Then my Camry, on its own volition, made a sudden right turn and steered itself into the parking lot of Liquor Barn.
Hello, Johnnie. Hello, Jack. Who's up first?
* * *
I woke up at dawn on Wednesday morning. Years of habit pulled me out of bed and into the shower. I was accustomed to going to work with a hangover and I wanted to finish the Bellboys.com plan. In just a few more days I would be expected to lead the dog and pony shows for the benefit of prospective investors.
I wanted to be thoroughly prepared, ready for any and all questions. I wanted the marketing and financial plans to be absolutely perfect. The same way I always wanted an A on my school papers.
Four hours, three cups of coffee, and a half pack of cigarettes later, I had to stop and get up. Had to move around. My muscles were quivering like a bowl of Jell-O in an earthquake. One of the many joys of two less-than-successful surgeries is unexpected jolts of searing pain. The pain was sharp and sustained, like someone plunging an electric cattle prod into your neck— and then holding it there for a half hour.
Dr. Feldman, my neurosurgeon, referred to this bit of unpleasantness as "normal postsurgical radiculopathy." Normal, like its muscle-convulsing first cousin, Mr. Fasciculation. Feldman said not to worry, though. Just some temporary (probably) side effects. They would disappear. Eventually.
I went to the medicine cabinet and then sought the comfort of my La-Z-Boy to smoke and await a temporary respite from the stabbing pain. I knew a shot of Jack or Johnnie would work faster than the pills, but I was adhering to the Golden Mean— moderation and balance.
There would be absolutely no drinking until 5 P.M. Part of living in the Golden Mean was adhering to a gentlemanly cocktail hour.
The pills kicked in twenty minutes later, and I hunched back over the monitor and resumed my number crunching. I stayed that way all afternoon, trying not to glance at my watch every few minutes to see if it was getting close to five.
At 7 P.M. Mr. Daniel's and I were battling Dr. Blackjack when the doorbell rang.
Dwayne Hassleman stood there grinning, a purplish-black shiner under his swollen right eye. He was wearing brown eyes and green cammy pants with his favorite long-sleeved Banana Republic shirt. He had on his jungle boots and his huge cowboy belt buckle.
The swollen eye looked to be of recent vintage. "Who did you piss off?" I asked.
Dwayne ignored the question and poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel's. He wandered over to the computer to admire my latest blackjack winnings.
"Looks like you're getting to be a master card counter. Think you could handle a real casino situation? At the table there will be other players who will screw up your counting strategy by taking stupid hits."
"I think I can adjust for that."
"How the hell do you get comfortable in this thing?" Dwayne was struggling to adjust the La-Z-Boy lever. "It's a medieval torture rack."
I took a deep swallow of Jack.
"Yeah, but without the reward of eventual death. Hey, your, uh… house sitter, Hakeem, said you were out of town on business. How did it go? Was that your multilevel marketing deal?"
"Jimmy, if I told you the truth I'd have to kill you."
"Then please lie to me."
We laughed and drank and then Dwayne was idly thumbing through the junk mail on the kitchen table.
"Is this the free Las Vegas trip you were telling me about?"
"Are you impressed? I'm a Diamond-level VIP."
"Impress me with your Dr. Blackjack program."
We took turns playing blackjack against the computer and were up $5,200 after an hour. Dwayne was excited about all the money we were making, and after a prolonged trip to the bathroom he was even more excited. He studied the comp offer from the Excelsior.
"Jimmy, why don't we go for the real deal? This Vegas comp is good any two weeknights. We could leave now and be breaking the bank at the Excelsior by lunchtime tomorrow."
"Sorry, Dwayne, but I'm not up to driving to the airport. Besides I've got to—"
"Gotta what? Didn't you just tell me your girls are at camp in Lake Tahoe and you don't have to be at your new job until Monday? Screw the airport. Why waste our blackjack money on airfare. We'll drive— it'll be fun. Fear and loathing and all that."
Dwayne sat down at the piano bench and started banging out "Chopsticks," stabbing at the keys like he was learning to use a manual typewriter.
"That's barbaric! Keep your paws off my piano."
"Not until we're in the car and on our way."
"Dwayne, there's no way. I'm practically falling asleep now and—"
"Hold on a second, pal."
Dwayne fumbled at one of the zippered compartments in his shirt, and a moment later there was a small mirror on the piano bench.
Reflecting a thick white line of cocaine.
"That's all I have left, pal, but you go ahead and do it. I've got a great connection in Vegas."
I looked at the line as the small dim voice of sanity inside my head finally spoke up:
This way lies madness.
A small solitary voice, instantly and decisively overruled by the noisy committee.
It had been a long time since I had done any coke, but I remembered the basic principle. The Monster even lent me a tightly rolled-up dollar bill. The committee cheered.
Toot-toot and away we go!
A few minutes later I was not as tired but still in no shape to drive.
"All right, Dwayne, but you have to drive and we take the Rover. I'll call and make sure this comped Diamond Executive suite really exists."
