Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  I wasn’t there yet. I still had time to do.

  What brings you hereabouts? he asked.

  Work, I said.

  What kinda work, Rick?

  I thought about it a minute. Surveying, I could say. Environmental impact study. Census.

  Investigation, I said.

  Yah, he said with a bigger grin. Jist what’re you investigatin’?

  Woman down the way, Elmer. Nothing serious. Her sister wants to know is she okay.

  Yah. I know which one yer talkin’ about.

  You do?

  Only one here without a man ’r kidlins. Got to be her.

  I see.

  Maybe ya do, maybe ya don’t. Hard tellin’ not knowin’.

  Okay.

  Har, he said, pointing the remaining centimeter of his smoke at me.

  Anything you can tell me about her? I asked.

  Yah. Lots.

  Okay.

  No sayin’ I’ll do it, though.

  I see, I said.

  Har, he replied.

  Twenty bucks for your thoughts?

  Might do.

  I’ll need a receipt, though.

  Har, yar, gahhg, he said, descending into a coughing fit of Leviathan proportions.

  Don’t die on me now, I said, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and heaving myself up out of my rubber chair enough to toss it on his overalls.

  I got a ways yet, he rasped, plugging at his chest with an arthritic fist. Dontcha worry ’bout me.

  He pulled out some rolling papers and a pouch of Drum tobacco. I remembered it from my tent and tar paper days. Dark, moist and stringy. Made a rich, long-lasting smoke.

  I maintained a respectful silence while he rolled it perfectly smooth and symmetrical, clenched hands and all.

  The twenty had vanished.

  Yah, he said. Okay, I don’t know ’bout that. She’s whatcher call a piece a’ work.

  In what way?

  Well, like I toldjer. She lives all by her lonesome in there. But not so bad. Put in that bitty swimmin’ pool. Walks around like she’s way above us regaller folks.

  And?

  And ever once in a while, late in the evenin’, early in the mornin’, you get noise comin’ outta that trailer o’ hers. Like two cats fuckin’ the same bottle.

  You don’t say?

  Yah. Cain’t tell you any more’n that. Some funny stuff goin’ on there, fer sure. You’d think. I don’t know. Next mornin’, there she is, scrapin’ dirt ’round in front o’ the trailer. Wearin’ them Jap dresses in the hunnerd degree. Collars up to her chin. Down to the ground. Don’t seem like she own a pair a’ shorts.

  Chinese, actually, I think, I said.

  Yah, har, he coughed. Yer a piece a’ work yerself, mate. I guess yer knows yer stuff.

  I’ll take that as a compliment, I said, struggling out of the rubber ensconcement.

  Nice talkin’ ter ya, the friendly old guy said.

  Pleasure’s all mine, I said.

  I’ll be wagerin’ so, he said.

  I’d meant it. Though I didn’t tell him so.

  I sauntered down the dirt as nonchalantly as I knew how, over to the Eloise trailer, the one with the mysterious cat noises. She wasn’t outside sweeping the dust. There was no sign of anybody, in fact. Anything. I rang the bell. I heard it echo inside. As though the house were empty. Bereft of furniture, rugs or curtains to absorb the sound.

  I wondered. Had she flown the coop?

  The door opened.

  She was wearing a floor-length robe of some Asian dispensation. Wide sleeves. There were animals on it. Fantastical animals. Things with feathers and fur. Japanese, I thought. Or Korean. What had I decided earlier? Chinese? I had an urge to go back to Elmer, correct myself. Cast some doubt on my earlier assertion.

  She looked me in the eye. This, too, was a surprise. The first being that she had opened the door at all.

  Yes? she said, leaning an arm against the doorpost.

  Rick Redman, I said. From the other day. By the pool. I was hoping I could talk to you again. For just a moment.

  I know who you are.

  Ah. Well, then please excuse the redundant introduction. Might I come in?

  Talk away.

  Okay. Thank you. But, I mean, would it be an imposition, I mean, too much of an imposition, if we could perhaps sit down somewhere? It’s kind of hot out here. For a Canadian boy.

