T’s in trouble.
And I’m being set up.
I look at Rolf and Sid, waiting for me to tell them what the deal is. And I realize that being set up may be just what I need right now.
SID STILL hasn’t said a word to me. He sits as far from me as possible, his arms and legs crossed. I sit on the couch between the two of them and Rolf tells me what they’ve been up to.
He tells me how, after I left them, they drove down to Vegas. How they found T’s trailer and realized there was no way to stake it out without being seen by everyone in the trailer park. He tells me how Sid decided it was time to ditch the bus. How they left it on the roof level of a parking garage at one of the malls in Paradise, Sid hot-wired a car a few blocks away, and they got a room at the Super 8 just up Boulder Highway from the trailer park. How they came back here after the sun went down last night and parked across from the park entrance until they saw T’s car leave. How they followed us, and how it wasn’t until we came back out of the apartment and they saw me take off my hat that they figured out that I was the cowboy.
Rolf nudges me.
—Cool ’stache, by the way.
I nod and look at the TV. My folks were moved back home from the motel last night. The reporters are staked out there now. The lawn is trampled and there’s a lot of empty paper coffee cups and McDonalds bags in the gutter. The reporters are milling around while a group of twenty or thirty gawkers stands behind a barrier on the sidewalk and snaps pictures. A sheriff’s car is in the driveway and a deputy is standing on the porch in front of the door. The camera zooms in suddenly as a curtain is pulled away from one of the upstairs windows, but the curtain drops back into place without anyone being revealed. That you, Mom? Dad? I’m sorry. I’m so.
I shake my head. Rolf continues.
—Anyways, when you guys came out with nothin’, we followed you over to that strip club. And, dude, what was that about?
—We needed to talk to someone.
—You took your time. We waited awhile, then I was like, let’s just blow back to the trailer and search it. I figured if the money wasn’t here we could wait for you and Elvis and jump you. And, dude? Was I relieved when he didn’t come in with that big fucking dog. Hey, here it is again.
He points at the TV. It’s the footage of the SWATs again.
The bus is isolated on the roof of the garage, centered in the jiggling helicopter spot. The team edges up, assault weapons ready, and cracks the sliding door.
Rolf talks over the footage.
—At first, we were hidden and waiting for you guys. Then it just took forever, so we turned on the set and watched this happen live around one AM. Dude, was that freaky.
One AM, when I was in a casino, the last place on earth you’ll ever get news of what’s going on outside.
The morning briefing from Sheriff Reyes comes on and Rolf unmutes the TV.
—The van, the bus, was seen in the vicinity of the collision and shooting on Nicastro Road in the twenty-four hours before, before that, those, incidents. Also, tracks we believe are from this vehicle were recovered and matched. That is, they match tracks found at the scene of the shooting of Deputy Fischer. So, and all this makes us believe that the suspect Henry Thompson and his, his, accomplices may have fled in this vehicle. We put out, with the help of the FBI, we put out a BOLO alert, a “Be On the Look Out” yesterday afternoon. Last night we received word that the vehicle had been found by officers of the Las Vegas Metro Police Department. And the focus, the focus of the investigation is, we don’t really have much to do with it anymore, and this will be, I’ll only be briefing on the case as it pertains to the crimes committed in our jurisdiction. The hunt for Henry Thompson and his suspected accomplices will be, is being . . . this is Special Agent Willis Tate and he’ll be briefing, answering questions about the, the hunt.
Sheriff Reyes steps aside and a man in his forties steps up to the mikes. He has a slight potbelly and a shiny bald bullet head and wears steel-rimmed glasses and a government suit. He opens his mouth to talk and Rolf mutes the sound.
—This guy. He started showing up last night. Up. Tight. Reyes is cool, like he’s your favorite shop teacher or a mellow uncle. He makes me feel safe. But, dude, this guy makes me feel oppressed, you know? Like, knowing he’s running around with his cronies makes me feel like I’m not even a citizen in this country.
