"My favorite show."
"My father's, too."
"Really? I just love Richard Dawson, especially on Hogan's Heroes. A wonderful satire on the absurdities of fascism."
Adolfo squinted and batted his eyelashes. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels and a Bic lighter from his bosom and lighted up, sighing with the nicotine fix. He blew smoke out of his nose, pondered a moment.
"Boyd-Tek does good work," he said.
"I like to think so."
"And how long have you been with them?"
"Two days, but Brooks and I are old buddies."
"How charming. Do you know what happened to the last Boyd-Tek mule?"
"No, what? V. P. of sales at another aerospace firm?"
"Nobody knows." Adolfo paused. "Disappeared. Like Jimmy Hoffa." He touched his pistol.
Sue brought in another dark gray Samsonite briefcase, same make and model, for Clendon.
"Deliver directly to Mr. Boyd," Adolfo said.
"Will do."
Clendon stood and took the briefcase. It was locked. It was heavy enough that something was in it.
"Goodbye, Clendon," Adolfo said.
Adolfo held out his hand again. Clendon shook it, then followed Sue out of the white room. His bladder ached. He groped for his sunglasses. As he slipped them on, he glanced in a corner of the ceiling where a video camera was trained on the room.
In the hallway was another camera. At the bottom of the spiral stairs Clendon asked Sue for a bathroom. They started down another hallway, but halted at the first door on the right.
"Here," she said.
"Thanks."
The bathroom was larger than his hotel room, with thick white carpeting and a sunken tub large enough for six persons. In the corner stood a small statue of a naked cherub peeing water into a basin. Clendon relieved himself in the oversized toilet. Another video camera with a flashing red light was trained on him.
Sue showed him out, down the hallway past the spouting bird bath and the row of holy statues. Clendon watched her ass move. He began counting the months since he had been with a woman, but lost count.
"Sorry, but Adolfo's in a hurry," Sue said as she opened the door. As he stepped out, she flashed him a look that said, "Go play with yourself," and shut the door. The sound reverberated like one thump on a bass drum.
Thick clouds floated overhead and blocked the sun. Clendon secured the dark gray briefcase in the trunk and slid into the driver's seat.
* * *
Clendon didn't know why, but on the drive back to Boyd-Tek, his thoughts drifted back to his eighth birthday, the day before Louis left for Vietnam. He and Louis and his father had gone fishing in their farm pond. He remembered precisely as Louis had shoved off the rowboat and they eased out into the pond.
"Is your life jacket tight?" his father asked.
"Yes."
Clendon didn't like it on because it was damp and smelly and made him hot, and he didn't like getting up so early, especially on his birthday.
"I'll have to teach you how to swim," Louis said. "It's easy."
It was a warm, sticky June dawn. A bullfrog croaked from a tangle of bushes. The pond water was the color of red brick. It had rained the night before and stirred up the mud from the shallow bottom. Louis and his father rowed out slowly. Clendon sat at the bow, leaned over, and dropped his hand in the cool water. He liked the way the boat glided across the still pond.
"Careful, C. T."
"The channel cat run through here," his father said and pointed to where the creek opened out into the pond.
Clendon felt sleepy from getting up while it was still dark. He must have fallen back asleep, because his father nudged him with his oar.
"Quit leaning on me," his father said.
They took out their fishing poles and tackle and bait.
"Crappie should be hitting this morning," his father said.
"I don't like crappie," Clendon said.
They baited their hooks and began to lazily toss their fishing lines into the pond and then slowly reeled their lines back in.
"Want some fried catfish for supper?" Louis asked.
"Sure."
"We'll run a trotline this morning."
Clendon stood up in the front of the boat so he could work his fishing pole more easily.
"Don't stand up. You'll rock the boat and you might fall in."
"Yeah, C. T., it's bad luck," Louis said.
Clendon started to sit when his father got a strike and yanked on his line. It rocked the boat hard.
"Woah!"
Clendon tipped forward and swung his arms for balance, but it wasn't there. He tried to grab onto the rowboat, but he fell into the pond face first.
