I took a deep breath, then noticed the brackets at the bottom of the page and in them were a few more lines, like what?... an afterthought, an explanation. Read them aloud to get the taste.
Put the volume down, only nineteen to go, I’d ration them, have a daily blast of anguish. I didn’t try to make sense of them, hell, I’d never made sense of Tommy.
He just was.
No, I’d let it soak, wrap round me for a while, then maybe and big maybe, read it again.
Vegas has towering blocks of hotels, maybe a thousand rooms per hotel and high, fuck, all the way into the skyline. I’d gotten the courtesy coach into the centre and decided to walk the Strip, try to get a sense of the place. The heat was ferocious, within seconds I was drenched, the booze from the flight pouring out of me. I muttered,
“Ah, Tommy. You’d love it here.”
Found a two-story hotel and if that wasn’t remarkable enough, it was old. Old in America being over fifty years.
La Concha.
Just what I needed... a shell. Crouched beneath the shadow of the Riviera and it was cheap. For thirty bucks, I got a huge, old-fashioned room overlooking a garden and pool. A grouchy security guard was patrolling. I said,
“Nice day for it.”
He had his hand on the butt of his revolver, gave me the hard stare, asked,
“Why are you staying here?”
He was gnawing at a toothpick, moving it annoyingly from end to end in his mouth. It made a sucking noise, almost wheezing. I went Irish, hit a question with a question. Irritates the shit out of the Brits which is why we do it.
“You don’t recommend it?”
More sucking, hitched up his belt, then,
“The ground floor.”
“Yeah?”
“Where you got your ice machine, you got your wetbacks.”
I wanted to go,
“Give me your poor, your downtrodden.”
Not lines that had made much impact on him, I took a guess, said,
“They’re in the catering trade.”
He spat, thick phlegm over the balcony, hoping to hit a wetback, no doubt, he said,
“They’re a pain in the ass is what they is.”
I nodded, said,
“Nice talking to you.”
Turned the key in my room, an actual key, not the card gig.
How old is that?
The guard added before I closed the door,
“Not much longer.”
“Excuse me?”
“This joint, they’re gonna knock it.”
I reached for levity, tried,
“Not today, I hope?”
“Not goddamn soon enough, you ask me.”
I got in the room, unpacked, noticed there was no kettle, just the basics, bed and phone. Thomas Merton style. The army had me familiar with that routine. I’d stopped at a liquor store, bought a bottle of Stoli, poured an Irish measure (generous), took a hefty swig. The thirst I’d always controlled was rearing up, refusing to be denied. I don’t know, was it shooting Juan, Tommy’s writing, Vegas, but for once, I said the biker’s version of the Serenity Prayer: Fuck it.
Was going to see where the booze took me. I should have been phoning Siobhan, I should have been covering my ass. Should, should, should.
Poured another.
“Please don’t put your life in the hands of a rock
and roll band who’ll throw it all away.”
Dade was feeling the miles. All-night driving, behind a speed jag, will take it out of you, nine ways through Sundays. He jammed to a halt, parked like he didn’t give a fuck, which he didn’t, muttered,
“Caffeine.”
Stomped into the diner, slid into a booth and the waitress, approached, said,
“How you doing, honey?”
He glared at her, spat,
“Coffee, gallon of it, grits and eggs over easy, some toast and don’t burn it.”
She stared at him but the scar on his face gave her pause, he was wearing shades but she could sense the ferocity and said,
“Be just a mo’.”
He popped a speed, crunching it between the wedge of Juicy Fruit and waiting for the jolt. A magazine was on the
seat and he spotted an article on Mötley Criüe. Man, he loved those guys, “Girls, Girls, Girls,” he’d got down and dirty with that song like, more times.
He read with growing disbelief, Mick Mars had a hip replacement, Vince Neil had $70,000 worth of plastic surgery for a reality show. Nikki had quit drinking and Tommy was sounding like an advertisement for rehab. As his chow arrived, he flung the mag aside, said,
“Pathetic crew, more like.”
The speed kicked in as he chewed on the grits but it didn’t lighten his mood. When the Crüe blew it, it could happen to anyone. He drank three mugs of coffee and left a dollar for the tip. The waitress couldn’t help it, said as he opened the door,
“You come back and see us soon.”
He let his shades slide, let her see what he was thinking and she pulled way back, he said,
“Count on it, sweet thing.”
Dade rolled into Tucson, the baseball mitt in his lap, a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit in his cheek, rolling it against his gums, making sucking noises as he drew the sweetness deep. The lightning scar was itching and he dabbed at it. He was feeling antsy, his supply of speed getting dangerously low. Plus, the little girl, she’d obviously been pulled out of the SUV. But he should have made sure. He slapped his hand against the wheel, went,
“Fuck it.”
The tape was playing
“Let’s Play House.”
The irony was lost on him. The picture of Tammy seemed to be staring at him, he threw a punch at her, asked,
“The fuck you looking at?”
Then, ground on the accelerator, added,
“Bitch.”
Tucson confused him, he’d been driving for fifteen minutes and had yet to find the core. No building was over two stories and it appeared like one lengthy suburb, he shouted,
“Where’s the goddamn centre?”
What he wanted was downtown, a central area with Wal-mart, Starbucks, lowlifes, a place he could blend.
Some redneck had told him Tucson was a little bit country, a little bit rock ’n’ roll. Yeah, but man, heavy on the enchilada, like being in a clean Mexico. Dade had a connection here, for guns and drugs. His contact, a heavy biker named Fer, had set up the meet, Dade had whined,
“Why Tucson?”
Fer, scratching his shaggy beard, creaking in a uniform of denim and old leather, said,
“ ’Cos, it’s a hop to the border. Where you think the freight is coming from?”
Dade hadn’t thought and could give a fuck. What he thought was, score me a case of AK-47s, sell ’em in Detroit. A soul brother had pledged top dollar, the dope was for maintenance.
Ride on.
Dade, as with most of his business, had met Fer in a bar, in El Paso. Now there was a happening place. Bikers and outlaws, drifters from every state, where Dade felt most at home. He sought out the edge, drew adrenaline there. In Pain Management, Andrew Vachss describes Dade exactly, says, “Boy like you, you was born trash.”