instinct. A sort of setting-sun instinct. It led me around the back of the tent.
Natalya was there. Having a smoke with some guys. Young guys, sitting on bar stools at a small round table. Guys in denim vests. Guys with tattoos. Guys with piercings. The umbrella that grew through the middle of the table was open, shading them from the stars overhead. They were passing around a joint and a bottle of Tequila. One of them looked up, gave me a blank look. The others ignored us.
Natalya gave me a smile.
Brendan’s friend, she said along with the smile.
Yeah, I said. And this is Butch. He’s Brendan’s friend, too. Coincidentally, he also happens to be my friend.
She laughed. A nice warm laugh. A laugh that wasn’t trying to prove anything.
You seen him? I asked. Brendan?
A while ago. He was with the usual—
Andrei?
And Anatoly.
Any idea where they went?
They were talking about going to this club. Give me a second.
I’ll give you more than that, I said, you give me half a chance.
Excalibur, she said, ignoring me. Or something like that.
We’ll run with that.
You’re welcome. And thanks for stopping by.
Oh, sorry, I said. I’m kind of distracted. And next time, I promise, it’ll be all about you.
Promises, promises, she said, turning back to her posse of punks.
Excalibur, I said to Butch. Heard of it?
Nope. We can ask the concierge.
What’s a concierge for? I responded.
If not for that, I don’t know what.
Sammy was at the concierge desk. Sammy was old-school, round and balding and perpetually cracking a joke. He was there to help. To be your best friend. To do all the scut work for you. Make those pesky reservations and phone calls. Tell you some old-time jokes, if that’s what you needed.
He proved to be helpful, if a bit taken aback.
Sure, he said, pulling out a street map. It’s right here.
He marked an X on the spot. It was in a neighborhood I wasn’t familiar with.
But, he continued with a puzzled air, I’m not sure it’s exactly the kind of place you … you gentlemen … would be looking for.
Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I chuckled. I think I know what you mean. I don’t know the place. But we’re looking for a friend.
A friend who might like that kind of place, he nodded.
Exactly, I said.
He seemed relieved.
Anyway, he said. It can be hard to get in, I understand. I think perhaps it would be best if you … dressed appropriately.
Might have to do a little clothes shopping, I said.
Exactly, said Sammy.
What would you say? A little leather? Metal studs? That kind of thing?
In that neighborhood, he said.
Okay. Thanks, my man.
I slipped him a twenty. Sammy smoothly, expertly pocketed it. It was as though it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t something you wanted to flaunt. You were with a friend. Your good friend Sammy.
Money had nothing to do with it.
46.
WE COULDN’T BRING OURSELVES TO GET INTO FULL COSTUME. We did what we could. I bought a cowboy hat at the Caesars mall. I’d wanted one anyway. I had my bomber jacket. That would have to do. Butch had his leather motorcycle jacket. His shiny black boots. Hey, it was a little out of date, but maybe we’d be seen as charmingly retro. Add a little dash of the old YMCA. If not, hell, we could bully our way into the place, we had to.
I’d expected some Vegas-style extravaganza, but the Excalibur turned out to be a one-story concrete block on a sorry-looking street. Not a palm tree in sight, unless you counted the neon one in the window. In which sat, lotus-legged, a neon Arab boy in full cartoon-Arab-boy regalia, brandishing the eponymous sword.
Didn’t know King Arthur was an Arab, said Butch.
In Vegas he is, I said. That’s why they call it the Magic Kingdom.
That’s Disneyland.
Right. Well. You know what I mean.
We knocked.
No answer.
We knocked again.
The door cracked open. A wizened face, long and badly lipsticked, topped by a platinum blonde wig, peered out.
Yes? it said.
Uh, we’d like to come in? I said.
It slammed the door.
Butch didn’t take well to being disrespected. And he didn’t hesitate to express his displeasure. He stepped back. Crouched sideways to the door. Gave it his best black-booted straight-from-the-hip tae kwon do kick.
The door splintered and dropped in pieces like week-old matzo. Any old matzo.
