The Best Bad Dream

by Robert Ward

  It was a great feeling, and he would have liked to hang in the bar all night feeding his high with a few more Vikes but, alas, there was work to be done.

  The trouble with being a bad guy was that there was seldom a really big score that could set you up for months, much less years. No, you had to go on your merry way, finding victims whenever they presented themselves. You always had to stay where the action was, which was what Johnny was doing as he hot-wired a car and headed out on the highway toward Espanola and the River Rock Casino.

  The River Rock had opened about ten years ago and it had made all the difference for Johnny. He actually thought of the whole Santa Fe area as two distinct time periods.

  BTC and ATC. Before the Casino and After the Casino.

  The BTC era was not a good one for a man in his profession. People came to town to get massages and to go into sweat lodges with a couple of peyote-wasted Indians in order to release their toxins and get in touch with their Inner Buffalo, but they seldom carried great wads of money. So when Johnny Boy conked some blabbering counterculture moron over the head with his ceremonial Indian tomahawk (just for irony's sake), he was lucky to clear fifty bucks.

  But After the Casino, especially out in the parking lot of said enterprise, Johnny Boy was in thieves’ heaven. Oh man, it was bitchin'!

  One night about a year ago, Johnny had conked out five guys and two chicks in one night and come away with twenty-three thousand freaking dollars.

  That was a smokin’ night, for sure!

  And may tonight be just as profitable.

  Johnny walked through the glittering lights and the bling-bong noise of the River Rock Casino. Old women sat at slot machines with huge baskets of coins. A lot of them knew one another and watched out for each other as they headed for their cars with their money. Big deal. He wasn't interested in their small change anyway.

  He walked toward the blackjack tables. That could be a lucrative game, no question, but if you wanted to pick a winner there you had to do a Big Prey Number. And hang out for hours. And if you didn't want to be made as some kind of criminal yourself, you had to play the games, which meant you'd probably lose money before you even got a chance to club anyone.

  And another thing: he didn't know why but blackjack players were mean sons of bitches. There had been a guy around sixty-five years old that he'd had a major battle with. In the end, of course, he'd staved his head in, but it was no easy task. Plus, the guy might have identified him if he hadn't croaked.

  Thank God for small favors.

  After that one, Johnny had ruled out blackjack players.

  He cruised the big game room and found what he was looking for. His favorite game and the one that attracted the highest percentage of rich losers.

  Yes, the craps table.

  Johnny surveyed three different tables for a while and finally found the one he wanted to go with.

  Table numero uno, the one with a skinny old guy wearing an Arizona Cardinals football shirt that said “Warneron” the back. This was the kind of guy he liked. Guy must have been pushing eighty, veins popping out of his fragile frame, wrinkles growing wrinkles, eyes half-closed from years of smoking, and there he was with five piles of chips. Serious dough. And the dude was on a roll. One of the “girls” who “just happened” to be standing next to him was Johnny's only rival. She was obviously a hooker and if she got the old duffer up to a room before Johnny could get him to walk to the car . . . well, that just wouldn't do. Not at all.

  Johnny stepped up to the crowded table and began to root for the old guy, whose name he quickly found out was Les. People were screaming as Les made pass after pass.

  “Go, Les, baby ... do it, babe.”

  Everyone was betting with the old guy now, who took a drink from the girl next to him. She smiled and Johnny saw the lipstick on her teeth.

  “You are the man, Lester!” she screamed in a baby-voice falsetto.

  He looked at her and smiled. Tossed the dice and won again.

  Johnny moved closer as a couple of people left the table. After the next winning roll he was right up next to Les.

  You have really got lady luck singing tonight, Les, man, Johnny said.

  Les smiled at him and Johnny saw his upper plate jiggle a little.

  He won again, on a point six, and the crowd at the table went crazy.

  Bets, please, the croupier said.

  But Lester pulled away from the table.

  “Time to cash in,” he said. “Never want to push your luck too far.”

  The girl next to him followed him away from the table. Johnny trailed along with them.

  “Baby,” she said, “with all that money, won't you buy me a little drink?”

  He laughed and handed her a twenty.

  “Here you go, darling,” he said. “You take this and buy your own drink.”

  The girl pouted and stomped her foot like Betty Boop.

  “Don't you like mama? If we go up to a room, I can show you a very good time.”

  “I don't think you can, baby,” the old-timer said. “My thing don't work no more. Not even with a case of Viagra.”

  “Oh, that's what they all say until they roll with Shirl, babe.”

  The old man seemed to be enjoying the banter.

  “Well, if I win some more moolah I might get me an operation to get the ol’woodpecker working again. Then I'll come and see you for sure, sweetie.”

  He gave her another ten and headed off to cash in his chips. She leered at Johnny as the old man headed for the door.

  “How ‘bout you, tough guy? You look like you need a good spanking.”

  Johnny gave her his semiwarm smile and said, “Can't think of anything better, baby, but I got a date with my wife.”

  “Unlucky you, she said and moved on”.

  Out on the macadam, Johnny Z watched as Lester limped toward his big Caddy Escalade.

  Mother is probably weighed down by all the cash on one side of his pants, he said under his breath, talking tough to himself so he could work up a little hatred for his new vic.

