Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  I’d been the victim of another piece of theater.

  But this one was nonfiction.

  Thank you, I said. Thank all of you.

  Oh shut up, said Kelley.

  Get a grip, said Peter. Tell us about your big case. We’re dying to know.

  Which one? I asked.

  There’s more than one?

  Oh Jesus, I thought. I hadn’t told them about Brendan. Well. I had to now. It would be all right. Kelley and Peter hadn’t known him well. It wouldn’t hit them so hard.

  I told them the story.

  Jesus, said Peter.

  Oh, Daddy, said Kelley. I’m so sorry.

  There wasn’t anything I could have done, I lied. I think it was kind of, I don’t know, predestined.

  I feel bad, said Peter.

  Why should you feel bad?

  I just brushed off those things you were telling me. Maybe if I hadn’t—

  Oh, cut it out, guys, I said. We don’t even know what happened yet. He could have had a heart attack.

  Um, yeah … said Peter. But listen, tell us everything about it. Maybe we’ll have an idea!

  I told them as much as I dared.

  Oh, said Peter.

  Yes?

  Well, that place you’re going to check out?

  Yes?

  See if there’s a back room. A hidden room.

  More hidden rooms.

  Why? I asked.

  Um, I know you’re a sensitive guy, Dad, he said.

  Oh, shut up.

  So I’ll spare you all the details. But there’s a certain kind of crowd—I mean, I’m not part of that crowd, don’t get me wrong, but you hear things, you know.

  Yes, I think I know.

  And, Dad?

  What?

  Can I come along?

  Not a chance, Peter.

  Aw, come on. Adventure. Excitement. Tight asses in tight pants.

  I’m not going to put my surrogate son in the line of fire, Peter.

  The line of fire. That’s so … sexy.

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  Well, if I can’t go, you have to make sure to follow my advice. Look for a back room. All will be revealed.

  Peter’s flight of fancy actually wasn’t implausible. These places were like warrens. And there was the red door …

  All right, I said. I’ll make sure we cover that angle.

  I could think of a joke, said Peter.

  Please don’t.

  83.

  BUTCH CALLED. I took the phone into the bathroom. Sat on the toilet. I didn’t tell him that.

  I got some stuff, he said.

  Shoot.

  No. Meet me at Skully’s.

  I’m on my way.

  I liked Skully’s. The bartender was this Mexican kid, short and pudgy with a heavy accent and a stringy mustache. One of those ridiculously friendly guys. Soon as he found out you were from New York, he started up the chitchat about the Knicks and Giants. Of course, if you were from San Diego, he was all of a sudden a Chargers fan. You knew he was trying too hard, but you liked him anyway. He always bought you a drink. You’d always tip him extravagantly. See you again, you’d say when you left. And you knew that somehow you would.

  Butch wasn’t there yet. I tried not to speculate about his stuff. Could be news. Could be he’d run into a sale on vintage Italian ties. I thought about the Brendan thing. The Eloise thing.

  I tried to approach them like poker hands. They were, after all, problems of incomplete information. Just like any poker hand. If you could see your opponents’ cards, poker would simply be a mathematical exercise. Compute the probability of winning; compare to the ratio of the bet to the pot. Conclude. No fun at all. At least, not for those of us aspiring to a higher rank than Lance Corporal in the I-am-a-Nerd Army.

  In any case, it didn’t do me a bit of good. I was as confused as ever.

  Butch arrived. He wasn’t looking happy. He took a stool.

  What’s up? I said.

  He rubbed his temples with his hands.

  He turned to me.

  Brendan, he said.

  I waited.

  Inconclusive.

  What the …?

  The autopsy was inconclusive.

  Jesus Christ. What the hell does that mean?

  It means he didn’t die of a gunshot wound. Strangulation. Overdose. Shock. Distemper. Bovine encephalitic fever. What the fuck do you think it means?

  Is there such a thing as bovine encephalitic fever?

  I don’t fucking know.

  Okay. So.

  So we gotta go back to that club. Figure out what you missed.

  That would be the idea. And thanks.

  Anytime.

  I see you got your costume on.