  I’d like to say that I was insinuating myself into her home, such as it was, by impersonating a bumbling fool. Unfortunately, I was just being myself.

  She regarded me with an impassive gaze. She turned her back. Vanished into the gloom.

  I took it as an invitation. Followed. A flimsy folding door on the right. A dim light. I peered in. She was sitting on a chair. A large, overstuffed Queen Anne number, upholstered in mattress ticking. Or so it looked. Blue and white stripes. Somebody’s idea of a statement. I knew about that stuff. From the Melissa days.

  It was utterly out of place.

  Just like me.

  A Queen Anne chair is high, straight-backed. It has large ear like wings at the top. Where one might rest one’s weary head, you think. But when you sit in it, you realize that the back is so straight that there is no rest to be had. Very pretty, but impractical.

  I took it as a metaphor.

  I slumped onto an undersized yellow divan.

  I did not take that as a metaphor. But perhaps I should have.

  I hastened to tell Eloise that my slumping intended no disrespect. Lower back, I explained.

  She waved her hand dismissively.

  At least I hoped that’s what she meant. For all I knew, she was summoning the executioner.

  She wasn’t easy to read.

  Thank you, I said, taking a leap of faith. Very kind of you, to let me …

  She waved her hand again.

  Okay, I said, let me get to the point, if I may.

  I didn’t know why I felt the need to formalize my speech for Eloise. Maybe it was the chair. Its throne-like air. Her regal silence. Who knew? Who cared? Whatever the cause, I didn’t seem to have any control over it.

  In any case, she didn’t say anything in response.

  As you know, I said, filling the dead air, I’ve been engaged by your sister, Louise.

  Yes, she said in her flat voice, I remember.

  Well, I lied, she was greatly relieved to hear that you’re all right.

  I’m sure, she said, telling me that she was not so sure at all.

  But she did have one concern, I said.

  I’m sure she did.

  She, um, wanted to know about Vladimir.

  Really?

  Yes.

  She lit a cigarette. Benson & Hedges. She lit it very well. Smoothly. With a wooden match. She shook out the match with a practiced flick of the wrist, placed it carefully in an ashtray on the side table next to her. From where I sat, the ashtray looked like a coiled snake.

  Perhaps it was.

  I see, she said once her little performance was over.

  Then she looked at me, raised her eyebrows, laughed. Pulled out another smoke. Tossed it at me. I thanked her, and for the wooden match that followed.

  We were bonding.

  I guess, I said, she wanted to know how he is, too.

  She gave a short, sharp laugh.

  How much is my sister paying you, Mr. Redman?

  Rick, please. Um, I guess that’s confidential.

  Well, I’m guessing it’s more than cab fare from the Strip.

  I think I can reveal that much. Yes. It’s more than cab fare from the Strip.

  Then she can get her ass out here and ask me herself, can’t she.

  Well, yes. Actually, I suggested that myself. But she seemed … worried.

  By ‘worried’ do you mean ‘scared shitless’?

  I’m not sure I’d say that.

  I’m quite sure you wouldn’t. Anyway, she always was a good actress.

  Um, but, uh, is there anyth
ing that I can say to her for you? A message? How is Vladimir, anyway?

  That’s none of your fucking business, she said.

  My, I thought, it’s remarkable how arresting that kind of language is when delivered in a monotone.

  And, she continued, you can leave now.

  All right, then. I’ll do that. And thank you for your hospitality.

  I got up to go.

  I changed my mind.

  By the way, I said. When I was looking to track you down.

  She gave me a weary look.

  I visited your old house. In Henderson. Talked to the lady there. Nice lady. Dani. From Oklahoma. You remember her?

  Eloise looked away. Out the window. At the trailer homes across the way.

  She gave me this FedEx package. It was addressed to Vladimir. Guess it got there after you left.

  Eloise looked back at me. Her eyelids were slightly lowered. Ever so slightly.

  Did you bring it with you? she asked.

  Why would I do that?

  Did you?

  No.

  Next time, bring it with you.

  How do you know I’ll be back?

  You’ll be back.

  Happy to be the recipient of your confidence, I said.

  Bring it.

  Why should I bring it to you? It’s addressed to Vladimir.