  He slipped by some parked cars and was relieved to see that there was no one around. The old man opened his door and started to slide into the driver's seat.

  Hey, wait a minute, Les, Johnny said, in his most country-club friendly manner.

  “What?” Lester said.

  He turned his head, and Johnny pulled out the nice little blackjack from his coat pocket. He slammed it down on Lester's head and heard a dependable crack, the bones in his forehead breaking up like uncooked pasta.

  Lester made a terrible noise and fell backward right into his car.

  Johnny started to fall on top of him but was surprised by Lester's foot coming up in his groin. The pain was like an electric shock, and Johnny fell back on his ass into the parking lot.

  “You fuck,” Johnny exclaimed. “Fight dirty, huh?”

  He started to get back up but was surprised to see Lester coming out of the car, swinging his big, bony fist at his face. Fortunately, the jack blow had caused blood to run down into the older man's eyes and his swings, though violent, were several inches short. As a result, Johnny thought, the old guy looked comical, like a cartoon Mickey Mouse fighting a giant.

  Johnny got up, waited for a big swing to miss his face, then smashed the jack back toward Lester's mouth, this time splitting his upper lip and mashing his nose into a bloody pulp.

  The old man went down next to his car and his head flopped over to one side.

  Johnny approached him warily and when he was satisfied he was out cold, he rifled through his pockets.

  He found the big wad of cash, stuffed it into his own pocket, and left Lester lying there in a rapidly growing pool of blood.

  Seconds later Johnny was headed for the parking lot exit, seven thousand dollars richer.

  Not bad for a night's work, he thought, though the pain in his balls told him a different story.

  What he needed, he thought as he headed back down to Sa
nta Fe, was a big one. One that would set him up for a good long while. He really was getting a little too old for this kind of work.

  Chapter Seven

  As they stood at the Piñon Bar at Blue Wolf Lodge, Phil watched as Dee Dee turned to speak to Ziko, the part Japanese, part Apache (or so he said) tennis instructor. A huge guy with black hair and a ponytail who had once been one of the top twenty players in the world, Ziko was sidling up to Dee Dee with something more than tennis on his mind.

  Phil watched as Ziko put his arm around Dee Dee's shoulder and pulled her close to him.

  I bet you could really become a pretty player, Ziko said.

  Not as pretty as you, Dee Dee smiled.

  Phil drank his vodka and tonic, and tried to act nonchalant.

  “I'd teach you how to follow through on your shots. The thing is, you have to get down low.”

  “Like this?” the slightly bombed Dee Dee asked.

  She knelt down in front of him in a way that no tennis player ever did.

  “That's almost it,” Ziko said, “but you'd have to bend your knees a little more.”

  Phil stepped forward and landed on Ziko's heel. Ziko squealed in pain.

  “Ahhh,” he whined. “You hurt my Achilles tendon!”

  “Sorry,” Phil said, in his most affable voice. “I must be some kind of clumsy oaf.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Ziko cried.

  Phil smiled as the black-haired Adonis hopped up and down on his right foot.

  “Horribly careless of me, son,” Phil said. “Guess I must have had a little too much of the old vino.”

  Dee Dee looked horrified. She put her arm around Ziko's wide shoulders and shook her head.

  He's just a drunken slob who don't know what he's doing, honey, she whispered.

  “Christ, my heel. I have to teach.”

  Seems like you were using your mouth, pal, Phil said.

  Dee Dee looked at Phil and shook her head violently.

  “Gee, drunk and out of control. What a shocker.”

  Ziko massaged his Achilles as Phil grabbed Dee Dee's arm and dragged her out of the bar.

  They walked drunkenly down the hallway. Phil was hoping Dee Dee was all finished giving him shit but apparently she was just warming up.

  “You made me look like a fool.”

  “You don't need me to do that, baby. You have that down all on your own.”

  They wandered on down the corridor, unable to speak at all for fear of sounding like angry fools.

  On the elevator, Phil began to feel a slight tinge of remorse.

  “Baby, how did it ever come to this? I thought that when I sold the business we'd be free. Man, I even remember a time you got nervous if I was twenty minutes late coming home. And now look at us.”

  Phil sighed, overwhelmed with melancholy. But Dee Dee only scowled at him.

  “Well, maybe if you'd give me a little freedom instead of trying to put me in a freaking cell all the time it would be different.”

  Phil shook his head.

  “Freedom? I used to know what that meant. Or thought I did. Let's just go back to the room, baby.”

  “Great,” Dee Dee said. “You wouldn't want to miss a chance for another of your three-hour snore-a-thons, would you?”

  Phil had a sudden impulse to grab his wife by the throat and start choking her. He barely managed to restrain himself. He felt a rage that shot through his body and seemed to singe what was left of his brain.

  This was it, he thought. Getting older, a success, and these were going to be the highly touted golden years.

  Christ, Christ, Christ.

  Chapter Eight

  Though he missed his dad, Kevin didn't mind having his grandfather around. First of all, Wade was great fun, telling stories of his wild youth and letting Kevin eat whatever he wanted. But mainly he liked having Wade around because he was a lot more lenient about what time Kevin had to be back at the house. He could tell Grandpop that he was at the local library studying and the old man would believe it. Well, it was practically the truth.

