Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  I should’ve taken a cab.

  Louise was ensconced on her couch. Her legs drawn tightly beneath her. A glass of … I wasn’t sure, something purple, in her hand. Hair nicely put up in an elegant coif. Normal, then. Ah, I recognized it: a martini glass in her hand. Containing, then, presumably … a martini. A purple martini.

  To what do I owe the pleasure? she asked, about as coldly as a woman can who has recently invited you to ravage her in a public restroom.

  I have some stuff I have to tell you, I said, going to the bar and pouring myself a large one.

  Yes?

  But now that I think of it, I said, settling into the armchair, I may need some assurances first.

  What the hell are you talking about, Mr. Redman?

  Ah, so it’s back to Mr. Redman.

  I’m sorry, Rick. Rick. Yes. What the hell are you talking about, Rick?

  I need you to believe me. I’m going to tell you some stuff. It’s not pleasant.

  She gave me the Louise stare. Straight through my skull.

  Shit. I should have prepared something. Like running for city council. You don’t come to a rally without a speech.

  She’s dead, I said.

  Louise got up quickly. Strode to the window, back erect. Stood staring out at the neon nightmare. A tiny downward tilt of her head.

  Louise in mourning.

  I assume, she said, I can get the details in the morning paper.

  Probably. I mean, I’ll tell you everything I know …

  Don’t bother.

  I held my tongue. If ever there was a time for tongue holding, this was it.

  Slowly, Ms. Louise Chandler turned from the window. Faced me. Black streaks of mascara irrigated her cheeks.

  Jesus fuck, Rick, she said.

  Yeah. I feel terrible—

  Shut up!

  Okay. I understand.

  Just shut the fuck up. This isn’t about you.

  I know, I insisted. I know. I’ll shut up. Sorry.

  I don’t want you to say another fucking word, she said.

  I nodded.

  She went to the bar. Made herself another purple martini. Poured me another generous scotch. Handed it to me. Returned to the couch. Sipped her martini.

  The mascara had dried.

  We sat in silence for a long, long time. Time enough for her to make us another round of drinks. To smoke an absurd number of cigarettes.

  I hadn’t known she smoked. Maybe she didn’t. But the cigarettes appeared. Some very female long slim things. Maybe they came from the minibar. I smoked some too. What the hell.

  There are things you don’t know, she said to me at last.

  She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at the wall.

  I’m aware of that, I said.

  Another long silence. I started feeling sleepy. I shook myself, as discreetly as I could. It didn’t help. Unbearable. Imagine. Could there be anything more insensitive than falling asleep in the middle of someone’s grief?

  Tell me something, she said at last. Something else. Nothing to do with …

  I understand, I said.

  Tell me a story, or something.

  I thought for a while.

  Randomness is important, I said at last.

  As Rick Redman might say, she said after a pause, can you be a little more vague?

  I can, but I’ll try not to be.

  Thank you.

  What I mean is, we’re always looking for patterns.

  Yes.

  It’s a fundamental part of human nature.

  Also true, she said, lighting another long thin cigarette.

  Which brings me back to poker.

  Which doesn’t surprise me.

  My point being, the ability to detect patterns is central to poker skill. Montana Joe always limps in with a medium pair in early position. You use that information. Next time he limps in early position, you don’t decide, okay, Joe has a medium pair for sure. That would be naïve. Joe, of course, limps in early position with other hands as well. But you take your knowledge of his pattern into account. In deciding your action, you increase in your calculation the probability that Joe does, in fact, have a medium pair.

  I think I follow you.

  It’s one small part of the picture. But illustrative.

  Yes.

  Now, the converse is very important too. Just as important, at least.

  The converse?

  Not to create patterns of your own. That others can perceive. That allow them to adjust their play to your tendencies.

  I see.