  I’ll give it to Vladimir.

  So, you are still seeing him?

  Did I say that, Mr. Redman?

  Strictly speaking, you didn’t. But it was implied.

  She didn’t say anything. She leaned her head back against the chair. Blew a long skein of smoke to the ceiling.

  Just ask him over, I said. Next time I visit. I’ll give it to him.

  She laughed.

  You really are a bit naïve, Mr. Redman.

  I am? How is that?

  She took a last long draw on her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray. She did it with an air of finality.

  Goodbye, Mr. Redman, she said, leaning back and closing her eyes.

  Clearly, the interview was over. Again.

  Well, I said. Pleasure to see you.

  Oh, she said dreamily, eyes still closed, the pleasure was all mine.

  I backed my way out the trailer door.

  Turning one’s back on Eloise Chandler seemed not to be recommended.

  50.

  I GOT BACK TO THE DUSTY ANGEL WITHOUT SERIOUS INCIDENT. Shit, I thought, maybe my luck’s improving.

  Sometimes I could be naïve.

  I’d only managed to swill down two double scotches when my cell phone did its vibrating thing.

  It was Madeleine. We made plans for dinner.

  Which reminded me. I’d neglected to tell Kelley about Madeleine. Neglected? Chickened out. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel right. I had to make it right. I could tell her and Peter that I’d come over later. After dinner. I could tell Madeleine about Kelley, Kelley about Madeleine. Complete a circle. It would be a novelty, finishing something I’d started. If you could call conceiving Madeleine starting something. Well, what else would you call it? Anyway. Maybe I could even get Madeleine to come over afterwards. Have a family party. Peter loved a party.

  I called Kelley and Peter. Made sure they’d be home. Told them I might have a surprise for them. Maybe that way I wouldn’t be able to weasel out of it.

  I poured myself another scotch. It tasted good.

  My phone buzzed. A voice message had appeared. Origin: unknown. A creditor, I figured. I considered deleting it unheard. Then I remembered I had a client. Children. But why would they go directly to voice mail? The phone hadn’t rung. And a creditor wouldn’t know how to do it. Now that I thought of it, I couldn’t think of anyone who could. Well, it was the kind of thing Butch could find out. But why not just call?

  Curiosity took over.

  There was a voice. I didn’t recognize it. Delgado, it said. There followed an address. I didn’t recognize the address. But it didn’t take more than a question or two at the front desk to find out it was in the sort of neighborhood sane people—and even I—didn’t normally feel anxious to visit. Last I’d looked, the crime rate in Las Vegas made it only the thirty-fourth most dangerous city in America. The problem was, about eighty percent of the bad stuff happened in a ten-block radius of the joint in question.

  The phone did its vibrating thing. When did I get to be such a popular guy?

  I answered the call.

  We need to meet, Ms. Chandler said.

  Yes, I said. In fact, I have some news for you.

  News?

  Yes.

  What? Tell me.

  I can’t. Too much to tell you over the phone. Let’s get together.

  That’s what I just said, Mr. Redman.

  Yes. I mean, I agree with you. But I have some important business to attend to first. How about later? Say, seven o’clock?

  Rick, I really do need to see you.

  Rick?

  Yes, Rick.

  Wow. To what can I ascribe this honor?

  I leave that to your imagination, Rick.

  I hope you understand that I have a very active imagination.

  I’ll take my chances. Meet me at the Wynn. My suite.

  Certainly.

  Call me when you’re on your way.

  I will do that.

  All right, then, she said.

  All right, I replied.

  I was leaning back, indulging the imagination, as Louise had given me leave to do, when Butch showed up. I gave him the download. We knocked some theories around. None of them fit the evidence. Darwin we weren’t.

  The fuck is Brendan? I said. He ever come back?

  Nope.

  Goddamn it.

  He’s an adult, Rick.

  Why do people keep telling me that? Yeah, I know. He’s an adult. He can do what he wants. But I got a bad feeling about what he wants.

  I hear ya.

  It’s those fucking Russians. They’ve got him into something.

  You see any of them at Excalibur? I didn’t.

