by Giles Blunt
“Jesus Christ, I told you, I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t answer yet. I want you to think long and hard about how you can help me with my problem.”
“What fucking problem?” Pookie closed one eye against the water dripping into his face.
“My problem is that Max Maxwell was behind the San Francisco job, and I need to know where he put the take.”
Pookie shook water out of his eyes, blinking. “You’re asking the wrong guy. Max pays me cash. I don’t know anything about the take. I don’t even know how much it is.”
“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to revise your answers.” Zig opened and closed the bolt cutters right in front of Pookie’s face. “Just think about these and This Little Piggy.”
The guy opened his mouth and sat up a bit. He looked like he was going to say something, but then he winced as if he had really bad gas pains and turned his head to one side. He slid back down the tub and lay still.
“That’s fucked up,” Clem said.
“Turn the tap on again.”
Clem turned on the cold so it splashed all over Pookie’s face, but he still didn’t move. “Man, guy’s really out.”
Zig leaned over the tub and pressed the point of the bolt cutters against Pookie’s throat. “Hey, Baldy. Pay attention.”
Zig pressed harder. The guy didn’t move.
Clem looked up at him. “You think he’s dead?”
Zig took Pookie by the lapels and pulled him up to a sitting position, then shook him hard, but his head just lolled against his chest.
“Wake up, you bastard.” Zig shook him again. He held him out at arm’s length, a look of disgust creasing his features. “Fuck.”
He let him drop, and Pookie’s head connected with the tap in a way that looked extremely dead.
“Jesus,” Clem said. “How can you plan for something like this?”
Zig looked at him. “I don’t suppose you would happen to know CPR?”
Owen woke up, drifted off, and woke again to Sabrina pressing a cold compress to his forehead. He could hear Max talking to someone-the television, of course. Sabrina didn’t say much. When she saw he was awake, she placed a face cloth full of ice into his hand and pressed it up against his ear.
She had the Rocket’s first aid kit open on her lap and must have been using up the entire supply of disinfectant, because it hurt like hell.
“Gah,” Owen said. “If I look anything like I feel …”
“You don’t look bad,” she said. “But he did kind of mash up your ear a little. I’m sure it’ll shrink again.”
“I really need to rinse my mouth out.”
“Can you get up?”
She stood aside as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Nausea swirled around him, but he managed to totter to the bathroom. He rinsed his mouth, spitting streaks of red into the tiny sink.
By the time he emerged, he was feeling a little better. His stomach hurt, his head was throbbing, but at least the nausea was ebbing. Sabrina was sitting on the edge of the dining banquette, the first aid kit now closed on her lap and her hands folded neatly on top of it.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Owen said. It just came out.
“Oh, boy. Someone’s head is still out of order.”
Owen lowered himself to the bunk again. It was just a foam mattress over a wooden platform, which he could now feel attacking his bruises.
“Galahad awakes,” Max called. “How is thy head?”
“Hurts. Everything hurts.”
“Well, you have an angel of mercy tending you. It can hardly be hellish.”
Sabrina leaned forward. “Is he always like that?”
“Like what?”
“So theatrical.”
“Always. Oh, my head hurts.”
He lay back on the bed. Sabrina sat on the edge and took his shoes off. It felt strange but far from unpleasant. Even in his pain he was thrilled by her proximity.
“Thanks for cleaning up my face,” he said.
“No, no. I should be thanking you. You were so relentless! You just wouldn’t quit.”
“I just wanted him to stop slapping you. Are you okay?”
She smiled, and Owen felt something open up inside him, as if a lock had turned. “You’re the one who got hurt,” she said. “And Bill, of course.”
“Max hit him with something, didn’t he.”
“A parking meter. There was a pile of them at the corner of the lot. Talk about theatrical.”
“Who was that guy, anyway?” Owen said. “He sounded like some kind of preacher.”
Sabrina shook her head. “He works for a hotel security outfit. He got born again a few years ago and he takes his Bible pretty seriously.”
