Call this place Stevie Ray Vaughn's 'Tin Pan Alley.' Roughest place I've ever been no shit, Stevie. Burned out lights, broken windows. No casino barkers, either, to call and persuade and cajole people to donate their money to the house. Instead of overweight men with cameras around their necks, calling to frumpy wives while wearing dark socks with short pants and dress shoes, there were winos and addicts and people hanging on to that last rung pretty desperately.
One man slept on a bus seat covered in graffiti. Maybe a broken neck, too, the way his head lolled back and forth. His arms, though, were folded together in a hard prayer. Maybe they were put there by some street preacher who was overseeing the wino's death.
A couple of teenagers eyed the wino carefully. Score coming, Hal thought. Punks were the same all over the country. Looked the same, dressed the same, walked the same. Hell, if Hal sniffed hard enough, every two-bit thug in the country would even smell the same; the same bitter, skanky odor from all of them, fuckin' communal use of the same shitty goddamned cologne.
And it'd play out the same, too. Take the clanging change in his pocket, if he had any; take whatever food coupons the Salvation Army had given him, whatever booze he might have left. And if it was a good day for him, the punks would leave without caving his skull in just to see if brain matter really was gray.
As heists go it wouldn't be particularly high-paying. It'd validate these two mopes, though. They'd believe they were headed up into the rarefied air of gangland's future. But the confidence would burn off pretty quick, leaving the stink of losers. Literally nothing but that stink. They wouldn't even feel guilty about having rolled the old dude. Nothing but sociopaths, that's what they were, the little bastards.
Pot calling the kettle, Hal thought. He was as remorseless as anyone he ever met on the streets. Con the mark and move on down the road. Snag the money or the car, boogie to the roadhouse in the next county. No guilt, no remorse, no twinge of conscience; don't get weighed down with useless baggage.
You never spent any time with a conscience, Hanford always said. If you don't have something good down inside, you have to grow it. Don't I have something good? Hal had asked in return. Hanford sighed, shrugged, and clapped a heavy hand on Hal's shoulder. I don't know, brother, maybe you just need more time to find it.
Which was how Theresa figured in. Not as planned redemption, not even as unplanned redemption. Hell, until he saw her sitting on that barstool in Barefield, her eyes endlessly deep brown and her skin caramel, he hadn't believed in the bullshit of the love of a good woman.
'Cause, really, when you got down to it love was just as much of a two-bit con as anything else.
And yet when he thought of her, of those eyes and thighs, that arching nose and seductive pose, he'd go to Hell and back. In fact, hadn't he just? Didn't he leave her alone with her family in Nueva Rosita so he could get to Elk City? And didn't he leave Elk City for Tulia, Texas and then Albuquerque and Denver and Salt Lake City and LA and finally that corner of Nevada just for her?
Yeah. For her.
And for Tyler, a guy he barely knew, who he'd used once for what was supposed to have been a great score, a guy who he'd probably never see again for the rest of his life. A guy who he owed nothing.
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
He glanced at his watch as the summer moon hovered just above the horizon. Seemed kind of dented and banged up from this angle. Maybe that was just how the moon looked when surrounded by the dilapidated buildings they drove past. It gave them a bit of light, being a full moon, but it bounced off the buildings and looked nothing but crappy all the way around. If someone had designed this scene, they couldn't have done it anymore thoroughly. Every shaft highlighted another crumbling building, some desolate doorway or broken window. Having driven through the cleaner parts of town, where the cops patrolled regularly and the street sweepers moved, the cracked sidewalks became that much more obvious.
"Welcome to Vegas," he said.
"I hate it."
Her anger caught him short. Since the convenience store in Fallon, she had been fairly mellow. Angry before that, yeah, but chilled since then. Now almost as suddenly as they got into this part of town she was again a hard woman.
'Cause that Vegas line means something to her. God only knows what.
"You hate it so bad why we stopping? We can get money somewhere else."