The belly buster knocked the wind out of him. He lay on his stomach, face down on the water, his arms outspread. The life jacket kept him floating, but he couldn't turn his head to breathe. His ears and nostrils filled with water. There were muffled shouts. His eyes stayed wide open and he stared into the red murk. He couldn't move. Then he decided not to breathe again. He was surprised how quiet it was. He decided he would just stay there.
There was a deep splash. The water bobbed and rocked him. Clendon kept floating and rocking until a strong hand yanked his preserver and his head came up out of the water. He still couldn't inhale.
"C. T.!"
Louis whacked him on the back and then Clendon sputtered and sucked in air. He flipped onto his back. The life preserver twisted around his arms and neck, but his head stayed out of the water. Louis looked at him closely in the face.
"C. T., are you all right?"
Clendon nodded yes.
Louis pulled him back over to the rowboat. Clendon realized Louis was walking on the shallow bottom.
"Grab the side and hold on till I climb in."
Louis climbed into the rowboat and then hauled Clendon in. They both breathed hard for a long time.
"I lost my fish," his father said. "Hank, stay out of the goddamn pond."
His father reached for Clendon's fishing pole that was floating near the boat and gave it back to Clendon.
"I'll have to teach you to swim," Louis said. "I can't always jump in to pull you out."
* * *
It was exactly two hours since Clendon had left Brooks in Palisades Park. The door to 425 was locked. Clendon knocked and Brooks let him in. Tricia was gone. Brooks took a key from a locked desk drawer and opened the briefcase so Clendon couldn't see the inside of it. Brooks examined the contents with a flat expression and closed the briefcase.
"Good work, Clendon."
Brooks went over to his wall photograph of Uwe von Foot kicking a game-winning field goal and pointed at it.
"What a great game. 29-27 over Ohio State."
He pulled on the photograph's frame. It swung open, revealing the door of a wall safe. He spun the combination, opened the safe and put the briefcase inside. He took an envelope out of the safe, closed it and replaced the photograph.
"Pay day," Brooks said and ruffled through currency inside the envelope. "Here." He handed Clendon ten $100 bills. "Your commission and first pay check." He looked at Clendon's boots.
"Clendon, get yourself some goddamn city shoes. Get yourself a good pair of Alfani oxfords."
Clendon took the money.
"This isn't a pay check."
"A formality. Tricia will have a stub for you on Monday. Don't worry. People around here pay a hundred bucks to have their car washed."
"Adolfo told me the last courier for Boyd-Tek disappeared."
"Adolfo has a problem. He loves to scare people. It's his way of denying that he's a nice guy to do business with."
"Do Boyd-Tek couriers get kicked in the balls everyday by Japs-- "
"Clendon, you're such a racist. You have to watch that around here."
"Am I the only person you can get to run coke for you?"
"I'm in the
software business, Clendon. Relax. You now have a thousand dollars cash." Brooks clapped his hands together. Sweat beads broke out on his forehead. "Do you want to fly to Vegas tonight?" he asked.
"Las Vegas? Is Shelley going?"
"Shelley? She's out of town this weekend. Shrink convention in Frisco. I don't worry 'bout her in Frisco-- that town is crawling with nothing but fairies. Listen, I got us a room at Caesar's Palace tonight. I'm on their high roller list. Do you know how hard it is to get a room in Vegas, let alone at the Palace, on a Friday night?"
* * *
After they checked in at Caesar's Palace at midnight, Brooks had some bets to make. He punched his rented red Thunderbird into the weekend traffic and cruised the Strip. In the next two hours they hit five sports books from the Strip to downtown. Brooks bet five thousand at each one on the OU-Texas game. Texas was a 4 1/2 point favorite everywhere, and Brooks took the Sooners and the points.
"Can't lose with the points, can't lose with the points," he said.
As they rushed down the Strip back to Caesar's Palace, Brooks spotted a lone blonde driving a shiny black Pontiac Grand Prix. He flicked the power window switch and his window slid down. The blonde opened hers. She looked over at them and smiled. Brooks looked at her and licked his lips. Clendon thought he had seen her somewhere before, then dismissed it. He decided that if he had the patent on peroxide, he could retire in six months.