“I’ll say. Is he your husband?”
She laughed, and it was a sound he wanted to hear again as soon as possible. “Husband? God, no.” Sabrina helped him rearrange his pillow. “Bill is, um, obsessive, I guess you’d say. He helped me out when I was in a-a very bad way, and ever since then he’s been convinced we were made for each other. He’s not always like you saw him.”
“But he hits you.”
“That was just the second time. I told him the first time, if he did it again, I’d leave and he’d never see me again. He can actually be very sweet sometimes, very thoughtful. He kind of made himself indispensable. At least it seemed that way. Bill has lots of good qualities-he’s generous, kind-hearted.”
“He’s also bat-shit crazy.”
“Well, if I’d known what I was getting into …”
“How’d you meet a guy like that in the first place?”
“I was working in this bar near the Strip, making hardly any money. My landlord was booting me out of my basement apartment because he sold his house. Bill was a regular in this bar-he’d come in twice a week for a beer and a shot of Canadian Club, and he was always very friendly but, you know, nothing more than that.
“Then one day he asked me how I was doing, and I just totally lost it. And he was great. A real rock, you know? He offered to help me find a place to live, and when he saw how tiny and grubby the places were-the ones I could afford-he said, ‘No way. I’ve got room at my house. You come and stay with me.’ No, don’t look like that. I knew I could trust him. So I moved in with him-it was just supposed to be for a few days, but before I knew it, three months had gone by-nearly four now. He’s never made the slightest move on me, not seriously anyway. I guess he tried to hold my hand a couple of times. But when things started looking up for me, ho boy.”
“He got possessive?”
“He always wants to walk me to work, or go with me when I go anywhere. When I get off shift, he’s outside the restaurant. Every time I pick up my cellphone, there’s a message from him, even though I’m staying at his place. ‘Sabrina, I miss you.’ ‘Just want you to know I’m thinking of you.’ Stuff like that. It might be romantic under other circumstances, but, I mean, he’s twice my age and we have exactly zero in common.”
“So, why’d you stay?”
“I was broke. The new job at Luigi’s pays really well, but I was totally in debt. And besides, he wasn’t a serious pain until just the last couple of weeks. Now, if he sees me talking to any man-any man at all-he gets crazy jealous. I’ve never so much as kissed him, and he’s insane with jealousy. Like tonight. He was waiting for me at the bar in the restaurant and, I don’t know, he didn’t like the way I smiled at you or something. And when I got off work, he was waiting outside and I knew it was gonna be trouble, and that’s pretty much when you came along.”
“You going to stay in Las Vegas?”
She shook her head. He loved the way she did it, pursing her lips, closing her eyes, and then that little side-to-side movement that made her hair, now that it was untied, swirl against her shoulders.
“I don’t really know where I’m going or what I’m doing.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Owen said. “You look like someone who knows exactly what she’
s doing.”
“I was studying design-jewellery mostly-at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, but I can’t really afford it. My father’s been in prison forever, as I guess you know, and the student loans are going to cripple me for life. I’m not sure it’s worth finishing. I thought I’d make a killing as a croupier, but that’s actually a hard job to get, and let’s just say my family background didn’t help.”
“What are you going to do now-I mean about Bill?”
“I don’t know. I can’t stay at his place anymore, obviously. I can’t even go to work or he’ll find me. I was going to leave Vegas in a couple of weeks anyway. It’s kind of depressing being in a town where everyone’s losing money.”
“We’re heading to Tucson tomorrow. Why don’t you come with us?”
“What would I do in Tucson?”
“Well, you won’t get beaten up, for one thing. And I guarantee no one’s going to quote the Bible.”
“Just Shakespeare.” That smile again.
“Come on. You’ll have a good time. We always do.”
“Well, if you think it’s all right. It might be a good way to put some space between me and Bill before I head back to New York.”