Special Agent Tate speaks into the microphones. He makes a gesture toward Reyes, nods his head, and then turns back to the reporters and starts to read from a prepared document.
I point at the TV.
—We should be listening to this.
Rolf waves his hand.
—Dude, he’s just all, blah blah blah, jurisdiction, blah, good work of local authorities, blah, nobody panic ’cause I’m in charge now, blah.
Tate indicates a video monitor behind him and the camera zooms in on it. The image is fuzzy; a TV image of a TV image of a bad photo, but it’s still easy to recognize Sid in his driver’s license picture.
SID STARES at the picture of himself on the TV. After a few moments, they pull back to the shot of Tate talking at the podium, then cut back to the studio, then to a graphic showing an outline of Nevada with a series of concentric circles centered on Las Vegas. Something swirls up out of the dot that represents Vegas. It resolves into my NYC booking photo and is followed by another swirl that becomes Sid’s photo. Then letters are smashed down below them one by one, as if by a giant, red-inked typewriter: WANTED. And cut to an antacid commercial.
I look at Sid. He looks at me. And nods his head, like some suspicion he has long held has at last been proven true.
Rolf stands up.
—And on that note, dudes, I’ll be using the can.
He heads off down the hall.
Sid and I sit next to each other, the TV still on, silently trying to sell us things. He reaches across me for the remote, picks it up, and turns the TV off.
He pulls his gun from his waistband. It’s an older model Colt .45, a Gold Cup target pistol. It’s a good gun, accurate and powerful, not the kind of thing you get off the street, but a tool you buy because you know its quality. He sets it on the coffee table and stares at the floor, elbows on knees, head hanging.
—I thought about what you said, about killing people being wrong. And, dude, it’s not like I don’t know that. I know people are, like, all sacred and life is a special thing. A gift? It doesn’t have to be from God or anything, it can just be that life is this gift from the universe and it’s special because, as far as we know, there isn’t any more of it, so it’s really, really rare. And what you do with your life? What you do with this gift, dude, that, like, totally makes you who you are. I really believe that. But. I don’t think that makes killing people wrong? ’Cause if our lives are gifts, are special, then all lives are, whether it’s a bug or a cow or whatever, and we kill them all the time. So death and killing is just a part of life, a part of the universe whether God made it, or whatever, it’s just this natural thing. And some things, dude? Some animals? They kill, that’s what they do, and it just makes them what they are? And people? We’re just animals. So why shouldn’t some of us be killers? Why can’t that be just what makes some of us who we are? So I really kind of think you may not be right, and killing people isn’t “wrong.” It’s just a thing some people do.
I look at the gun. I could make a grab for it. Grab the gun while Sid is listless, his eyes on the floor. I’ll have to shoot Sid. Grab the gun, shoot Sid in the top of his head, run down the hall, and shoot Rolf while he’s still trying to get his pants up from around his ankles. I know what it looks like when people get shot, what it feels like to shoot them. I have experience with sudden violence. And violence is like anything else, the more you do it, the more you get used to it. And the better you are at it. I could make the grab and kill them both. But I don’t. Because I think I’m gonna need them.
Also, I’m afraid of Sid.
ROLF IS just coming out o
f the john when the phone rings again. He runs down the hall and stands in the middle of the living room. Sid picks up his gun and tucks it back in his pants. I flip the phone open and look at the clock. It’s about forty-five minutes since the first call.
—Wade?
—Hey, Sandy.
—Hey, hey look.
—Where’s T?
—Oh, baby, he passed out. You really should have come over.
I think about T while I listen to her light a cigarette. I try to imagine him passing out with anything but an elephant tranquilizer stuck in his neck. Not likely. Sandy exhales.
—You still could, you know, come over and party.
I light my own cigarette and say nothing. Her voice drops to a whisper.
—How’s that sound, a little private party?