The Monster leaped off the piano bench and thrust a fist into the air.
"All right! The Rover is in the shop right now but I'll tell you what— we take the Camry and I'll drive the whole way. Hell, you can even crawl into the backseat and fall asleep if you like."
Which is just what I did. Either the coke wasn't very strong or it didn't stand a chance against Mr. Daniel's and his friends from the pharmacy.
I slept like a dead man.
Slept through the night and the miles and the endless black ribbons of desert highway.
Slept like death.
* * *
I woke up in the backseat of the Camry to find myself in New York City— with a blazing desert sun overhead.
Dwayne had the air-conditioning on full blast and was singing along with the radio. Something about breaking rocks in the hot sun. 'Cause the law won.
I blinked to clear the shimmering haze of heat outside and watched the Manhattan skyline go by— or the Las Vegas version of it— complete with a Statue of Liberty and what appeared to be a slightly scaled-down Chrysler Building. Construction crews were dangling in the air, busy wrapping a roller coaster around the entire hotel. It was an amazing spectacle.
Dwayne turned the radio off and grinned.
"Morning, pal— or afternoon actually. Damn! It's almost one o'clock. Made great time. You checking out the New York New York hotel, huh? The Big Apple in fucking Las Vegas! You just gotta love it."
"Yeah, start spreading the news."
"I'm leaving today."
We dissolved in laughter as we pulled up to the front entrance of the Excelsior. The valet parking area had two cars in front of us. After a New York minute Dwayne said "fuck it" and backed up.
We found a spot in the hotel parking lot in seconds. Stepping out of the car was like being suddenly thrust into a sauna bath. We slung our overnight bags over our shoulders and marched through the colossal glass doors, into the cool air, in search of the registration desk.
To reach the craftily hidden check-in counter, we had to first navigate a maze of dollar slot machines. Then another jangling labyrinth of five-dollar machines. Ten minutes later we reached the registration desk and were greeted by a clerk who looked too young to even be allowed in a casino. He wore a huge button on his lapel: HAVE A MEGABUCKS DAY!
"Welcome to the Excelsior, Mr. Lerner. You gentlemen are reserved for t
he Diamond Executive suite." He rang a bell, and instantly a leggy young woman sporting a VIP HOST button and beauty queen good looks came out from an office behind the front desk. She handed us "Welcome Packets" (containing "free" tokens for a pull on the Megabucks machine) and then two tall glasses with diamond patterns and the hopeful injunction to HAVE A MEGABUCKS DAY!
"Enjoy your complimentary diamond screwdrivers," she said, smiling. "Would you gentlemen like your free pull on the Megabucks now?" The beauty queen motioned to a nearby slot machine.
"Maybe later, thank you." I was anxious to take a shower and then do battle with the flesh-and-blood version of Dr. Blackjack. Dwayne nervously jangled my car keys, dismissing the Megabucks offer with a wave of his hand. Sipping our diamond screwdrivers, we spent the next five minutes on a circuitous journey to the elevators. To reach the elevators from the registration desk, it was necessary to take a forced tour of most of the casino. We passed the roulette wheel, blackjack and poker tables, and all of the latest new slot machines with themes like "Elvis" (he sings "Hound Dog" when you win money) and the Wheel of Fortune TV show (get a "free" spin!).
As promised, the Diamond suite had two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, separated by a spacious living room. The carpet was a plush blue with diamond (what else?) patterns. The living room boasted a wet bar, a refrigerator (with those five-dollar bags of cashews and six-dollar airline bottle drinks), a big-screen television, a large writing desk, a matching couch and chairs (diamond patterns), and a Jacuzzi large enough for three adults and their Megabucks machines.
On opposite sides of the living room were adjoining doors to the two identical bedrooms and bathrooms. Both bedrooms and the living room had door exits to the hallway. After verifying that the snacks and drinks in the refrigerator weren't comped ("Diamond players must not be a very big deal around here"), Dwayne picked up his bag and arbitrarily selected a bedroom.
"Hey, pal, I have to run a quick errand, go get a check cashed."
"Dwayne, you're in a casino— they'll happily cash your check."
"No, my credit isn't what it used to be, but I know a place. Why don't you jump in the Jacuzzi and I'll be back in less than a half hour and we'll take on these blackjack dealers together."
By 2 P.M. Dwayne still had not returned. I went downstairs, got some cash from an ATM, and went in search of a five-dollar table to see just how much I had learned from Dr. Blackjack over the last few months. I looked for and found an empty table (plenty of seats for Dwayne when he got here) and exchanged smiles and greetings with the dealer, a hard-eyed young man wearing the HAVE A MEGABUCKS DAY! button.
I bought fifty dollars in chips and was proud of myself when the cocktail waitress came over with the free drink offers and I ordered a Coke. There were no Cherry Cokes, but she said she would toss in a couple of cherries from the bar. Las Vegas knows all about service quality and customer satisfaction.