“Oh, I’m old, I’m old!” Max had turned off the television and was struggling, with much groaning, to rise from the sofa. “What doth gravity from his bed at midnight?” He shuffled toward them in a pair of white slippers bearing a Hilton monogram. “How now, boy? Feeling better?”
“Hey, Max, is it okay if Sabrina grabs a ride with us to Tucson?”
“Aha! The angel takes flight! My dear, I’m a mean old man-selfish, hideous, and somewhat given to excess-but I’ve never yet said no to a beautiful woman. You’re fleeing the Caliban of the parking lot?”
“I have to. But there’s no reason why you should help me. You’ve already done enough.”
“Nonsense. We have a brief appointment in the morning. You can pick up your goods and chattels, such as you require, and we’ll be three for the road. Right, boy?”
“Right.”
“Day or two later, we’ll be continuing on to El Paso. Perhaps you’d like to come along and visit your papa?”
“Uh, no. I doubt that I’ll be visiting my father.”
“What? But the man’s in hospital now. They finally let him out of his cell.”
“You and I have different opinions about my father. And, sorry, but I think mine is probably better informed. Can we just leave it at that?”
“Tsk. A melancholy thing, family discord.” Max looked from Sabrina to Owen and back again. “I trust that in time your conscience will be your guide. And so, weary with toil, I haste me to my bed.” He lumbered toward his bedroom, pausing at the door. “On matters of gender, nakedness, sexual congress and all manner of behaviour falling under the general category of lust, Owen, I shall be brief: you are to remain a gentleman at all times.”
Owen rolled his eyes, which made his head throb even more than it already was.
“Hey, listen,” he said when Max had closed the door. “Let me take the top bunk. That’s where I always sleep. Otherwise, we’ll have to change the sheets.”
“Don’t you move. Just tell me where they are.” But Owen forced himself to sit up, climb to the top bunk, then lie down again, pretending the whole time not to be in agony.
Sabrina switched off the light. When she began to undress, Owen turned his back to her, another painful and by no means fast operation. Still, he couldn’t help hearing, item by item: the drop of her sneakers, the zipper of her jeans. Then her weight on the bed frame as she got into the lower bunk. But soon the exhaustion that follows a flood of adrenalin washed consciousness away and he plummeted into dreamless sleep.
Max had all his life been one of those blessed individuals who have the knack of being able to drift off anywhere, any time. He was as comfortable in the Rocket’s queen-size bed as if he had been born in it. But now he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the persistent crump, crump, crump of some dimwit’s subwoofer a few trailers away. He thought of the upcoming show, going over in his head the various roles he, Owen, Pookie and Roscoe would play.
Then time left him for a while-he had no idea for how long-and when he came to himself again, he was assaulted by the acrid smell of cigar smoke. Some droop-lip trailer trash, no doubt clad in overalls and baseball cap, was sneaking a midnight smoke outside the Rocket. And then a noise, a rustling sound. A newspaper?
He sat up, goggle-eyed.
There was a man sitting in the corner of his tiny bedroom reading the Los Angeles Times. Curlicues of smoke and the crown of a fedora were visible above the headline: TRUMAN VETOES TAFT-HARTLEY.
“Who the hell are you?” Max managed to say. Smoke was stinging his eyes and throat. The man paid him no attention, hidden behind his paper. “What do you want?”
A rustle of paper as the Times was lowered. The man’s features were hidden in the shadow of his hat brim. He sat forward, bringing his face into the light. His left eye was no more than a blood-filled socket, the lower half of his face a mask of gore.
“They got me, Max. I was having a great time, but they got me.”
“What are you talking about?” Max’s lower lip trembled so that he could barely form the words. “Who got you?”
“New York. Who else?”
Max gathered the bedclothes around his chest. He hadn’t been this frightened since prison.
“You’re Bugsy Siegel.”
“Bugsy.” The man puffed hard on his cigar so that the tip glowed neon red. “I’ve killed guys for calling me that.”
“But you’re dead.”
