by Sharn Hutton
At his feet where he belonged, Spink sneered down his nose at the scrabbling loser. The train was coming to a stop, his stop. Spink snapped his jacket straight and swept away, past the garbage on the floor.
FORTY-THREE
ADAM WAITED. The perfect balance of sharp and casual in Levi’s and a crisp shirt, he drummed his fingers on the seat. It had been a long journey, but settled now in the cool marble foyer, he felt his focus sharpening to the task at hand. Showgirls pranced on the giant screen behind the desk, diamante winked from elaborate costumes and feather-fan topped faces smiled out over weighty implants. If he could do it anywhere, this desert of temptation was the place.
After what felt like an eternity he saw him, sloping toward the bank of lifts. Adam waved, the amiable friend, but Jerry’s eyes were cast down to the floor. He was blind to the world and lost inside himself, as usual.
Unperturbed, Adam jogged over to his side, cranking up the camaraderie with every stride. “Jerry, you old bastard!” he cried, giving him a hearty slap on the back. Jerry baulked and snapped into the moment. “Oh God, it’s you. I’m not going to the gym, so don’t even ask.” His face was the picture of gloom.
“Cheer up, you miserable fucker! It’s Vegas!”
Jerry grimaced. “Woo hoo.”
Adam slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him into the lift. “Come on, get changed. It’s party time.” The corners of Jerry’s mouth drooped to the floor. He was going to be hard work.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You’re coming out with me.”
“I am not.”
“Are.”
“Not.”
“Are.”
Jerry cracked a tiny smile and threw an exasperated look at Adam. “I have had a SHIT day.”
Adam squeezed his shoulders. “Time to blow it off. What floor?”
Accompanying Jerry to his room, he barged in after him, kicking the door shut. “You can’t sulk. I’ve come all this way.”
Jerry huffed and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets, but Adam knew he’d win his weak will over eventually: he just needed the right hook. “It’s time to start living out those dreams, Jerry. What would Remi do?” Jerry snorted out a laugh. He tossed his jacket over a chair and pulled open his tie. “I need a shower,” he sighed.
Bingo.
~
Adam knocked back his Jack Daniels and laughed. “Make us rich, Jerry. I’m counting on you!” He flipped the Machiavellian switch between the two paths of behaviour that jostled in his mind. Now he was the best friend: encouraging Jerry to take risks and have a good time. The alternative course twisted and plotted a trap.
Jerry shook the dice in cupped hands, looking unconvinced. “And what am I trying to do again?” He screwed up his face in confusion.
“Whatever you roll this time, you’ve got to roll the next time too.”
Jerry frowned, but there was a boyish twinkle in his eyes: he was having fun. He tossed the dice down the table.
“Eight, the easy way,” the dealer said, retrieving them. He placed the puck on eight and took a couple of chips from Jerry’s line. Jerry looked like he wanted to stop him, but thought better of it, throwing a questioning look at Adam instead.
“This is good,” said Adam, “Roll again. See if you can get another eight.”
Jerry sang, “Oooo-kaaay” and bounced the dice off the table’s back wall.
“Eight: five and three.” The dealer stacked chips and slid them over to Jerry, who grinned and added them to his bank.
“Nice!” he nodded to Adam, with a growing smile. Another roll, another win and Jerry progressed to giggling. It was hard for Adam to stay mad at someone so agreeable. He tossed the dice again. Six. “Come on six!” Jerry called and launched the dice down the table. He was getting the hang of it.
Showing Jerry the ropes was unexpectedly engaging. Adam found playing his part was easy and natural, but it was hard to hold on to the ulterior motive. It felt like preparing to kick a kitten. Sour expectations had been sweetened with friendship and Adam was having a good time, in spite of himself.
Being with Jerry, doing boy’s stuff, just having a laugh: now he realised that he’d missed this. Adam had been floating alone and lost for so long, it felt good to bob around with his old school pal.