She pointed to what appeared to be a casino, or might once have been a casino. Two narrow strips of lights encased the front door but only two or three bulbs were actually on. The rest were either burned out or missing. Giant windows sat on either side of the door but both had been boarded over. Marquees had been nailed--both slightly crooked--over the covered windows. In one, a curled poster advertised the 'Loosest Slots in Town.' The other showed a woman with about twelve yards of legs, beautifully covered in thigh-high black boots, smiling from beneath a black leather policeman's style hat. She held a riding crop in one hand and a cattle prod in another.
"'Cause we need some money." Her face was tight. "Unless you were smart enough to snag some'a what I gave to Templeton. I had about five bucks. We're damned lucky the car was gassed."
"When would I have gotten any of Templeton's money?" Hal had reached for the money, but the bullets had gotten the better of his nerves. "Right." He sighed. "Okay. I'm'a do some work, see if I can't get us some funds."
"You stole the car," she said. "I'll get the money."
With a shrug, he pointed at the awnings. They were worn through and sagged like an elderly couple. The paint might once have been white but now was mostly gone. What was left had gone a dirty tan and where the wood showed through reminded Hal of scabs on tanned skin. "Ain't gonna be much here."
A crack, it looked as fragile as a newborn, ran the length of the right side door. Top to bottom, twisting and turning. Badly painted letters--'Puss'n'Boots'--announced the place. They had been gold but now they, too, were dirty white. The color reminded him of a bone stripped of flesh.
"Jolene owes me," Apple Valley said.
Hal frowned but said nothing as he killed the car. They sat and he watched her try and swallow down her agitation while the engine cooled.
She fit a wrong-sized smile on her face. "Trust me."
"Yeah, no problem." He'd only known her for a few hours and she'd come from a man who'd tried to kill him. No, trust wasn't going to be a factor at all, not at all.
"Shit, if you could see how red your eyes are. When was the last time you slept?"
"I'll sleep when I'm dead."
"Snappy answer that doesn't mean dick." She headed for the front door. "You should sleep while I drive."
No chance, he thought. I got no idea who or what you are. Until I know that, I'll keep my red eyes open, thank you, very much.
"There's some money here," she said. "Not as much as on the strip, but then again, I never worked for anyone on the strip, did I?"
"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't, I have no idea." He rubbed his hand across his face. "I don't know anything about you…Apple Valley."
"You know I got you a car."
"Technically I stole the wheels."
"You know I didn't turn you in."
True enough, he thought, looking again at the poster of the dominatrix. His gaze moved slowly up from the woman's legs to her breasts then her face. Her green eyes stared directly at him as though she had been waiting just for him.
"Nice picture, huh?"
"Yeah, it is. Lookit those friggin' legs. Christ, I'd like to--" He stopped, embarrassed. He cleared his throat, took two steps for the door. The missing heel on his boot tripped him up. "Anyway, it's a nice picture."
"Thanks."
She disappeared inside while he stood between the car and the poster, staring at the woman. Didn't really look like her, but the demure and slightly scary face in the picture certainly fit the way Apple Valley enunciated and the way she tossed her head and looked at him through the tops of her eyes.
Yeah, he thought as he h
ardened up a bit, that could be her. "No shit. Who'd'a thunk it?"
He headed inside, stepping awkwardly because of the boot heel. Once in, he gaped. 1960s cool and still sort of weirdly hip. Rat Pack and Dean Martin, one-eyed Sammy and blue-eyed Sinatra. A beat-up jukebox played limp jazz. The swing seemed to have crawled away, no doubt lost in a bottle somewhere.
"Are you kidding me with this place?"
"Kind of funky, huh?" she asked.
One entire side of the room was slot machines. The other was dominated by a runway raised to just above the level of the bar, which was built into the runway's side. There were lots of mostly empty bottles on the shelves. A barkeep sat on a stool, staring at a magazine of gargantuan-breasted women. Without raising his head, he eyed the two of them.
The place was practically empty. Four slot players, two bar-dwellers. Two college age boys played video poker, each of them immaculately dressed in black suits with thin, sharp ties that could have easily cut Sinatra's throat.
The sound surprised Hal. In spite of how empty the place was, how lost to time it seemed, there was a ton of noise. There was the weak jazz, yeah, but on top of that, every slot machine in the place clanged and jangled mechanically. Lights, red, white, and blue was the favorite color scheme, spun like cops' lights while others flashed and still others just stayed on.