I take a drag and jet smoke from my nostrils. Rolf has joined Sid on the couch. They sit there watching me as I pace back and forth across the tiny living room.
—What happened to your boss, that guy Terry?
—He, you know, I told him you wanted to meet later so he’s not coming by for awhile. So what about it?
—Weeell, you know I want to, but I still don’t have any wheels.
There’s a pause and a rustle, like maybe she’s covering the mouthpiece.
—I could come and get you.
I keep my mouth shut, listening. I can still hear Hitler’s nonstop barking. I flick some ash onto the carpet.
—You know what, baby, that’s great, but I still think it’s a bad call. I’m so wasted I’d probably just conk out right next to T. What time is your guy gonna show?
—Uh, well.
Another muffled rustle.
—Around twelve.
I bend over and stub my cigarette out in T’s overflowing ashtray.
—No, that’s still too early. I really need to crash.
—I, well, baby that’s up to you, but I don’t think he.
—No problem, I want to talk to the guy, but if we can’t do it later.
—No. I. When? I can probably.
—Just, you know, a little after six, maybe.
—OK, I’ll need to.
—Hey, what’s your address, anyway?
—Um, I.
I snap my fingers at Rolf and make little writing gestures in the air. He digs through the back issues of Mojo and Hustler that are piled on the coffee table and finds a ballpoint.
—What was that, Sandy?
—Um, 262 Jewel Avenue.
—262 Jewel Ave. Got it.
I watch as Rolf writes the address in the whiteness of a naked thigh on one of the magazine’s covers.
—But, Wade, I should really talk to.
—No problem, I’ll be there right around six and Terry will either be there or he won’t.
Rolf is holding up his hand trying to get my attention.
—Gotta go, baby.
—OK, I’ll. I’ll call after I talk to Terry and.
—I’m gonna turn my phone off to get some sleep. I’ll just see you at six.
Rolf is waving his arms now. I turn off the phone. Rolf stands up.
—Dude, the Chargers game is on tonight.
—So?
—Dude, it’s a ESPN game. A Thursday night game, it starts at six.
—Rolf, believe me when I tell you, I know how you feel, but it’s about having priorities right now.
—Yeah, I know. I know I’m being lame, but, dude, I really wanted to see that game.
—It won’t take long. We’ll see the second half.
I’m out of cigarettes again. I remember T getting a pack of smokes from the fridge. I head for the kitchen. Rolf sits back down.
—You don’t think this chick and her guy are gonna freak when you show up with two extra dudes? ’Cause you know you ain’t going over there without us.
I open the freezer and pull a pack out of one of the three cartons inside. I remember Wade’s dad used to do that, keep his cigarettes in the freezer so they’d stay fresh longer. I wonder if that’s where T got it. From Wade’s dad. Wade. Did you keep your cigarettes in the fridge in your garage? Did you buy cartons and store them there and sneak out to smoke late at night? Did Stacy ever come out with you to have a couple drags and sip a beer? Shit, Wade, oh shit.
—Dude.
I come back from where I was, close the freezer door, and open the pack of Marlboros.
—Sorry. Fazed out for a second. I think I need some food and some sleep.
—Sure, but answer the question?
—What?
—Why didn’t you tell her you were bringing a couple extra dudes?
I light my fresh, cold cig and draw chilled smoke into my lungs.
—What’s the point? If I tell her I’m bringing guests, she’ll say no way. And, like you said, you aren’t gonna let me go over there alone. We just show up? What are they gonna do? The guy’s gonna want his five bills, so he’ll have to talk. And if he doesn’t want to talk, there are three of us there and he won’t want to piss us off. Either way he’ll end up telling us where Tim is.
Rolf looks at the clock on the VCR; it’s not even eight AM yet.
—We got some time to kill, dude.
—I’m gonna crash, you guys kill it however you want.
I GO to the room down the hall, take off my clothes, and lie back on the foam pad. I’m desperate for sleep, but I need to think first.