Which brought out the troops.
Well, the troop.
He was big. He was bald. He was wearing false eyelashes. But that didn’t fool me.
He meant business.
He took a swing at Butch. Butch ducked, threw up a blocking right arm. Eyelashes stumbled. Butch crouched, spun, kicked at the back of his knee. Eyelashes crumpled.
Butch walked through the shattered door. I was about to follow, but Eyelashes was too quick getting back up. He slid in front of me. He was too big to get around.
Goddamn it. I wasn’t about to be a pussy, call to Butch to come back out and help me. And I hadn’t brought the Mauser, the Great Equalizer. I was going to have to dredge up some of the old fighting moves. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. It’d been at least two decades since I’d been in a serious bar fight. I sure didn’t have the muscle tone anymore, after twenty years of drink and dissolution. I’d have to bank on the reflexes. Wait. No. Two bottles of Cristal. Fuck the reflexes. Okay. The surprise factor.
I grabbed him by the balls.
I really did. I had no choice. I had to make a preemptive move.
I’m not saying I enjoyed it. But I grabbed him by the balls.
And squoze.
He froze.
Fear in his eyes.
And? I said.
Okay, he said. It’s all right. No problem.
You sure? I asked, giving them a little twitch.
Sure. You got my word.
Was there honor among scumbags? I asked myself.
Well, I answered myself, it’s either believe there is, or stand here with a sackful of nuts in my hand all night.
I let go.
He stepped back. Looked about to launch a haymaker at me.
I cocked my head.
You sure you want to do that? I asked.
He hesitated.
And being the hesitator, he lost.
Shit, he said. I’ll buy you a beer.
Scotch, I said. Laphroaig. Water back.
You got it, he mumbled.
I’ll have a double Dewar’s, said Butch from inside the doorway. On the rocks.
He’d been watching the whole thing.
Fuck you, I said.
Larry, said our new best friend, holding out a surprisingly soft but still huge paw.
Rick.
Butch.
Pleased to meet you, said Eyelashes.
I could have sworn he said it with an Oxbridge accent.
He led us down a long, narrow corridor patched, floor, walls and ceiling, in what looked to be carpet factory remainders. The corridor widened into a large room, similarly appointed. By which I mean not appointed at all.
The joint was populated. Larry introduced us around. One blonde, square-shouldered, in a dress closer fitting than its country origins might easily bear. A four-foot-five-inch Asian queen in Hawaiian shirt and pompadour. A guy in a tight-fitting dress and a scowl. You met the face alone, you’d expect her, him, to be on the porch, sporting a shotgun, ordering you off her parched half acre and a mule. And a sick tall blonde master
piece. Nothing fake about that one. A Nordic pallor skillfully maximized by cheekbones and highlights, ravine-like cleavage and an air of abandon. Gretchen, an Asian transsexual with a thinly disguised paunch and a Hong Kong accent. When you think about it, I mused, if it weren’t for his sexual orientation, she’d be washing dishes in a grungy Chinese restaurant.
God Bless America.
From somewhere in back, over the screams of some long-ago Aerosmith hit song, came the cry, Show us your dick!
On the wall was a sign:
RESUSCITATION KIT HERE
Leaning up against the wall next to the empty resuscitation-kit box was our good friend Brendan. Wearing a tuxedo. In bare feet. Sporting a carnation in his lapel. Looking way too happy.
Brendan, I said. What the fuck. You were supposed to meet us at the Hang.
What the fuck to you. I changed my mind. I’m an adult.
You’re not acting like one. You could have told us.
Fuck off.
Listen, man. You’re right. You’re an adult. You can spend your leisure time any way you like. But maybe you could show your friends some respect?
My friends are here, he said, indicating the assembled degenerates.
What is this shit? Did we do something to you?
Nothing, man, he said, dropping the aggressive pose. Nothing. I just want to live my life.
Okay, I said. Whatever. Live your life. But Day Two is coming up fast.
Forget Day Two.