"What is that smell?" Hal asked.
It was thick and stale, had edges of piss and maybe blood, and a center of something nasty he didn't even want to think about. He held a finger to his nose.
"In a casino? That's the smell of money."
"Bullshit," Hal said. "I smelled money before and that damn sure ain't it."
Near the back, there was a door marked 'employees only.' She stopped there. "Okay, call it the dream of money. Those who don't have any, looking to find some."
"Ha," a man shouted, right on cue. His slot machine, 'Full of Aces,' flashed and dinged, whirred and spit out a grand total of ten quarters. "Fucking won that son of a bitch, didn't I?" He turned to the bartender. "Gimme a beer before my luck runs out."
These people weren't at all different, Hal realized, than the people he'd spent his adult life with. These guys just had better lighting and better music.
Apple Valley pushed her way through the door and into the office. Hal stood just behind her. An old woman, wrinkled and wizened and looking every bit of 307 years old, sat behind a tiny cheap desk. Her face registered a bit of pleased shock. "Christ below. Apple Valley walking through my door."
"Hi, Jolene."
The woman stood but didn't offer a hand or a hug. She spread her hands out on the desk and leaned over a bit and maybe that was how her ancient back was most comfortable. On one corner of the desk was a bronzed thigh-boot. On the other corner was a stuffed cat rearing up on its hind legs as though waiting for the perfect moment to finish its attack. The cat and the bronzed boot were damn near taller than the woman between them.
She saw Hal staring and pointed at the cat. "Puss." A crooked finger then pointed at the boot. "And boots." Her bony finger moved back to the cat--"My cat, long live King Cat Henry,"--and then back to the boot, "Her boot."
Apple Valley jerked a thumb toward the front of the building. "And my picture out front?"
The woman shrugged.
"What happens when guys come in and they see some woman who isn't me?"
Jolene laughed. "Honey, they don't see any women anymore. We haven't had a strip in three years and haven't had a good one since you left."
With a shake of her thin head, the woman pulled a cigarette from a pocket and lit up. Thin, gray smoke choked the office. "I guess they were right. You are stupid enough to come straight back here."
The hair on the back of Hal's neck stood.
Apple Valley frowned. "They who?"
Hal turned then, ready to run his ass out of the room.
"They me."
Hal couldn't really see much of the man, not with the man's gun barrel jammed directly against his forehead, pretty much obliterating his view of anything else.
"Who are you?" Apple Valley asked.
Hal couldn't see the man's face, but he sure as hell saw the badge. Somewhere, deep in his chest, his heart stopped and somewhere else, deeper in his soul, he cursed Hanford--you'll never know what I know--and said goodbye to Theresa.
"Fucking Vegas PD, Miss Valley, and you're busted."
1,664 Miles (Still)
'Fucking Vegas PD' sat them both on Jolene's sprung couch. No sweat, Hal thought, I'll sit anywhere you want if you just get that goddamned gun outta my face.
"I am Douglas O. Bessemer, Director of Security for Jolene Entertainment Enterprises." The gun came down to waist height but he didn't put it away. Made no move, either, to slip his finger out of the trigger guard.
Apple Valley looked at Jolene. "Jolene Entertainment Enterprises?"
The old woman rolled her eyes.
"You will address me at all times, Miss Valley," Bessemer said. "I am the door to your future. You do the right thing and that might not be a cell door."
"Right thing? What's that mean? You wanna blow job?" Hal shook his head. "Christ, give a guy a badge."
"Got a bit of a mouth, don't you?"
"Guess you got a handle on anatomy. I thought all you knew was your crank."
With a tight grin, Officer Douglas came toward him. The slow walk was about as menacing as a blond-haired six-year-old on a porch swing. "I hear you have someplace to be, my friend. Keep your mouth in control and maybe, just maybe--" He glanced at Apple Valley, then back at Hal. "I'll let you get back on the road."
"Hal," Apple Valley said. "Shut up. Why are you antagonizing him?"