  No. But I know it’s got something to do with them. He’s like a teenager. Defying the parental whatever.

  Yeah. You know, maybe it’s time for an intervention.

  An intervention? For what? Too much partying?

  You’re right. You’re right. But let’s at least try to track him down. Hope he’s straight. Find out what’s really going on.

  I’m okay with that.

  I guess we got to look around. Problem is, Vegas is a damn big place.

  Funny you should say that. Seems to me it keeps getting smaller. Everywhere I go, it’s the same people. Evgeny, Bruno, Louise. What’s up with that?

  We’re talking about Brendan, Rick. Not your angst-filled life.

  Right. Thank you. Thank you for rescuing me from my pathetic self.

  You’re welcome. Now let’s head over to the Rio. Ask around.

  I guess that’s the place to start.

  We took a cab. It smelled of hamburger meat and indefinable cheese.

  At the Rio we split up, asked around.

  As I wandered about the endless corridors, I remarked that there didn’t seem to be quite as many enormously fat folk on motorized scooters as I remembered from last time.

  Apparently some visionary entrepreneur had started up a business renting these classy-looking three-wheelers to the supposedly handicapped at casinos all over town. Now, I understand that it’s dangerous to take a position on whether excessive fondness for deep fried Twinkies and pork rinds should be categorized as a handicap, so I won’t, but I did start keeping count of the ratio of morbidly obese people to those who actually seemed to have … oops, to non-obese handicapped people riding the things. The count was up to 14–2 in favor of the chubbies. One guy in supersize jeans and t-shirt was particularly memorable. I was just about to add him to the list when I noticed he was actually sitting in a chair, and not on a scooter. I looked again. It was two chairs. One for each leg. At tha
t moment he heaved himself up, hauled over a black plastic trash bin and spewed something black—or dark brown—into it. Tobacco juice? Bile? Roof tar? Impossible to tell.

  But it did seem to convey a message.

  I just wasn’t sure what the message was.

  Butch and I met back at the Purple Velvet. Compared notes. Whilst updating my count of the population of lard-asses on wheels, I’d asked around here and there. I assumed Butch had been somewhat more diligent. In either case, the answers were the same.

  Nobody had seen Brendan.

  It wasn’t smelling good.

  Listen, man, I said, I’ve got to go check out this Delgado guy. Can you see what you can do?

  Yeah, I know. I’ll do it. You don’t want me along?

  I’ll handle it.

  Butch gave me a Look that said, I’ll take your word for it. But only because I don’t want to hurt your feelings.

  On the way to the lobby I saw Evgeny and some of his crew playing craps. They were jumping and hollering at every throw of the dice. Well, Evgeny wasn’t jumping. Not in his skill set. Ziggie was there. Manfred. Another guy I didn’t know. Leather jacket, loose jeans, the tightly shaved scalp to hide the male-pattern balding. A slightly pathetic don’t-fuck-with-me swagger. Another guy, with PMS. Pregnant Man Syndrome. Stick legs and a belly the size of an armadillo. A large armadillo. I started to head over, see if Anatoly and Alexei were there.

  Evgeny spotted me.

  Rick-ay, he called out. Come play! We got hot strick goink!

  I was about to go over. Play the obliging confederate. Help keep his strick goink. But then I remembered that I hadn’t finished the job yet. First thing Evgeny would ask me. And I didn’t feel like explaining.

  In fact, I thought, as I picked up the pace towards the lobby, Evgeny’s voice fading behind me into the rattle and hum of the slots, I didn’t even know if I had an explanation. I’d taken Yugo’s word for this Delgado thing. The whole thing could be a ruse.

  Self-aggrandizement, I could hear Sheila say. Why the hell would someone want to pull some elaborate ruse on me? I wasn’t important enough. Somebody wanted to mess with me, they could just punch me in the chest, like Bruno.

  Speaking of which, I’d almost made my escape when the Italian Buffoon himself hove into view.

  Redman, he said. I got something I got to talk to you about.

  Yeah, well, I’m in a hurry, I said.

  No, listen, man. It’s important.

  As I tried to bull on past him, he stepped sideways, blocking my path.