"Do you both?"
Brooks leaned out of his window and the T-Bird swerved.
"Sure!" he yelled.
"$200" she shouted.
"No problem," Brooks said, gave her the thumbs up and closed his window. "God, I love Vegas."
* * *
Adolfo's daughter wriggled her warm body against Clendon. He ran his hand under her black Raiders T-shirt and caressed her belly and edged up to the underside of her breasts and on up and cupped her nipple. He pressed his erection against her thigh and began kissing her. He stared into her brown eyes until her face dissolved into Shelley's face and Shelley's silver-blue eyes. Clendon kissed Shelley, her tongue hot, tangy, and slippery in his mouth. The bed started shaking and Clendon heard himself moan. Fog swept through. A door slammed and Brooks's voice boomed against his head.
Clendon opened his eyes, sat up and looked around the hotel room. Brooks was fiddling with the television.
"Should've gone with me last night."
"What time is it?"
"Time for the game."
Clendon ordered breakfast from room service: a pot of coffee with extra cream, a large orange juice, a breakfast steak with two eggs over easy, hash browns, a double order of toast with honey and extra jam, and a pitcher of water.
Brooks hunched over the club table close to the television and broke the seal on a quart bottle of Wild Turkey. A bucket of ice sat on the table, along with a new pack of Camel unfiltered cigarettes and a Caesar's Palace ashtray.
After Brooks made his Turkey on the rocks in a water glass and sipped it twice, he opened the pack of Camels and lit one. He took a few deep drags on the Camel, then went over to his luggage, extracted a black shaving bag, and returned to the table. He unzipped the bag, removed a petite gold cigarette case, and opened it. He took a small mirror, a razor blade, and some cocaine out of the case, and made two lines on the mirror.
"Snort?"
"No, thanks."
"Ever tried it?"
"Once. Made me real sick."
"Aw, bullshit."
"Barfed all over the wall."
"Clendon, you're more of a weeny than I remembered. I'm offering to share my last with you. I'm going to score some big powder tonight, though, after my big win today."
Brooks took out a $100 bill and rolled it up. He bent over and snorted the coke. He sat back up and sniffed, then his eyes glowed again like the night before, and he grinned.
"Did you get any sleep last night?" Clendon asked.
"I can't sleep. Big fucking game."
Room service arrived at the end of the first quarter. Clendon had to go to the door in his underwear because he couldn't find his pants and Brooks wouldn't budge from watching the television. While Clendon gobbled breakfast, Brooks kept sipping bourbon and torching Camels.
It didn't look good for the Sooners. They wallowed around, sluggish and confused. Brooks sucked on his Camel cigarette and cursed and screamed on almost every play, insulting the Texas players and coaches, the officials, the Texas fans, and even the Sooners when they made a mistake.
"They can't hear you, Brooks."
"It makes me feel better."
When Texas jumped ahead one touchdown, Brooks did two more lines. His eyes went bloodshot red and his hands shook.
"Don't worry," he said. "I still got 4 1/2 points. We just can't lose to those Texas bastards."
After Clendon drained the coffee pot and the water pitcher and downed all the food, he got dressed. It was the end of the second quarter and the Sooners were losing. Texas was steadily wearing them down. Brooks did two more lines and made a fresh drink.
"I forgot to bet my ten dollars last night," Clendon said.
"That goddamned Switzer won't get his players in shape. Look at that. Their tongues are dragging the ground already."
"Brooks, will you take a ten dollar bet now?"
"Ten dollars on what?"
"The game. I'll bet my ten on Texas."
"You dumb ass, you can't bet on the point spread after the game starts. Oh shit! Look at that!"
"I want to make a bet with you. Straight up. No spread."
"With me? You want to bet ten dollars with me against the Sooners?" Brooks stared at him. "That's stupefying, Clendon. Especially considering your namesake."
Brooks turned back to the game and didn't say anything when Texas scored another touchdown. He reached for a direct hit from the Wild Turkey bottle.
"Can I get a nip?"
"I shouldn't let you touch my Turk now, you're a dangerous person."
Brooks held the bottle out, but wouldn't look as Clendon took it and had a taste.