  Yup, he said, holding out his feet to show off the shiny boots. You? Where’s the hat?

  You can count on me, I said, reaching behind my chair and placing the magical sunshade on my head. You got Pandora?

  Damn right I do.

  Good. We might need her.

  You got yours?

  Yup .

  We slagged down a couple more doubles. Improved the coordination. We flagged down a cab. It smelled of burnt bacon, and anticipation.

  We wound down the wrought iron stairs. The mammoth black-clad silver-toothed nonentity at the bottom took one look at Butch, stepped immediately in front of him.

  You got a problem? Butch said.

  You can’t come in here.

  Why the fuck not?

  You know why not.

  Butch paused at that. I had no idea what the guy was talking about. I was not sure Butch did either. Had the guy pegged Butch as a cop, that easily? It wasn’t because he was black. I’d seen lots of black guys in these clubs. And women. And every composite in between.

  Butch stood up to his full height. I was mildly surprised to note that he was only an inch or so shorter than His Vastness.

  Get the fuck out of my way, he said.

  His Vastness stared him down. Butch reached into his jacket. Paused.

  His Vastness got the message. Stepped aside. Opened the door.

  Right this way, gentlemen, he said.

  As we walked in, I could see him talking into his neck. Warning the troops, no doubt. That was all right. We were ready for them.

  We each paid our fifty bucks. Negotiated the black corridors quickly, to the second door. I remembered the way.

  I guess I had some rat in me after all. Or fish. Whatever.

  We pressed the anus in the door. The door opened an inch. A sallow face peered out. Butch kicked the door open. The owner of the face pitched backwards onto the floor with a convincing squeak.

  Sorry, said Butch, not nearly as convincing.

  I went straight to the bar, Butch trailing.

  Hector was there. In all her … glory wasn’t quite the right word.

  Hey, I said. Is Delgado here? Andy?

  Sure, she said. Back room.

  The back room. Check.

  Don’t you want to stay with me for a drink or two? she asked with a charming pout.

  We’ll take a couple of doubles to go, I said.

  She raised her eyebrows at me, at Butch.

  My friend, I said. Butch.

  Well, hell-o, Butch, she said, deftly pouring the drinks.

  Hi, he said, in a fuck-you tone.

  That only seemed to inflame Hector’s interest.

  Oh, Butch, she said. You do seem so very … manly.

  Let’s go, Rick, Butch said.

  We stood up.

  We’ll see you later, I said to Hector.

  Well, I dooo hope so, she said.

  We headed for the back room. Or at least the back room that I knew about.

  There was a confab going on. A bunch of folks on mushroom chairs around a small round table, talking earnestly.

  I recognized Delgado, or Andy. Whatever the fuck his name was. Lola. Randy, the usher from the first time I’d been there. And …

&n
bsp; Bruno.

  What the fuck? I said.

  What the double fuck, said Butch.

  I was momentarily paralyzed. Circuits overloaded.

  Butch strode right up. Stood over the group.

  I followed. I didn’t want to. I thought about the distance to traverse, back through the silver halls, the vast middle room, the door, the dark snaking corridor, His Vastness at the gate, the spiraling staircase. If we couldn’t handle whatever was about to come down, we were seriously fucked.

  But it was too late. They were looking up at Butch, with various airs of bemusement. Bruno had spotted me. The mammoth Bruno Grin was spreading across his pompous face.

  I had to put on a good show.

  I calmly adjusted the cowboy hat on my head. Tilted it slightly forward. Pondered the presence of the Mauser under my left armpit. Ah, yes. The Great Equalizer. So long as someone wasn’t packing a Greater one.

  The tableau was set. Butch standing, big and menacing. The locals sitting, somewhat cowed, a little bit curious. Bruno smirking.

  Bruno, I said. The fuck are you doing here?

  The fuck are you doing here? he echoed.

  Looking for some information. You got some?

  I got some.

  Yeah?

  Yeah, he said. You’re a fuckin’ loser. And you still owe me one.

  I nodded my head. Pursed my lips. The pace of the conversation was allowing me time to formulate exactly the right response. A rare luxury.

