Bad Luck City - Matt Phillips

by Near To The Knuckle

  “Mathis, last name Edwards, comes back as a known alias for a guy named Freddie Jensen. Another handle for Freddie—get this—is ‘Midnight.’ Has a reputation for running illegal card games, gambling rooms. Always been in the bookmaking business, too.”

  I wrote all this down in my notebook. It was good to know a cop well, but Spinks could withhold information, too. I pressured him a bit. “Did Freddie ‘Midnight’ Jensen ever get put away?”

  “No, never been inside. Just lots of arrests, but old Mathis, or whatever you want to call him, has some well–heeled buddies. He’s been on probation, but had no problems with it. Each time someone has something on him he manages to squeak by untouched. He’s a career crook—good at it.”

  “Known associates?”

  Spinks grunted.

  I could almost hear the thoughts bouncing around inside his head. He was holding onto something, I knew. “Come on, Spinks. Help me out here.”

  Spinks was silent for a good fifteen seconds, but then he said, “Known criminal associate: One Stretch Palmer, deceased.”

  My heart beat against my chest like a mallet. I downed the last of my cocktail and, through wet lips, said, “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  Stretch Palmer was my dad.

  Mathis knew my father; they were hoods together.

  Chapter Nine

  When I walked into his suite at The Tokyo, Stan Evers was at the big window looking down on Las Vegas; it was early afternoon, and the desert sun poured onto the streets like hot, bland gravy. He turned to me with half–hearted excitement and pumped my hand. His grin was off–kilter, painted on with detached social commitment. “Surprised you came back, Palmer. My paintings aren’t that interesting, are they?”

  I unfolded my reporter’s notebook and tapped my pen against a blank page. “I wouldn’t say that—you aren’t Picasso, but you have a hell of an idea.” I’d still yet to see the paintings. “I’d like to see the work.”

  We moved from the window to the sitting area near the desk. Evers reclined on the white leather couch and I sat across from him in a chic lounge chair—I felt like I was sitting in a tulip. Evers scratched his slicked–back hair and adjusted his hefty stomach. “You think it’s a schtick, right? I know it sounds like one, but I wanted to do something amazing. All artists want to do something amazing with their work, to make their own way somehow.”

  I said, “Intention is the least understood of man’s emotions.”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “I read it in a Puerto Rican rum advertisement. Years ago.”

  “Figures,” he said, “It’s bullshit. Can’t a person want to do something amazing? I know I’m a businessman, Palmer. But does that mean I’m a shrewd capitalist and nothing else? Can’t I make art, too? Or is that against some uncanny rule we can’t name?”

  I shifted in my seat and tried to think how to respond. I couldn’t figure it out, so I wrote down a few notes instead: Evers wore a plaid suit with an orange bow tie. His hair was gray at the temples, thinning near the top of his head. He wore white slippers with grass stains on the toe boxes.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said. “It’s been an odd day for me. I got put in a testy mood. You know how that can be, I assume.”

  I cleared my throat and let the word come into my head: Evers sure is queer, I thought. “What happened that makes today so bad?”

  “Oh, casino business is all. We’re a little behind on our third quarter numbers and it pisses me off. You know, shrewd capitalist problems.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say you mark me for a liberal.”

  “I read your work, Palmer… The stuff from last year. I’d say you don’t understand business very well, or profit. But most men have worse failings.”

  “I’m interested in people. Not money… Usually.”

  Evers smiled wider at that. “I didn’t say your work was bad, Palmer. It felt true, and that’s something—I respect you for that. I have to admit I’m a little fearful though, having you here in my office.”

  “That I’ll paint you as a shrewd capitalist with a schtick?”

  “That you’ll call me a casino boss before you’ll call me an artist,” he said.

  I shrugged and tapped my pen against my knee. “You said yourself, my work felt true, right? What makes you think I’d write this any different?”

  Evers moved his tongue around inside his mouth and then, after a few seconds, bit the inside of his right cheek. He crossed one leg over the other and hissed in some recycled hotel air. “There’s a difference, lots of times, between what feels true and what really is true. I think you know that.”

  I wrote that down, too.