  So, for example, I’m always going to play a big pair—Aces, Kings, Queens—in early position. And the abstract, mathematically correct way to play those hands in that position is to raise. But the abstract, mathematically correct way to play does not include the value—did I say value? necessity, I mean—of deception. Confusion. The ability to make your opponent draw false conclusions. Or at least, if your opponent is good enough not to tie himself to uncertain conclusions, not to give him a chance—

  Or her.

  —him or her a chance to identify your hand with more precision than absolutely necessary.

  I see.

  So, to get back to the concept, you have to find a way—at least, you have to find a way if you’re playing often or for a long period with the same players, good players, who will pick up on your tendencies—to randomize your decisions. So, the point is, in this example, you correlate your decision to some random event. You say, okay, I look down and see a big pair. I’m in early position. Most of the time, I’ll raise. Some of the time, I have to just call. Not because, if I raise, my opponent knows I have a big pair—I’ll raise with other hands too—but because, if I always raise with them, when I just call, my alert opponent will know with certainty that I don’t have a big pair.

  I see.

  So you have to randomize.

  Randomize.

  Yes. So I decide, say, just for an example, I’m at the World Series, near the ropes. There’s always a crowd of people behind the ropes. If, when I look over, the third guy from the left behind the ropes is wearing a black shirt, a predominantly black shirt, I’ll call. Otherwise I’ll raise.

  Interesting.

  More than interesting. Foolproof. Even if your opponent knows that you’re randomizing, even if he … or she … knows that you’re basing it on shirt colors, which of course they’ll have no way of knowing, they’d have to know the specific shirt color, the position of the signal person, and what the signal tells you to do, in order to take advantage of your randomizing scheme.

  Okay. I think I get your point. That’s very clever.

  Well, I didn’t make it up myself …

  In any case, it’s very clever, but I guess the question is—

  What’s it got to do with what happened to Eloise?

  Yes.

  I have no idea. I forgot. And anyway, I thought I wasn’t supposed to go there.

  She turned her head away. Shit. I’d said the wrong thing. I hadn’t just said the wrong thing, I was supposed to tell her a story; instead, I’d been showing off. I’d babbled on forever. Lost myself in my cleverness. Lost her.

  Right, she said at last.

  I’m sorry.

  But actually, she said slowly, I see the connection.

  You do?

  I do.

  She didn’t elaborate. I didn’t want to ask. It was so easy to make a mistake.

  Okay, she said.

  Okay, I repeated.

  She took my hand. Pulled me out of the chair. Guided me to the bedroom.

  It didn’t seem quite right. But I wasn’t about to complain.

  74.

  SHE CLOSED THE BEDROOM DOOR. She turned off the lights. There remained a dim refraction, from the neon, through the windows, along the light lines, to the bedroom door, under the door. From there it diffused through the room. Tiny little photons. Enough of them bouncing, or waving, if it’s waving they do, to give me the soft ou
tlines of an exquisite creature removing her clothes. Softly and sadly. And then mine. I didn’t have to move. She was performing the ceremony, the ritual. Whatever it was that she thought might cleanse her, me, us, of the thing that had brought me there.

  Sometimes they kill the messenger. Sometimes the messenger gets something else.

  I was in the bed. We were in the bed. She was beneath me, guiding me, soft and like a dream of it, better than a dream of it.

  She slapped me in the face. Hard. Grabbed me by the throat. Nails. Anger. Jesus. I was scared. This wasn’t playing. I slapped her back. Hard. She fell back.

  I reached out. To say I was sorry. To comfort her.

  She moaned. She arched her back.

  She wanted more.

  I understood.

  I gave her my anger. She gave me hers. Slapping. Kicking. I grabbed her by the wrists. Held her down. Pinned her legs with mine. She growled. Snapped her teeth. I bit her shoulder. Hard. I tasted blood. The thrusting never stopped.

  The climax was the end of all climaxes. The end of the world. As I knew it.

  I rolled aside. She curled herself around me. Kissed my neck, my lips.