The man shrugged. His suit was big in the shoulders, a wide chalk-stripe riddled with bullet holes from which wisps of smoke were coiling. His face minus the blood and with both eyes in place would have been handsome. A part of Max’s brain registered that this was not Bugsy Siegel but Warren Beatty playing Bugsy Siegel.
The gangster raised a finger to his face. “Got me in the bridge of the nose. Right through the newspaper.” He held the Times and blew a thin plume of smoke through the.45-calibre hole. “Force of the thing blew my eye out. Stings, too.”
Bugsy got up and came around the side of the bed, reeking of blood and cigar.
“No.” Max cowered against the bedboard. “Get away from me.”
“I only came to warn you.”
“Stay away.” When the apparition didn’t move, Max added, “Warn me of what?”
“Same thing’s going to happen to you.”
“No, no. I won’t let it. Now get away. Get away from me. Please.”
“Here.” The thing held out its hand. “Take it as a reminder.”
“Get away, I tell you. I don’t want it.”
“It’ll help you see it coming.”
“I don’t want it, blast you.”
“Take it!”
The voice would not be denied. Max’s hand travelled of its own accord out from under the bedclothes, palm up. Into it, the creature pressed a flesh-hot eyeball.
Max screamed and tried to throw it away, but it refused to leave his hand. He screamed and screamed and covered his head with his blanket and curled himself into a damp ball. He remained that way for some time, listening for the sound of the newspaper, but there was nothing. Eventually he heard worried voices. He lowered the blanket just enough to look into the alarmed faces of Owen and Sabrina.
NINE
You would never have guessed that the man who was standing before the grill, flipping pancakes and whistling a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan, was the same man who had been quivering in his bedclothes scant hours before. But that was Max. Owen had never met anyone else who could change so completely from one mood to another, often mixing despair and sunshine in the confines of a single hour. Now he was pouring pancake batter into artful shapes-Marilyn Monroe, Mickey Mouse, a tapir (or so he claimed)-and chatting away as if he had passed a peaceful night of sweet dreams.
After bre
akfast, Sabrina called several hospitals until she established that William P. Bullard, hotel security agent and man of God, had been admitted to one of them with a concussion. Then Max and Owen dropped her at his neat little bungalow so that she could pack her things. The front lawn of cedar chips was surrounded by a very solid-looking white picket fence, and this was set off by a lawn jockey, also painted white, who proffered a welcoming lantern in the brilliant Nevada sun. Promising to retrieve her shortly, they went to meet Pookie and Roscoe at the Desert Inn coffee shop.
Roscoe was seated at a table for four by the window, a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. He was absorbed in a dog-eared paperback of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
“It contains nine trillion gallons of water,” he said as they sat down. “And it’s the largest man-made lake in the world.”
“Lake Mead,” Owen said. “I read it online when we were planning the trip.”
“Lake Mead is correct,” Roscoe said. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“The lad takes after his guide and mentor,” Max said. “Last night, defending a damsel in distress, he repeatedly attacked a pious baboon.”
“Yeah? Kicked his ass, I hope.”
Owen shook his head. “He was pounding the crap out of me until Max knocked him out with a parking meter.”
“Unusual choice,” Roscoe said.
Max threw his arm around Owen. “A veritable lion, this lad. Takes after his uncle. Where is Pookie?”
Roscoe shrugged.
“It’s not like him to be late.”
The waitress came over and they ordered coffee. She was a skinny, friendly woman who asked them where they were from. It turned out that her enthusiasm for New York, Broadway in particular, was boundless, dwarfing her excitement about the weather and American Idol, which was also considerable.
“I don’t like this,” Max said when she was gone. “Pookie has many defects, but tardiness is not among them. Give him a call.”
Roscoe pulled out his prepaid cellphone and dialed. After a moment he said, “Not answering. I’ll leave a message.” Then, into the phone, “Hurry up. We’re waiting.”
The coffee came and Max explained the upcoming show to Roscoe. Roscoe asked some questions, and by the time they were finished their coffee Pookie was forty-five minutes late.