  He was, after all, at the Culver City library. And he had been trying to read the lousy book.

  When something amazing had happened.

  He was about to put the damned thing down and head home, when he saw her. Right across from him, at the librarian's desk.

  He couldn't believe it. The woman who had stared so long at his dad at the last lacrosse game. The woman he'd kidded Jack about, calling her “the next Mrs. Harper.”

  They had both thought she was a Brentwood mother but instead it seemed she was the new librarian right at Culver City's brand-new library.

  And man did she look hot!

  She had on a tight black sweater and an even tighter skirt, which emphasized her trim hips.

  She had blue eyes and blonde hair. Wow, if Dad was here right now he'd be thinking it was time to go over and ask her something about how the new computerized library system worked.

  Kevin felt his penis get hard. Oh, my God . . . he couldn't stand up, that was for sure.

  But the really weird thing was she seemed to be staring over at him, really staring at him, and he got an odd thought. Maybe . . . maybe that day at the lacrosse game she hadn't been staring at his dad after all, but at him.

  That seemed crazy to him but he'd heard of crazier things.

  That woman in Seattle who had a thing for her eighth-grade student, Mary Kay something or other. She had an affair with him and they ended up getting married.

  Nah, that couldn't be happening here. She was just looking in his general direction and he only thought she was staring at him. Of course, that was all there was to it.

  Except now she seemed to be coming around the side of the desk and, oh, man, she was walking right toward him. And looking right at him. And the way she walked, with her hips swinging. She looked like a runway model on one of those reality shows.

  Even if at this closer vantage point, Kevin could now see some crow's feet around her eyes and a couple of deeper lines in her cheeks.

  Not that it mattered. She was smoking hot.

  Kevin's heart seemed to be beating about eight hundred times per second and his mouth was getting dry. Sounds in the library—chairs squeaking and people scuffling around—all seemed magnified.

  Oh, Jesus, she was heading right for him.

  “Hi,” she said to him in a voice barely above a whisper. Like a sexy actress in a commercial.

  “Hi,” he croaked back at her. Then he cleared his throat. Man, he had to do better than that, for God's sake. He sounded like a bullfrog with a throat infection.

  “You're Kevin Harper, right?” she said.

  “Guilty,” he said. He'd heard somebody cool like a spy on TV say that once, and it had sounded so, what, suave? But when Kevin said it, well, it just sounded . . . literal, like, “Yeah, you caught me. I'm guilty even talking to you.” He tried for a cool smile then but felt like only one corner of his mouth had turned up, which probably made him look like a retard.

  “I'm Vicki Hastings, the new librarian. I saw you playing lacrosse the other day.”

  Kevin knew he was supposed to come back with something sort of modest, yet hip, but all that came out of his mouth was, “Oh.”

  Now Vicki Hastings leaned down on the table on her elbows, which accentuated her wonderful cleavage. He told himself not to look but it was impossible, and he found himself staring down at the two most beautiful adult woman breasts he had ever seen. Okay, they were the only live female adult breasts he had ever seen, but so what? Christ, her skin was so creamy, so smooth, and he could even see the top of one nipple. Man, he was harder than ever.

  “You scored the winning goal,” she said, smiling at him with the whitest teeth he could imagine.

  “Just got lucky,” he said. (That sounded better.)

  She smiled even wider and her eyes danced as she stared into his.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “I saw the whole play. You lost the ball but instead of
giving up, you went back after that guy, a much bigger guy than you, too, and you took the ball back from him, and then dodged, what was it, three guys? And then you scored. That was amazing.”

  He could feel her hot breath in his face, and he could see her breasts, and hear her voice, and it was all like being drunk, like the first time he had ever gotten loaded driving around with his buddies, hanging out at In-N-Out, drinking beer and whiskey shooters, and then all of a sudden he was goofy and happy. Yeah, it was sort of like that but it was better than that, because of the breasts and the breath, and the way she was now reaching over and touching his hand.

  “You were amazing,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he replied, letting her hand rub against his own.

  “Thank you for making the game so great,” she said.

  “You a lacrosse fan?” he asked, suddenly finding his stride. If he could talk about sports he'd be okay.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I played in college. Of course, girls lacrosse isn't like the real thing. You can't check sticks like the boys do. You can't throw body blocks at people's legs, either.”

  Kevin smiled.

  She looked at him and her tongue flicked at the edge of her lips.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just thinking how sexy girls look in their lacrosse uniforms. The short little plaid miniskirts.”

  Now she smiled in a way that made Kevin suck in his breath.

  “Really?” she said. “You like that, do you? How about the leather gloves and the sticks themselves? When they cradle the ball, don't you find that kind of phallic?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Kevin said.

  Oh, Jesus, if he'd had any doubts before about where this was going that phallic bit pretty much ended them.

  “Where'd you go to college?” Kevin asked, his voice breaking again.

  “I went to Amherst,” she said. “It's in New England.”

  She slipped into a chair and was now sitting across from him.

  “That must be a great school,” Kevin said.