  It seemed an odd way to express your grief.

  But death does strange things to people.

  75.

  I TOOK A SHOWER. Made it very hot. Cleared my head with deep, insistent breaths. When I emerged, she was there. Wrapped in a towel. I held her. She held me. We didn’t say anything.

  There was nothing to say.

  I left. She closed the door behind me. Very softly.

  The world outside blasted the numbness away. The clangor, the call and response of the neon. The hot west wind. I got the car from the lot. I didn’t know how I got there.

  I pulled out my phone. It was as automatic as walking. I dialed Butch.

  What’s up? I asked.

  You tell her?

  Yes.

  She okay?

  I guess so.

  You okay?

  Yeah. Yes. I’ll be all right. Just give me the download.

  He’d been asking around. Sometimes the asking got a little insistent. Helped with getting the answers. I could hear the pump in his voice. He liked that stuff.

  He’d tracked down Brendan’s movements to a club.

  Not surprised, I said.

  Yeah .

  What’s it called?

  Don’t know. Just got the address.

  Where is it?

  He told me. It sounded familiar. Unpleasantly familiar.

  Pick you up? I said. Or meet you there?

  Naw. I got to follow something else up.

  What?

  Never mind. If it pans out, you’ll hear about it. Either way, we’ll hit the club after.

  Whatever, man.

  You’re not going there alone, he said with an edge.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Jesus, man, I said. Last couple times, you got your ass handed to you. I might be better off alone.

  Silence.

  Sorry, man, I said.

  You’re not going there alone.

  Okay, okay. Call me when, I don’t know, when your thing. Whatever. Why can’t I go with you on this other thing?

  It’s a cop thing.

  I’d be in the way.

  Let’s just say your presence wouldn’t be appreciated.

  Spoil the party atmosphere?

  Something like that.

  All right. I’ll take your word for it. But tell me, man.

  What?

  This club. It’s in a basement? I’ll bet it’s in a basement.

  You’d have to give me three to one.

  I figured. Fuck you.

  Fuck you too.

  I hung up. Turned around. Headed for the club.

  76.

  IT WASN’T THE HOLE IN THE WALL. Though it might have been described as a hole in the wall. From the outside, anyway.

  This wall looked like an ordinary stone wall. The mortar crumbling between the rocks. A small iron gate. A spiral staircase leading down. The stairs were wrought iron. Black. Rusted in places. You swung open the gate. You were careful on the stairs. They were spaced more widely than ordinary stairs. You could easily fall. Get entangled in the twisted metal bars.

  This again?

  At the bottom was a guy. A very big guy. Another one. Must have been six foot five. He wore a black shirt. Black pants. Leather jacket. He had a bored expression. And a silver tooth.

  The guy looked me over.

  Turn around, he said.

  He didn’t say it with any menace, any anger. He didn’t say it with much of anything.

  I turned around.

  He patted me down. He did a good job. I’m not sure how I felt about that.

  He didn’t find a gun.

  I didn’t have one.

  Shit.

  He turned to the door. For the first time I noticed it. It looked solid. Painted black. Crosshatched metal bracing. Huge bronze hinges. There was a small grate in the middle. He bent over. Whispered into it.

  The door swung open. He stepped aside. Just enough to let me squeeze by with maximum humility.

  Inside, there was a cage. Behind the cage, a counter. Seated at the counter was a woman. She had purple bouffant hair. Pink lipstick. A scarlet bustier. A startling cleavage. And a very deep voice.

  Fifty bucks, she rumbled.

  Seemed like this was the standard rate in Vegas for entry to places you didn’t want to go.

  I just gave Mr. Big fifty bucks, I lied. Outside.

  She looked at me. She rolled her eyes. She sighed.

  Fifty bucks, she repeated.

  How much are the drinks? I asked. No, let me guess. Fifty bucks?

  You’re funny, she said, unamused.