The waitress brought them a couple more drinks. Jerry took a pull from his Bud and rolled a three and a four. “Seven ends play,” stated the dealer, hoovering up chips and stacking them in front of himself.
“Boooooo!” Adam bellowed. “Right, my turn. Watch and learn.” Adam arse-bumped Jerry over to the left and took his place at the head of the table.
“All right, Buzz,” said Jerry, smoothing himself down, “Chill.” Adam covertly gave him the finger and selected a couple of dice from the dealer. They giggled and jostled, Adam’s act merging with reality.
They laid bets and launched dice. Adam spun to toss them over his shoulder. The dealer didn’t approve, but Adam was racked with juvenile giggles now too. “Vegas, baby!”
Next thing, Jerry was bounding up to a couple of strangers who’d appeared at the edge of their table, watching Adam and Jerry with amused smiles. He gambolled over, ever the irrepressible friendly puppy, and welcomed them to the game. “I’m Jerry and this is my friend Adam,” he said, wafting his bottle in Adam’s direction.
“Ed and this is Oona,” said the man with a smile, gesturing to his female companion. Ed was about five feet ten, in his fifties and thinned right out on top. What was left of his hair was a pale nutty brown. Friendly blue eyes smiled out from crow’s feet.
“Come on, join in,” Jerry said, “I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, so you’re bound to win.”
The man threw a glance to his companion who shrugged with a half-smile and then looked over to Adam.
“Plenty of space for newcomers,” Adam confirmed.
“OK, thanks,” said Ed.
“Now for Christ’s sake, stop flirting, Jerry!” Adam berated with mock indignation, “I’ve told you before!” More giggling. Their new friends smiled and Jerry ignored him.
“You and your wife here on holiday, Ed?” Oona spluttered into her drink. “Actually we’re colleagues, here for the exhibition,” she said.
“Ah, gotcha,” Jerry nodded and turned to face Adam, pulling a face of mock seriousness, “Continue,” he said and waved his hand. Adam played on and found himself on a roll: his numbers coming up, again and again. With every win he and Jerry got a little sillier and before they knew it their new friends were joining in and part of the gang. Their game was too infectious to resist.
Adam made a half-hearted assessment of the new female in their presence. Did she have the potential to lead Jerry astray? She was probably mid-thirties, but it was difficult to tell exactly. She had utterly clear skin and green eyes that watched with the presence of a hunter. Her hair was a choppy ruffle of black that fell across her cheeks in feathers. No: she’d eat Jerry for breakfast, not that he’d get that far.
She launched her dice down the table and produced a six. “Come on, six,” she breathed, rolling the dice around her palm like a pro. They booed in unison when she crapped out on the next throw.
“I don’t know about anyone else,” said Oona, “but I’m starving! Who’s up for a burger?”
They staggered together over to Mina’s and slid into a snug booth, in the grip of a sudden and ravenous hunger. They all ordered the house burger, which looked delicious on the front of the menu not one of them bothered to read.
“You two must have known each other for a while,” said Ed through a mouthful, “You’ve got a whole routine going on there.”
“You hear that, Woody? We’re a team,” said Adam.
Jerry replied with his best sarcastic eyebrow.
“What do you do?” asked Ed.
“PR,” said Jerry. “And law,” said Adam.
“Do you work together? If you don’t, maybe you should. We’re always looking
for fresh faces at M.E. You should look me up when all this is over.” Ed waved around them, gave an amiable grin and took another bite.
Interesting, thought Adam. “Actually, I am between jobs right now.”
“Are you? What happened?” Ed seemed genuinely interested.
“Worked in criminal defence for years. One too many bad apples and I couldn’t stomach it anymore. I studied law to make the world a better place, you know?”
“Sounds like M.E. might be just the place for you, Adam.”
“M.E.?”
“Yeah, Mango Europe.”
Jerry stopped chewing and went all wide-eyed.