  Then I said, “When do I get to see some of your work, Mr. Evers?”

  ***

  I spent 45 minutes with Evers and, when I left, my head was spinning. I needed a drink again—though that wasn’t uncommon for me. After I stepped out of the elevator I wandered through the banks of slot machines and into The Tokyo’s casino lounge. The gaming floor’s bells and shouts were sealed off as the door swished shut behind me. The same bartender sauntered toward me when I took a seat at the bar. Her eyes weren’t so soft this time though; I wasn’t a random customer to her anymore. “You must work all the time,” I said, “or I’m becoming a regular. Can I have a whiskey on the rocks?”

  She pursed her lips and nodded while she poured the drink. “I think it’s both things. What the hell do you want now?”

  “Just what I asked for. And a little relief from my interview with the head man upstairs. It was a weird ride up there.” My object was to get her to talk. No reporter can write a profile without some outside voices; I wanted to know how Evers was as a boss. If it was possible to know. “You ever been to the top of the world? Well… That’s what he calls it—”

  “I stick to my job,” she said and set my drink on the bar.

  I cradled the whiskey glass in a sweaty palm and watched the creases in her face twitch. “Ever talk to the guy?”

  “Nope. Why would I?”

  “He runs the place, that’s why.”

  “Have you ever worked at a hotel?”

  I sipped and shrugged. “Can’t say that I have.”

  She shook her head and lifted an eyebrow. There was something in her eyes then, a light touch of laughter and sex appeal, like what you might see in an aging actress caught off guard by the camera. An accidental reveal, sort of. “The guy in charge doesn’t spend much time talking to cocktail waitresses and bartenders. I bet you grew up a rich kid, never had to find a real job.”

  “Whoa, now. Do I look like a rich kid to you? First, you call me a cop. Next day you call me a rich kid. I’m thinking you don’t like my suit—is it the pink tie that turns you off? I can lose it if that’s the case.”

  “The pink tie is all that’s good about you. It’s the rest you should lose.”

  I could tell it was playful, not meant to stab me in the heart. “I should have told you this twice when I first met you: You’re absolutely beautiful. I don’t expect that to be something you’ve never heard, but I mean it. No strings attached.”

  She tipped more whiskey into my glass. “Thanks, it’s nice to hear.”

  “How do you like the job?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “The tips were better for me on the strip, but I wanted to find a more local place, somewhere I could…” She paused for a long time and looked over my shoulder. “I guess, just somewhere I could move up.”

  “And?”

  “And, like always, it’s the same old shit.”

  I nodded and watched her eyes carefully. I felt a taut yank in my chest, some unwieldy thought burning through me, an instinct I couldn’t quite understand. “You remember the picture I showed you last night?”

  She nodded and said, “Don’t take it out again.”

  “You know her?”

  “Seen her. A few times over the last month or so. She came in here with
a short bald guy. Evers sent people down to get them. The bald guy ordered a piña–fucking colada—what a loser.”

  “What’d you think about it? Something weird happening there?” I looked down at my glass. It was empty. She filled it up again.

  “To be honest, I thought she was a working girl, a high–end escort. I figured the bald guy was dropping her off. He looked like a guy wanting to look like a guy who looked like a pimp.”

  I chuckled. “Thanks for telling me…”

  “Gloria.” She dangled her hand over the bar and I took it, brought my lips to her skin. She smelled like bar soap and mint chocolate; her hand was tinged with the rough, reddened skin of a career bartender, but I liked to hold her. She looked delicate, but I sensed some deep strength in her presence. “And you?”

  “Palmer, Sim Palmer.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sim. Sorry about last night.”

  “No,” I said, “I should apologize.” I sipped more whiskey and leveled my eyes at Gloria. “Can I buy you a drink? No questions… Just a drink for laughs.”

  There was a brief silence, but then she nodded and said, “I’ll meet you across the street in an hour, at Smitty’s. Do you know it?”

  “I do,” I said. “I sure do.”