I think about our meet with Sandy at the strip club. After we talked she put the call in to her boss, this Terry guy. She said she left a message, that he’d call back. But she could have talked to him, told him there were guys looking for Tim. And he could have told her what to do: string us along, keep us out waiting for a call, keep us drinking and blowing crank. And then she just about begged us to come and party at her place. And she told T she didn’t want him to bring Hitler.
Someone was waiting at her house when she got home with T. At least two guys who work for Terry. Or maybe two Russian gangsters reneging on their deal with Dylan and coming after me for the money. Take your pick.
So I’ll go over to Sandy’s and walk into whatever trap is waiting for me, because she’s still the only lead I have on Timmy. But I’ll bring Sid and Rolf with me.
Whoever’s waiting over there won’t be ready for Rolf and Sid. Nobody is ready for Rolf and Sid. I just need to be ready, ready to grab T when the shooting starts.
I close my eyes.
The chemicals in my body are still fighting a pitched battle. My heart leaps and starts like a faulty engine.
I open my eyes.
They feel dry, almost cracked. My tongue is swollen and rough and my whole mouth is seared from inhaling smoke. I’ll never be able to sleep.
I close my eyes.
And am swallowed whole by jungle, darkness, and nightmares.
I JOLT awake, covered in sweat. The scream sitting at the back of my mouth. I bite it and swallow it back down.
Sid is sitting on the edge of the foam pad, holding my arm. He’s changed into a pair of T’s black Levis and a pink bowling shirt with the name Al embroidered over the breast pocket. He releases my arm.
—Sorry to wake you, dude. You were totally having a nightmare.
I pull the blanket up to cover my body. He looks at me.
—You OK now?
I nod. He gets up. I tilt my chin at him.
—Nice threads.
He looks down at himself and tugs at the loose waist of the jeans.
—Yeah. They’re a little big. Anyway, dude’s taste is not mine, but I need some kind of disguise, I guess. I got some shades in my pack and a bandana I can like tie like a do-rag?
I nod.
He points at my cowboy hat sitting on the edge of T’s desk.
—I get the cowboy thing, dude. I didn’t when we saw you, but then I saw all the other cowboys at the strip club and remembered the signs for the rodeo. Good call.
—Not my idea.
—Good one, anyway.
The sun is shining brightly through the hall window.
—What time is it? Can I catch a few more Zs?
—It’s early, but you better get up, dude. We have some shit to figure out.
I nod. He steps to the door, stops, looks back at me.
—I know what that’s like, dude, nightmares. If you ever want to talk, or.
He shrugs once. And leaves the room.
Sid was so high-strung when I met him at the motel in Barstow that I assumed that was what he was like. I was wrong. This is the real Sid; shy, pensive, glum. He was up at the motel because of what had happened in the strawberry field. He was up from killing Deputy Fischer. But the high has worn off. He’ll be wanting that high again. Soon.
I get up and dress.
WE HAVE a new car.
I peek out the living room window and see one of the most fabulously nondescript automobiles ever manufactured. I turn to Rolf.
—Chevy Cavalier?
—I know, dude, but it’s not like I was looking for style. I needed something easy to rob.
—Where’d you get it?
—I hopped one of those CAT buses and rode over to UNLV. Got it out of the parking lot.
—Gas?
—Dude, I’m not a fucking amateur. I stopped by a Shell and filled it up and checked the oil and shit.
—What happened to the car you boosted last night?
Sid looks up from the TV. As promised, he has tied a red and white bandana over his head and is wearing chrome-finish sunglasses that fit his face tightly, like a pair of welding goggles.
—The cops will be looking at stolen car reports from anywhere near where we dumped the Westy. That thing is no good for us.
—Where is it?
Sid looks away, embarrassed.
—About a half mile up the road. At the Super 8 we checked in to.
I stare at him.
—A half mile?
—Dude, I know.
Six Bad Things Page 23