“Your kind of energy would be a welcome asset. What about you, Jerry? Where do you fit in?”
Jerry swallowed down his food. “I specialise in PR across the IT industry. I’m here for the exhibition too.”
“Great. Just great. I’m so pleased we ran into you two. We should get together another time to talk shop.”
“Absolutely. I’d love that. I mean really, that would be brilliant,” Jerry stammered over his burger. His grin was so wide it was making Adam’s face hurt.
~
“That was AWESOME!” slurred Jerry again. “Mango wants to work with me! Work with us! I am hot stuff, baby!” He fell hiccupping into the lift, followed by Adam who punched buttons for their respective floors. Jerry’s came first.
Adam shoved him out into the 4th floor foyer. “Totally awesome,” Jerry repeated, “I’ve fallen on my feet at last.”
“That wasn’t falling,” said Adam with a smile as the doors began to close, “That was flying, with style.”
FORTY-FOUR
ED AND OONA STROLLED DOWN THE MGM CONCOURSE and out onto The Strip. Their destination was a short hop made long by eight streaming lanes of traffic that separated them from the Monte Carlo Hotel and ultimately their beds. They took the pedestrian overpass, happy in the drowsy glow of alcohol and soon the Monte Carlo was upon them. They traversed its marble foyer in a bubble of contented chatter.
“Oh God, when Jerry crapped out straight off for the second turn running I thought I’d die laughing.” Ed rubbed at his eye with the back of his hand, stretching out the happy crow’s feet.
“His face. It was classic.” Oona shook her head. “They were a find. I like them. They’d be fun to work with, wouldn’t they? A real boost to Head Office.”
“For sure.”
Memories of the evening ebbed and flowed.
“We should ask Jerry to pitch for Europe’s PR contract.”
Ed nodded in agreement. “Perhaps we’ll let him get some sleep first.”
Oona rolled her eyes. “U-huh.” They stepped into the lift. “I’ll call him in the morning.”
FORTY-FIVE
JERRY’S BRAIN SLOSHED TO THE OTHER SIDE OF HIS SKULL and a wave of nausea gripped his throat. Rolling over had been a bad, bad move.
With slits for eyes, he gradually focussed through the hangover fug. Painful daylight glared around the edge of closed curtains and he squinted at his watch: it was after two. Bugger, he’d missed the whole morning at the exhibition.
His guilty conscience dragged him upright, but his spinning head was having none of that and slithered him back down to the pillow, rubbing at his forehead with a sweaty palm. His stomach snarled and cramped, then launched him out of bed to the bathroom to puke. The dishevelled wreck he eventually saw in the mirror, was distinctly grey around the gills with blushing pink pillowcase creases wobbling down the right side of his face. His hair stuck up in a lopsided Mohican. “Oh God, I’m never drinking again,” he moaned.
Groping his wash bag from the empty marble, he shambled into the shower cubicle. Rachel’s magic hangover cure would go down a treat right now, but pathetic and alone, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Ugh, the exhibition again. Yesterday’s visit had been a disaster and he was none too keen to repeat the experience. Feeling how he did, he wasn’t sure he could even make it out of the room.
Wrapped in a towel, he was retracing the trail of crumpled clothing, back to the relative security of the bed, when he stubbed his toe on something unexpected. He was used to that, of course. Sharing a house with Peanut meant all kinds of unexpected things strewn on the floor, on the table, on the bed. But it wasn’t a rattle or an agonisingly pointy shape from a puzzle. It was an empty champagne bottle that rolled chinking into the coffee table. That was why he felt so bad. Why the hell had he drunk that? What was there to celebrate?
Jerry’s stomach sank farther still. He missed Rachel and Peanut. He even missed the mess that surrounded them, that defined the edges of home. He tossed the bottle upside down into the ice bucket and threw his clothes at the chair. He’d deal with them later. Right now, he just needed to lie down.