Hal kept the smart-ass answer inside his mouth this time. This guy was a windbag, no doubt, but a windbag with a gun usually trumps the play. Truth was Hal antagonized the guy because he didn't care a whit for windbags and he missed his girl. He missed her eyes and her laugh and even, God help him, her crazed meth junkie brother. And 'cause I have to get to Hanford before I see her again, 'cause if I don't set Hanford straight, then none of the rest of it will matter.
The exhaustion was making him stupid. And stupidity was making him cough up bad decisions like a drunk vomiting Thunderbird.
There they are again, folks, the legendary bad decisions. "Why won't you go to college?" "That was a good job, why did you quit?" "You're working for a con man." Those and a million other bad decisions that have led his life astray, leading him to the quote he will never forget.
He and Hanford used to go to a particular park every few nights. The name was lost in his memory but they had loved going there. There was a knee-high brick wall all the way around it and two huge Evergreens on either side of a grand staircase descending into the park. They sat on a bench one night--Hal's first night out after his first night in--and Hanford laid it out, crisp as winter wind and twice as nasty. "You'll go to jail again."
"Not me, Daddio. One night's enough for me."
"You've got no choice, everything you do is leading you there. You'll be in jail for who knows what, or maybe on death row for murder."
"Hope just ain't in your vocabulary, is it?"
And for as long as Hal lived, he would never forget seeing his brother shake his head. A cool blue-white streetlight caught Hanford's face every time his head swung left. It lit up one of Hanford's eyes, half his nose, half his chin. "Not for you. I want to have some hope, but every time I turn around, you've done something stupid and the stupidity keeps getting worse."
Yeah, well, it never got as bad as Hanford believed, had it? Hal was a con man, yeah, a thug with loaded dice certainly. But he never sold drugs and he sure hadn't killed anybody. Soon as we get that straightened out, he thought, I'll be on my way.
Soon, he had told Theresa.
But this chicken shit cop standing in front of him wanted to screw that up. Maybe screw it up in such a way as to leave Hal in jail with a boyfriend named Bubba.
"Look," Hal said. "T
hat warrant isn't--"
Apple Valley put her hand on Hal's thigh. "No, no, different problem."
Officer Douglas smiled. "You are as smart as he said you were. But you are as stupid, too. He said you'd come here. Used to work here, did you?"
'He' had to be Captain Brooks, Hal thought.
"I performed here. Before he and I got together." She snorted. "None of that matters because he and I split months ago."
The cop smiled, all teeth and no compassion. "Ah, but you're married and there was no divorce. No separation, either. There was just you walking out for another companion."
"Jolene, what is going on? You've got security now?" Apple Valley nodded toward the big room. "Doesn't seem like you need it to me."
Jolene turned her dead eyes toward Apple Valley. Exhaustion ran in her face. "He offered his services." Jolene took a deep drag on the cigarette. "Came into the office one day. Convinced me we needed his help, had to avoid shrinkage."
That'd be a clue, wouldn't it? The way she said 'convinced?' This wasn't a mutually preferred arrangement. "Shrinkage is a retail term," Hal said. "Has to do with stolen retail merchandise. In casinos, theft is called…what? Theft?"
"Shut the hell up, loverboy." Officer Douglas grinned again, the same toothy sneer. A mouthful of nicotine yellow stared out at Hal. "Brooks'll love to make your acquaintance. Captain Brooks requested I detain the both of you for interrogation regarding a shoot-out."
"Thought you said you'd let him go," Apple Valley said.
Officer Douglas shrugged, then puffed out his chest. "Besides Director of Security, I am a captain in the Las Vegas anti-crime unit. I am a thirty-year veteran with more citations than you have entries on your rap sheet."
"That directed at me, Officer Douglas O. Bessemer?" Hal stood.
"How perfect," the cop said. "A crooked man actually standing crooked."
Gotta get some new boots, Hal thought. "Listen. My rap sheet ain't so long. If you're using that as a comparison, you ain't done much over thirty years."
Bessemer moved quick, a bolt of lightning tied to a meaty fist that connected solidly with Hal's face. Red exploded in Hal's eyes and he rocked sideways. Warm blood flooded his mouth. He slumped to the cushions. Sideways, he saw Jolene lean over to Apple Valley.
2,000 Miles to Open Road (Barefield) Page 5