  ***

  At Smitty’s, I lunged past the bar and into the restroom. I yanked at my slacks and lowered my zipper. I started to piss and reminded myself not to drink too much. I’d promised Gloria some laughs, and that’s what she deserved. But Chelsea’s face floated into my head; Gloria put her at The Tokyo with this Richie guy. And she put Chelsea and Richie with Stan Evers. And then I thought about the paintings Evers had just shown me. Odd fucking paintings. Grotesque portraits of women in various states of emotion—most had to do with pain. While Evers showed them to me—they were hanging on a wall in the spare bedroom of his suite—I couldn’t help but feel my blood surging from my heart. All this talk about truth from Evers and I knew—the paintings were the real thing. Evers made the women experience pain. How, I didn’t know. But then he drew their faces. It was all so… queer. They were passable paintings though, and Evers had at least some talent. That was easy for anybody to see. And he planned to hang these paintings in The Tokyo’s rooms. “Guests will see pleasure,” he said. “Not pain. So often we confuse pain with pleasure.” I shook my head and buttoned my pants, but before I turned around, the bathroom door swung open; the voltage from a taser hit me like a pro fullback. I collapsed and registered a shiver in my feet. A rigid grip held my jaw. It came again, one wave hiding behind another, and took the air from my throat. I heard myself grunt, yelp, choke… But then it was happening to another body, some sack of bones in a wrinkled suit. Two faces hovered over me, faces like stone, sand–blasted sculptures with smiles stretching below their foreheads.

  My edges faded. Then, it was dark.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’re a nosy sonofabitch, aren’t you?”

  I heard the voice before I saw the light. I grunted and felt my wrists wrapped together like a package. A dull throb echoed in my head. The throb stretched down my spine and into the rest of my body. I was lashed to a hard chair. I opened my eyes.

  Dull brown eyes were centered on me, and the man’s face was pasty white. He had a shaved head and, while he was right on top of me, I could tell he was small–framed and short.

  He leaned backwards in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, smiled. His sleeves were rolled up and he wasn’t wearing a tie. We were in a commercial kitchen. Shit, a damned cook was at work behind the guy—the chef tossed vegetables into a wok. He turned to look at us, re–adjusted his tall chef’s hat, and then went back to work.

  A hand gripped my shoulder. I felt a deep pinch at the back of my neck; some muscled freak behind me. I groaned. “What the fuck… Richie?” That’s who it was—he matched the description from the old man bartender and J–Bird.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Palmer. You’re thinking, this can’t happen to me. It’s against the rules. I’m a member of the press.” Richie scooted his chair closer and leaned into my face. “I’m here to tell you a secret: There are no rules, Palmer.”

  I tilted sideways, but Richie grabbed me by the chin and swung my face upright. He leaned into me again. “There never have been any rules,” he said. “This world is a free–for–all, it’s a fucking drag–out, knock–down fight.” He held his closed fist to my cheek. I felt the warm steel of his knobby rings, the pleather surface of his knuckles. “The guy who wins is the guy with the most blood on his fists.”

  He punched me in the mouth. The blows came like steel pistons, one right after the other. His fist was a firing pin released, solid as a bullet. My nose crunched soft against my upper lip. The sound was an echo outside my head. Beneath it all, there was a constant sizzle from the kitchen.

  Richie laughed; a horrid sound. He reminded me of a cat dying in an alley. The punches stopped and I tried to see through all the blood.

  I mumbled, “You broke my nose.”

  Richie squinted while nodding. “Looks like it. Does the Caller have insurance?”

  “Yeah—full coverage.”

  “Well, nothing to worry about then, is there?”

  “I’m worried about my reflection,” I said.

  “Aren’t we all? This is your warning, Palmer. I don’t want you digging around about the girl—I want it to stop.”

  “What happened to Chelsea?”

  Two punches fell on my head like bricks. “I told you. No more digging.”

  “You know this girl. Tell me who she is. What’d you do to her?”

  A thin strap crossed my neck. A belt. It began to dig and my air supply dwindled, diminished, died.

  Darkness came again.

  ***

  The slaps came hard and fast. I opened my eyes. Richie stood over me. He bent at the waist and held my head in both hands. “I really don’t want to kill you, Palmer. It’s distasteful, killing. Even to me. Can you believe that?”