At half time, Brooks's mood smoldered black. He stomped around the room, clutching the Wild Turkey bottle and taking sips. He wore the same clothes as the day before, only his tie and coat were off. The tie clasp and gold cuff links were off, too, and his powder blue oxford shirt was stained at the armpits to the color of a bruise.
"Brooks, I was only razzing you."
"About what?"
"The bet."
"Clendon, there's certain things you don't razz a man about, and betting against OU in the Texas game is one of them."
Before the second half kickoff, Brooks snorted the last of his coke. He took his seat at the club table and bounced his leg nervously as he flinched, prayed and implored. He twirled the ash tray in his hands and stubbed out one cigarette after another.
"Try telekinesis," Clendon said.
The phone rang.
"Don't answer it," Brooks said.
It rang ten times and kept ringing.
"Goddamn it," Clendon said and picked up the phone.
"Hello."
"Hello," a woman's voice said. "Brooks Boyd, please."
"He's watching the game. He won't come to the phone."
"Tell him thanks for his Eskimo shoes last night."
She hung up.
"What they'd want?" Brooks asked, still watching the television screen. "Oh, that's interference-- "
"Thanks for your Eskimo shoes last night."
Brooks glanced at Clendon. Then he faked a laugh.
"Eskimo shoes? Vegas is crazy, Clendon."
OU mustered a drive and penetrated Longhorn territory. Then it was over-- another Sooner fumble.
"God damn!"
Brooks hollered and slammed the Wild Turkey bottle down on the table. The bottle broke cleanly around its base. The Turkey drained out, puddled on the table, and spilled over the edge in a dribbling liquorfall onto the
carpet. The room began to smell of expensive bourbon. Brooks held the broken, bottomless bottle at arm's length, then flipped it across the room.
A couple of plays later, the freshman Texas running back, Simmons, broke up the middle and sprinted untouched 68 yards to the OU end zone, putting Texas up by three touchdowns. Brooks let out a screech, then hurled the ashtray as hard as he could at the television. Cigarette butts flew as the ashtray crashed through the picture tube in an explosion of bursting glass. The television popped, glowed, shot off sparks, and then died. Ashy soot hung in the air.
Brooks never moved from his chair. After staring at the television as if it would spontaneously repair itself, he lit his last Camel. He took a long drag and after exhaling said, "They disgust me."
Clendon followed him down to Caesar's sports book to watch the end. Oklahoma made a feeble rally, but the final score was 28-16, Texas. Brooks was 7 1/2 points short. His face turned the color of old tuna salad. Clendon put his arm around Brooks.
"Come on, you can take a long, hot shower, put on some fresh clothes, go out and have dinner, relax-- "
"I'll have to win it back."
* * *
While Brooks was in the shower, Clendon checked his own wallet for the rest of his bills. They were gone except for one. Clendon peeked into Brooks's wallet and counted twenty-seven $100 bills. Clendon was sure seven of those were taken from his own wallet. He studied Brooks's driver's license and memorized the address, found the keys to the T-Bird, then called the airport for every flight from Las Vegas back to Los Angeles in the next 24 hours.
After his shower and shave, Brooks dressed as if he were suiting up for a big game. He wore a white, baggy Italian sports jacket rolled at the sleeves over a navy blue polo shirt and beige slacks, dark socks and a pair of Australian walking shoes.
They took the elevator down and had the Roman feast. Brooks drank four cups of coffee. The color of life returned to his face and his eyes simmered only half bloodshot. He broke one of the hundreds from his wallet to pay for dinner.
"Roulette," Brooks said.
The casino boiled with racket, neon, felt, chrome, alcohol, dealers, thousands of electric lights and money. Noise seemed to fill the air in solid chunks. Clendon followed Brooks, who went directly to the roulette table.
"This must be a hot wheel."
The croupier, a young woman in a toga and blond wig, was pushing stacks of chips toward four winning players. A man with a white moustache and white goatee, dressed in a white suit and white Panama hat, sucked on a dead cigar and dropped a dozen $100 chips on a single spin.
Land of Dreams Page 4