  I felt the Mauser under my arm. The power. The jam. The I’ll-Say-Whatever-the-Fuck-I-Want.

  I scoped the situation. I wasn’t stupid. I was just drunk. Shit was falling into place. If nothing else, Bruno knew a lot of shit. Shit that was going to illuminate a lot of other shit. It was like a shit problem. I mean a chess problem. You saw an idea. It wasn’t the right idea. You figured that out easily enough. But your brain kept coming back to it. There was something there. You saw another idea. Rook here, knight there. There was something to it. Back to the other idea. Queen here, check. He has only two squares. Unfortunately, they seem to be enough. King here, King there. As long as he has one or the other, the King escapes. But if you took the first idea, combined it with the second idea, reversed the move order, interpolated a bishop move … there it fucking was.

  You got it.

  You loved yourself.

  Bruno, I said. You’re here, with these particular lowlifes …

  I gave the lowlifes a quick smile, let them know I meant no disrespect.

  We’ll take it as a compliment, said Andy. Long as you remember we’re high-minded lowlifes.

  Noted, I said. So listen, Bruno, you’re here with these high-minded lowlifes. Which tells me, call me paranoid, you’re involved in some of the shit they’ve been involved in. Shit I happen to have a particular interest in. So …

  You’re gonna make me tell you.

  He turned to Andy and company with the big smile. They smiled back. A touch nervously.

  Butch had his hand under his jacket. I shook my head. We weren’t there yet.

  No, I’m not going to make you do anything, Bruno. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I’m going to ask you.

  Ask me.

  I just did.

  He laughed. It was a laughing-in-my-face kind of laugh.

  I can make trouble for you, Bruno.

  Oh, Ricky, he said. Scare me some more.

  You’re not the only one that knows shit. And we’re in with the cops here. You know who Butch is, don’t you?

  Bruno looked at Butch. Yeah, he said. He’s the cockroach I stepped on the other night.

  Butch stepped forward, hand going for Pandora again.

  I put a hand on his arm. I had to apply a lot of pressure.

  Easy, man, I muttered at him. Let’s see where this goes.

  Butch relented. But I knew it was only for a moment. If the persuasion mode didn’t pan out, he was going for the iron solution.

  He’s a cockroach who happens to be a cop, I said. Who’s in with the locals. Who might be real interested in some of the shit you’ve been dealing around here.

  It was a bluff, of course. I had no idea what shit Bruno was into. I was reasonably sure, on the other hand, that he was into some kind of shit. Wouldn’t be natural if he wasn’t.

  Bruno snorted. Narrowed his eyes. Looked at Butch. Looked at me.

  You don’t know shit, he said.

  Calling my bluff.

  This called for some table chatter. I waded deeper into the bullshit zone.

  Bruno, I said. You want to be smart about this. You know some shit. I know it, and you know I know it. So we can get it out of you. Me and Butch here. Maybe you got friends. Maybe we got more important friends.

  Then I re-raised.

  You want to bet your stack on it?

  I let that sink in.

  Bruno leaned back. Put his hands behind his head. Looked at Butch again. Stared me down.

  It was looking like a standoff.

  I’m going to get some drinks, said Lola.

  Andy got up, went with her.

  Hey, Bruno said after a few hours of the stare-down. Tell you what.

  Yeah?

  I got an idea.

  Care to share it with us?

  Tell you what, he said. I’ll play you heads up. Winner take all.

  Where? Here?

  There’s a poker room in the back.

  Aha. The mysterious back room. Peter had been right. Partly right, anyway. Just not quite the type he’d been thinking of.

  Eleven grand, said Butch. Freeze-out. I win, I take the cash and you fuck off. You win, you take the cash and I tell you some shit.

  Bruno smiled. His every pore was oozing self-regard. There was no room in his fat head, I was quite certain, for the thought that he might lose a heads up match to me; it was a no-risk deal for him. Just another opportunity to humiliate me.

  I had a different view.

  You got it, I said. Butch holds the stakes.

  My cash is at the cage, he said.

  I thought you’d say that. You could go get it. But let’s get this thing going. You got something you can put up? It’s not like I exactly trust you, fine individual that you are.