  My lips were thick and fat with blood. I felt loose teeth in both sides of my mouth. I smiled at Richie; a pitiful smile, but the best I could manage. “The girl. I just want to find the girl.”

  His fist came at me again.

  I was detached from the pain. My brain shut down; my pain receptors were overwhelmed. A vague sense of rocking came over me, back and forth, like I was a child on a small boat.

  Blackness circled. Somebody far away screamed.

  It was me.

  Darkness.

  Shadows.

  ***

  I never had a mother.

  There was only a name I heard once while my dad played a rotten game of poker. I sat in a bright circle of light on top of a billiards table. I clanked the eight–ball and nine–ball together like blocks. Chalky dust sifted from the green felt, danced into the air and made me sneeze.

  My dad’s voice: “I’m in for a G.”

  “You even good for that, Stretch?”

  My dad slammed his fist down onto the table. Two empty beer bottles tipped, rolled off the table, and smashed against the hard floor. “The hell you think?” my dad said. “Of course I’m good for it.”

  I rolled the eight–ball across the green felt. It touched the table’s side as soft as rubber and bounced back to me. I liked the cool roundness in my hand. I wanted to throw the ball off the table, but I knew my father would be mad if I did.

  “Goddammit!” My dad’s voice again. This time it filled my ears and I watched as the men around the table stood and reached inside their coats. “This is a fucking rigged game.”

  A man across the table—he had a long beard and a baseball cap on his head—grinned and hunched forward. I knew the shiny thing in his hand was a gun. “Lost again, Stretch. Just like you did with Francie,” he said. “A loser in life and a loser in poker.”

  My dad tried to move then, but the men were on him. Three of them. They had big hands and arms that seemed to swing from the sky and pummel into m
y dad’s body. The man with the beard and baseball cap used his boots. My dad grunted and groaned and I could hear his voice like a whisper: “My son,” he said. “My son. Don’t hurt him.”

  They didn’t hurt me.

  They picked my father up by his legs and feet and threw him out the door like a sack of garbage. The man with the baseball cap and beard walked over and picked me up by the rib cage, like I was a statue. His bony fingers dug into my skin and wet tears started to run down my cheeks. “Your dad is a nobody, kid,” he said. “He’s just a ghost walking around, pretending he’s a person.” He walked with me like that, my legs dangling like strings, across the bar and set me down outside, on the curb.

  My dad sprawled, bleeding and wheezing, in the gutter. The bearded man kicked my dad in the throat and then walked back inside the bar.

  Francie, I thought, who is Francie?

  ***

  “Francie?” I said. “Francie?”

  A soft voice crooned at me. “No, Sim. This isn’t Francie.” A hand peeled matted hair from my cheeks. Fingers dug into my eyes, pried blood from them. I could see; a small, pretty face and long dark hair. A thin, glittery line of teeth bunched over a bottom lip—it was Gloria.

  “You,” I said.

  Her hands moved along my face’s ridges. My nose was destroyed. My cheeks were frozen plums and I tasted blood in my mouth. A sharp pain, a biting ache spread through my body and then died in my feet. Her hands. Her hands were soft. Her fingers danced with little touches under my chin, over my ribs and down onto my legs. A symphony of touches that grew like a flood.

  “Let’s get you up,” she said. “I’ll get you to the hospital.”

  Gloria. I mouthed her name beneath my breath. My swollen lips and tongue tried to grapple with this word.

  I let her pull me to my feet. The tiny woman leaned into me, held me upright, and we stumbled out of the alley behind Smitty’s and onto the busy main street. To my left, the flashing sign atop The Tokyo reminded me—Evers, I just met Evers. I leaned against a wall and bled while Gloria whistled for a taxi. People stared at me as they passed. One couple asked if I was okay. I nodded and gave them a thumbs–up. Just fucking peachy. Just another Saturday afternoon in a bad luck city. A taxi materialized near the curb. Gloria helped me stumble forward, step inside. I fell crossways onto the seat. I heard Gloria climb into the front passenger seat and slam her door. “Emergency room,” she said.