What, you’re going to drop out?
I’m already out, he said with a shrug.
What? said Butch. You said you had a hundred five.
I lied.
I don’t believe it, I said.
Believe it. Check the board at the Rio. I busted out the first hand. Set over set.
Aw, Jesus, man, I said. That’s a tough beat. You should have told us.
He shook his head, walked away. Started talking to a guy in the corner. The guy was wearing a bikini. He had a tight body. Curves. Slim calves. You’d never have guessed it was a guy. Until you looked at his face. Under a blonde sixties-style flip-up wig was the narrow, sunken face of a forty-five-year-old insurance auditor.
I looked at Butch. I shrugged. He shrugged.
Life tilt, I said.
Yeah, he said.
We stood there for a while. I was feeling stupid and sweaty in my cowboy hat. I wanted to go after him. But what was I going to say? Come back to the motel, Brendan, we’ll set up our own cabaret, just for you and your buddies?
I sighed. We headed out. I brushed off the leers of a couple of older guys. Worried that it was only the older guys.
47.
NEXT DAY, BACK AT THE SUITE, around about the fourth scotch, I started thinking about Tori. Jami. No. Something ending in an untoward i.
I wanted to smell that mango again.
The basement angle. Yes. Saying I had to talk to Matt wouldn’t work at all. In fact, I had to hope Matt and the kiddies hadn’t gotten back from Reno yet. But the basement. Yes. Who knows, I might even find something there.
I got the Mini Cooper out of the lot. It cost me forty minutes and another five bucks. I tried to remember where the house was. Henderson, wasn’t it? I trolled around the Vegas suburbs for a while. I was wandering, really, thinking about shit. Basements. Melissa. Why she died. Why people kept dying. Madeleine, on the other hand. Very alive. New. Like a replacement for the dying. Kind of sick, that thought. And by the way, I had the time to let the thought intrude, who the hell was her mother? I should know. I suppose I did know. I suppose I didn’t want to think about it. So why was I thinking about it? Because it made me feel like shit. What had I done? Had a fling, apparently, when Kelley was a baby, two years old maybe. And then forgot it completely? How many different people was I disrespecting there, all at once?
I blundered into the right neighborhood.
Funny how the subconscious works.
I found the house.
It looked the same. Preservative, the desert air. I guess that’s why you find a lot of old folks out there. Old cars, too. Old lizards.
Tori, or Lori, or Gustavi, answered the door. I smiled.
Sorry to bother you again, I said.
Who are you? she asked, genuinely puzzled, it seemed.
Rick Redman. The investigator? I was here a couple of days ago? Asking about the couple who used to live here?
Oh, she said, and began to giggle. The giggle rose to a snort, a laugh.
Oh dear, I thought. She’s stoned.
Sorry, she said, composing herself somewhat. Yes. I remember. Come on in!
Thank you.
She pulled her hand from behind her back. It had a large lit joint in it. She looked at it, at me, sheepishly. Thrust it towards me.
Just a touch, I said, not wanting to be rude. But equally not wanting to be stoned. Dysfunctional. More dysfunctional than normal.
I took a small hit. Handed it back to her.
The taste of her was on it. Strong enough to compete with the powerful taste of first-class weed. My, I thought. She packs an olfactory punch, this one.
I’d never do this if Matt was here, she giggled. He’s soooo straight? But it’s okay, once in a while, you know?
She asked it like a genuine question. Like she needed my approval.
Sure, I said. Once in a while is great.
Matt wasn’t there.
Perhaps there was a God.
She grabbed my arm, hooked it through hers. Walked me into the couch-filled living room. I remembered it. I still liked it. It wasn’t just the dope. Though that clearly helped. We sat together on the couch. She leaned my way. I felt very, very relaxed.
Business first, I reminded myself. I wasn’t Brendan.
You know, I said, I was remembering our conversation.
She giggled again.
You mentioned that you’d overheard Eloise and her … the man with her, Vladimir I guess, talking in the basement. And it occurred to me that I should have asked to see it.