FORTY-SIX
LEANING INTO EMPTY AIR, Adam willed his feet to leave the ground. He rose into the sky and swelled with the elation of flight. Cruciform, he looked down upon the uneven pavement of Heath Terrace. Warm air ruffled his clothes and hair and he flew with silent ease. A gentle lean steered his course, shifting the invisible tiller to cross houses and view the gardens beyond. It was effortless, as if he were drawn on a preordained path.
But then, without warning nor command, his legs drooped at the hip. Robbed of the streamlined flying position, he lost height but gained speed, and no adjustment that he made corrected the course. He skimmed dangerously close to sharp roof tiles and scrabbled to pull up while twiggy tree tops scratched hot grazes into his palms.
Now desperate to regain control, he saw her up ahead: an exquisite butterfly of finest translucent silk. She beat her wings to an irregular rhythm that brought about a rise and fall of unpredictable grace.
Adam swooped and fought against his terror, managing to slow his descent a few feet behind her. The sun danced over golden threads that laced the surface of her wings and Adam wanted her for himself, more than anything he’d ever known. Full stretch, he strained to touch her, but she bobbed and wove ahead, always just out of reach.
Distracted by the chase, he’d sunk low, out of the sun’s range. Colours were muted in the cold grey gloom. Only inches from the ground now, he struggled to climb again, his knee scraping painfully over jagged rock. That’s when he noticed that the earth was moving. Thousands of beetles formed a black armoured carpet that weaved and flowed over the land below.
In horror Adam pulled back, managing to rise a few feet, but the butterfly had sunk down to be with him and settled on a hillock not twenty feet ahead. He tried to shout, to warn her, but no sound came. He tipped his position to fly faster, to save her, but instead veered away, off course, out of control again.
The dark beetle flood, irrepressible and all consuming, flowed in every direction. In seconds it would be too late. Adam fought in vain for control: they were going to envelop her and he was too far away to do anything about it.
The snap of a wind change and all around was black. Buzzing wings pulled scrabbling bodies into the air. They battered into his face, scrabbled at his nostrils and crawled into his throat. All at once the air was an oil slick of evil. Adam crashed thrashing to the ground.
And woke up, bathed in sweat.
Adam’s suite on the 23rd floor was quiet and empty. In the cool comfort of reality his nightmare glowed in stark contrast, still pin-sharp in consciousness. He took a deep breath and willed his heart to slow.
It’s all right, just a dream, he told himself and threw back the clammy sheets to recover for a moment, still in the nightmare’s grip. His chest burned with tension, tiny movements sending stabs of pain into his arm. He slowed his breathing and willed his muscles to relax. His body cooled and the physical pain abated, but his mind raced on, conflicted and desperate.
When anxiety nagged him out of bed, he pulled on some shorts and checked his watch: two-thirty in the afternoon. The exhibition would still be running for a few hours yet. He was his own man for a while. He padded across the suite to take a juice from th
e mini bar, then dragged a dining chair to the window and settled onto it, rubbing at the hollow in the centre of his chest. The Strip’s jagged geology stretched out to the horizon, a view that should have been impressive but, its magic was weak without nightfall’s neon.
He took a sip from the juice, tipped back his head to rest on the soft padding and closed his eyes. Last night had been a blast but now, now he didn’t feel so good about having a good time with Jerry. Then, buoyed by alcohol, he’d been swept away on a wave of camaraderie. Today he felt disloyal and alone.
A vision of her drifted into his mind’s eye. His silken butterfly, his Rachel. The pit of Adam’s stomach stirred and he squeezed his hands into fists. He wanted her so badly now his lungs ached for the cinnamon citrus rush of her perfume and the swell of her bosom pressed hard against him while she cried. That salty tear: he shuddered at its remembered taste and touched his lips. She’d cried at Jerry’s treachery. Her words echoed in his head: “I wish that he would just do something so unbearable that I’d have no choice, something so destructive that there could be no going back.”
He could make it happen. He could set her free to be with him.