I was determined to carefully monitor the drinks I would consume at the blackjack tables. Follow the path of the Golden Mean. Moderation and balance were my new watchwords. Counting cards, gambling, and getting drunk didn't mix.
I didn't see Dwayne or my car keys again till after midnight.
Which is when I next saw the Monster.
* * *
I played blackjack for hours, counting both cards and comped Excelsior screwdrivers, somehow managing to reach about two hundred dollars in winnings. Close to midnight (when I realized I was losing track of the cards and the drinks) I decided to get something to eat at the coffee shop. Rare prime rib would be good. Maybe a beer with it. Or two. Reward myself for my discipline at the blackjack table. Then call it quits for the night. Quit while I was ahead.
The moment I reached my bedroom I put my glasses, cigarette pack, and wallet on the nightstand. I then dropped facedown on the bed and passed out. I dreamed every card counter's fantasy: I was facing the blackjack dealer with a 19. A huge (and admiring) crowd surged behind me, shouting encouragement. I knew the dealer was sitting solid on a 20. I asked for a hit and the dealer shook his head. Nobody hits on 19. I motioned again (imperiously this time) for a hit and, of course, it was the deuce: 21!
The crowd went wild, cheering, shouting, pounding me on the back.
"Jimmy, wake up! Wake the fuck up, man!" The Monster was shouting, pounding me on the back.
I rolled over and tried to blink away the fog. The lighted digital display on the nightstand clock read 1:45 A.M.
"Dwayne, where the hell you been? What's wrong with—"
"I need you to give me a hundred bucks— fast!"
I sat up and switched on the lamp.
The Monster was still in his jungle cowboy mode. Hopping from one combat boot to another in his cammy pants and wide leather cowboy belt.
"Where's the fire, Dwayne? Why don't you—"
"Come on, pal, I got someone waiting downstairs for the money!"
"What are you talking about? Where—"
"I'm talking about your fucking debts! Talking about the money you owe me for the sprinklers, for the fucking lightbulbs! The motherfucking barbecue! You think New York steaks are free, cocksucker? Not where I come from."
"I think that if you need a loan you can—"
"I DON'T HAVE THE FUCKING TIME FOR THIS!" The Monster snatched my wallet off the nightstand and removed most of the bills, stuffing them into his cammy pants pocket.
I was trying to get off the bed.
"Put the wallet down, Dwayne. If you need some money—"
As I was rising off the bed, the Monster's fist streaked out and struck me in the chest, driving me back against the headboard. I was still struggling to get up when his other fist connected with my forehead.
Whack! The back of my head met the wall with predictable results.
My lights went out.
* * *
When I came to, it was 2:30 A.M. Pain radiated in sharp electric waves from my head and neck down to my fingertips. The muscles in my right shoulder were jiggling and jumping in their version of a Saint Vitus' dance. I reached over for my glasses, lit a cigarette, and said hello to Messieurs Radiculopathy and Fasciculation.
Then I took my own inventory.
I stilled the clangorous committee in my mind long enough to allow that small solitary voice of sanity to be heard. The one voice in my head that wasn't trying to kill me: Jimmy, get up, get packed, get the hell out, and most of all, get sober. Get the fuck away from this maniac and don't look back! Get your sanity back, your life back before you hit that next YET. I'll help you but you've got to do this NOW!
It was my long-delayed "moment of clarity."
I scrambled off the bed and made sure everything was packed in my overnight bag. I put my wallet in my back pocket and was reaching for the bedroom door when my heart began pounding with a sickening realization.
The Monster still had my car keys.
And my car.
A half hour later I was sitting on the living room couch still considering my options (will Triple-A bring out duplicate car keys?) when I heard the plastic key poking into the door slot of Dwayne's bedroom. I was instantly on my feet in a high-alert adrenaline rush (the Monster would not sucker-punch me again) when Dwayne staggered into the living room, clutching his ribs and moaning. He fell into a chair, doubled over in obvious pain.
"Cocksucker busted my ribs, Jimmy."
"Save your bullshit and give me the car keys, Dwayne. I'm out of here— now."
Dwayne hugged himself and tried to stand. He cried out in pain and sat down hard. I didn't know what the purpose of these theatrics were and I didn't care.
"Dwayne, give me my car keys."
Dwayne rocked himself in the chair, arms hugging his rib cage.
And suddenly his face contorted in genuine agony and he was sobbing uncontrollably.
"Jimmy, I'm sorry about the money. I was out of my mind. Have to be crazy to hit my best friend." His breath came out in strangled gasps.
"Dwayne, what the hell is wro
ng?"
Dwayne groaned and a fresh flood of tears coursed down his cheeks.
"That asshole busted me up. Right outside the hotel. I reported it to hotel security too. Even demanded my money back for the suite."
"Dwayne, the suite is comped."
"Yeah, that's what the bitch at the front desk said. Told her I'd fucking sue for injuries, though. I got beat up on hotel property. They're fucking liable!"
Dwayne's doubled over again, wheezing, his breath becoming a harsh rattle. I could no longer believe that he was faking.
You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish Page 38