  Sure, he said, laughing. Whatever you say, cowboy.

  He reached into his jacket pocket. I reached for the Mauser. He held up his hand. A key chain. I let go of the grip.

  It’s out back, he said, tossing the Harley keys to Butch.

  I nodded. All right, I said. That’ll do. The cash and the truth. Or the bike.

  I knew he’d never give up the bike.

  Butch had had enough. He leaned over, whispered in my ear. The fuck are you doing? he said.

  It’s okay, I muttered back. This is just for my ego. And to get him away from that crowd. I lose, we shoot him in the knees. Meanwhile, you get what you can from Andy and his boyfriend.

  All right, Redman, Butch nodded. You crazy asshole.

  84.

  BRUNO LED THE WAY TO THE BACK ROOM. Butch went off to find the theatrical troupe.

  Bruno, I said, to be fair, I don’t have the cash on me. Not eleven grand.

  Don’t worry about it, he said. I know you’re good for it.

  The mind games were starting already. I didn’t trust him, he’d trust me. If I’d trusted him, he’d have gone the other way. You want to create all the tension you can.

  Careful what you think you know, I said. I just got out of the poker hospital.

  You did? he said, feigning amused surprise.

  Yeah. It hasn’t been a great two weeks.

  Shit, sorry to hear that.

  Yeah, I thought. About as sorry as he’d feel if his grandmother died. And left him a couple hundred grand.

  I’ll take the chance, he said.

  Meaning he’d take it out of me in body parts, I didn’t pay up.

  And I knew that I’d known that from the get-go. But that’s what keeps you going. The big gamble. And what choice did I have? />
  Ashley! Bruno called to a small, dexterous dirty-blonde number. You want to deal for us?

  Sure, she chirped. But I gotta ax Barry.

  Don’t worry about Barry, Bruno said. I’ll take care of Barry.

  Nice to be on top of the world, I thought. I was also thinking, how did he come up with eleven thousand as the stakes? That was just about exactly enough to get me even with Evgeny. Leave a few bucks for the hotel bill.

  Coincidence? Or were aliens really poised to take over Fort Knox? And the Pentagon? Had they created those crop circles? Was Bruno an alien? He certainly had that air. And what more deceptive way for them to culminate the master plan for world domination than this—an ostensibly innocent heads up poker game with me, Rick Redman, Putative Private Investigator, Overall Loser?

  The question answered itself.

  I prepared myself to defend the honor of our planet.

  I still gotta ax him, Ashley said.

  Barrrry … Bruno blasted out in his reverberant baritone. Can Ashley deal for us?

  Sure, sure, Barry’s voice came from somewhere behind a wall. I’ll call in another dealer.

  Nice to have pull, I said.

  Yeah, Bruno said.

  All right, I said. Ashley, can you get us some chips? Twenty-two grand.

  Okay, she said, fluttering upstairs like the cuddly bunny she was, or so very much wanted to be.

  While we’re waiting for the chips, Bruno starts telling me a story about the clubs in L.A. He’d took the Commerce guys for a couple hundred grand, he said. Went to a bar with some guys we know. He tells me about the scene. Some singles party going on at the bar. An enormous woman in pink chenille. Sunken chin and beginner jowls; tiny plump hands and sharpened pointy nails; she looks lost, distressed, out of her element. But it is, of course, her element. Or as much element as she’s going to get. The guy, he’s got a suit and tie. Who the hell told him to wear a suit and tie? He’s got that look on his face. Serious. Self-possessed. I’m no loser, it proclaims.

  The fucking loser, says Bruno.

  The guy’s staring around the place, Bruno goes on. Looking for a friendly face. He knows nobody. Shit, he doesn’t have a friend in the world. Except maybe his fat fuck computer geek friend from the software store, that he wouldn’t be caught dead with in a place like this, lest the loserosity rub off on him and show up on his Sears sucker jacket. He’ll stand there, just like that. For an hour. Or two. Nobody will talk to him. Nobody will come up. No girls will catch his eye. And he’ll go home. To his studio apartment. The one with the dartboard on the wall. And play Doom 13 for four, maybe five hours. Drink a few beers. Fall down.