What?
The basement.
The what?
The basement.
The basement? she said absently, handing me the joint again. Sure. Go look. Nothing down there, though.
Thanks, I said, taking another polite hit. Where is it?
Where is what?
The basement.
Oh, that. Downstairs.
I looked at her, trying to figure out if she was joking. I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. I started to laugh. She looked at me, laughed too. We both laughed. We couldn’t stop laughing. The whole thing seemed utterly hilarious. Except I couldn’t remember what it was that was so funny. Which didn’t matter at all.
Especially after she collapsed giggling into my arms.
I held her, the laughter slowly subsiding. I stroked her back. It was a strong back. It curved to a firm and delectable waist. An apricot scent enveloped me. I liked mango better. But this would do. She kissed my neck. Her lips were cool and wet. I closed my eyes.
Uh, Toni, I said.
Dani, she murmured into my neck.
Dani, right. Sorry. Uh, Dani?
Yes, she said, nibbling at my earlobe.
Where’s Matt? Your kids?
I had to make sure.
She started giggling again. Lifted herself up. Held my face in her hands. Smiled.
They’re still in Reno, she said.
She had exquisite teeth. Her blonde hair was loose.
Ah, I see. Won’t be back for a while, then?
Tuesday, she murmured, moving back down to my neck.
I lifted her face. Looked into her eyes. They were green. I’m a sucker for green eyes. Sort of like I’m a sucker for strong-bodied natural blonde Southwestern gals with succulent lips and the scent of apricots who throw themselves into my arms.
We went upstairs.
She put on Sinatra. Only the Lonely. How she knew it was my favorite, I have no idea.
Willow Weep for Me.
We lay down together. The bed was huge and soft.
I told her about a book I’d read a long time ago. A book about a machine. I kept confusing it with other things, but the thing I did remember was that the machine, a computer I guess it was, became so complex that inside it grew a whole world of virtual people, a complete society, mirroring our own to the extent that they developed consciousness, an idea of God, who was, of course, the creator of the machine. The machine’s creator was able to observe, eavesdrop on, his creation, and agonized about his role. His role as God.
It’s a great responsibility, being God, I said to Dani as she removed my shirt.
I began to remember why I hated getting stoned.
Are you God? she asked.
Yes. It happens that I am.
That’s a relief, she said, feeling for the evidence of my claim.
Mmmph, I said.
I hate the small ones, she mumbled.
I think we’re okay.
So I see, she said, having discovered the burgeoning object of conversation.
The laughing started again.
And some other stuff.
I changed my mind about the stoned thing. The only thing dope is good for, I always say, is listening to music and having sex. And there I was. Listening to music and having sex. Taking full advantage.
It was, as they say, satisfactory.
We lounged for a while. I drifted in and out of sleep. She brought us some coffee. We sipped it and laughed.
Jesus, I thought. Could a guy have a life like this?
Not this guy.
Well, I said, I gotta go.
Aww, she said.
Unfortunately, I do. Business to take care of.
She was sweet. Gathered my clothes together. Walked me to the door. We had a good long hug. I reluctantly pulled away. Turned for the car.
Um, didn’t you want to see the basement? she asked.
Jesus, I said. I totally forgot.
She laughed. I laughed. We went back into the house. She took me to a door behind the kitchen. Led me down a flight of wooden steps. Led me by the hand.
At the bottom of the stairs she flipped a light switch.
The basement was unfinished. Concrete floor. Bare plywood walls. Drifts of dust on the floor. A rack of tools. Odd-looking tools. Not hammers, pliers, stuff I was used to. Heavy metal objects that looked like tools. A large wooden bench with a mammoth vise bolted to it. The remains of some large piece of machinery. Someone had been taking it apart. There were wrenches on the floor. Pieces of the machine. I didn’t recognize it. The machine. What it was. Seemed like it was electrically powered. A large three-pronged plug lay on the floor near an outlet. There were gears. Some kind of conveyor-belt thing angled into the interior. I got down on my knees. Peered inside.