  I found a fifty in my pockets. Folded the bill in half, lengthwise. Placed it neatly on the counter. Flicked it with my fingernail, shooting it under the grate. It neatly stopped inches in front of her.

  Made me feel good about myself. Like maybe I should have made the team.

  Second door on the right, she said in the same bored baritone.

  I went down a corridor. The walls were too close. The ceiling too low. I could turn around, I said to myself, go back to the motel. Let Brendan rest in peace. The cops can handle it. Write off the fifty. Go to the Wynn. Play in a fat cash game. Win it back, with vigorish.

  I kept walking. It was dark enough I had to feel my way. It seemed ten minutes before I found a door. The first door. Unless I’d missed the first door. I could have missed the first door. I looked for a doorknob. Here at the first, or second, door. An aperture. A buzzer to ring. More likely, I thought, a brass knocker. In the shape of a large male member, perhaps.

  The door was blank.

  I kept walking. The walls seemed even closer. An illusion, though, I figured.

  Fear will do that to you.

  The corridor suddenly widened. The second door hove into view. You couldn’t miss this one. A startling blood red in the unrelenting black. A large brass knocker. In the shape of … I wasn’t sure. Symmetrical mounds. Buttocks, perhaps. Yes. A puckered aperture between.

  An ass knocker.

  Jesus.

  As I was steeling myself to touch the thing, the door opened. A tall black creature in a yellow vinyl miniskirt, ripped muscles and nipple rings gave me a white-on-white smile.

  Welcome, it said.

  Thanks, I mumbled.

  First time? it asked.

  Uh, yeah. Is it that obvious?

  Don’t be shy. Come on in. We don’t bite. Well, not right away.

  It laughed. A high-pitched shriek of a laugh.

  I’m Heather, it said.

  Hi, Heather. I’m Rocco.

  Its laugh tinkled.

  Inside, they’d done it up in classic … antique hospital. There were anatomical charts on the walls. Things from the forties and fifties. Genitalia, the crosscut view. The digestive tract. Unappetizing skin conditions. Didn’t want to know
. There was a gynecological table against the wall. Stirrups. The top covered in fifties green plastic. On it were artfully placed a too-large speculum, a mock-up vagina and a set of mammaries originally designed, it appeared, to assist in teaching the art of breast examination.

  An educational institution.

  The hospital green was relentless, relieved only here and there with splashes of yellow. Parachute ceilings in green. Small green lamps. Arched doorways, leading to other green places.

  That must have been where everybody was. The other places. Where the fun happened.

  There was a bar against the left wall. An oasis.

  I headed straight for it.

  Hector will be right with you, Heather tinkled.

  I pulled up a green velvet stool.

  The bar was fully stocked, I was pleased to note. Tier on tier of beautiful bottles, lit green from below. A nice aquatic green. My mouth watered.

  Hector appeared. She wore a chain mail halter top. She had a square jaw and a soul patch. She smiled. She winked. I admired her fishnet stockings. She handed me a menu. The menu offered:

  Thermometer

  Turkey baster

  Sewing kit

  Pink duct tape

  Yo-yo

  Fishing rod

  Selection of marbles

  Skull clips

  Mangina

  Disposable diapers

  Cat-woman

  Doggy bag

  And that was just the first page.

  Uh, how about a scotch? I asked.

  We can do that too, she said.

  As she poured me the libation, I decided to take the straightforward approach.

  I’m kind of new to this, I said.

  She looked at me in mock surprise.

  Oh, I said. I guess you can tell.

  You never know, she said, laughing a friendly laugh.

  So, I said. I may have a few questions about the menu.

  We’re here to assist. In fact, it’s my middle name.

  Really?

  Yes. My full name is Hector I Gonna Assist Yo Ass to Have a Good Time Charlie.

  Charlie, I said. An unusual family name.

  Hector laughed long and loud, spraying the bar top with whatever pink and green substance it was she’d been ruminating out of a shot glass as we talked.