“You remind me of someone, an actor?”
He waited, waited for Jimmy Woods and got,
“Chris Walken, I saw him in Bloomingdale’s one time, buying socks.”
He let it go, enough heat for one occasion. After midnight they got out of there, could hear Willie on the jukebox.
“There were seven Spanish angels.”
Dade was having a high old time, laughing, giggling... a good old boy, whooping it up, his gal in tow, said,
“Hon, I gotta take a piss.”
An alleyway beside the bar, he stumbled into it, singing with the outlaw, a shit-eating grin on his face, trying to find his fly, bursting fit to blow, got his zip down, his hand against the wall and as he let loose, sighed,
“Ah...”
Few things to equal that relief and got a blow to his shoulder.
Hurt.
His collar grabbed, pulled round and a broken bottle against his neck, a wild-eyed cowboy, long hair to his shoulders, denim jacket, going,
“Gimme your money, motherfucker.”
Late twenties, a scar on his left cheek, a stench of garlic, booze on his breath, Dade whined,
“Don’t hurt me, mistah.”
Got a nice whimper in there, the guy getting off on it, going,
“I’ll cut you, fucker, open you like a bitch, see if I don’t.”
Dade let his voice rise,
“Please, mistah, I got maybe four hundred bucks in my jeans, take it all, and welcome, lemme get it for you.”
And the dumb fuck moved back. Dade had to work at not smiling, the guy went,
“And you can blow me, you’d like that bitch, huh, you do me good, maybe I won’t cut you.”
Began to reach to his groin, Dade had a flash of the joint, when they knocked his teeth out, saw a white shimmer before his eyes, then his knee came up, the guy doubled over, going,
“Aw, man.”
Sherry was there, her face lit, asking,
“He was going to rob you?”
Like she couldn’t believe it, she picked up the broken bottle, her face flush with excitement, said,
“Think he’s got some balls on him, think I should take them off him?”
Dade thought so.
She did.
Took a time.
SLEEPING ARRANGMENTS
It was nigh impossible to spook Dade, he was the one who spooked people. Sleeping with Sherry came as near as he was ever going to get. He noticed her fumble under the pillow one night after they’d had wild sex, grabbed her hand, asked, playful,
“Whatcha hiding there, babe?”
And got the demented look, he’d seen it before on the lifers in lockup, the guys who were never getting out, it’s not a hopelessness, it’s an expression of knowing they’re going to hell and just calculating how many they’re taking along. He’d figured she’d stashed a little pick-me-up, some ludes, maybe, to keep the heebie-jeebies at bay, he certainly understood that gig. But this feral face, he was stunned, said,
“Whoa, lighten up, babe, I’m not gonna take anything away from you.”
The walking dead in the joint, you saw them at chow time, the way they protected a dish of rice pudding like it was the most precious item on earth. In the scheme of things there, it was close to that. She turned for a second and then a knife was at his throat, not just any old blade but a lethal double-edged piece of mayhem. Worse, it had the sheen of being well used. She snarled, in a tone like a rabid coyote,
“Don’t you ever grab my hand, I’ll slit you like a snake before you blink.”
Her eyes were virtual slits, and a dribble of spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth, the blade was still pushed into his throat so he said in his real mellow voice,
“Sure, babe, whatever you say.”
He wanted to go,
“Take a fucking chill pill.”
Her hand shook and he wondered if he’d have time to move, then suddenly a spasm hit her, and she dropped the knife, fell back to sleep. He waited a few minutes to make sure she was really out, even lifted the lid of her right eye, the eyeball had rolled all the way back, Like a corpse. He eased out of bed, got his Walther, racked the slide but gently, and for a brief moment, considered putting two in her demented skull.
Then his own particular brand of lunacy kicked in and he laughed out loud, said,
“What a rush.”
He poured a large shot of Wild Turkey, did a little meth, raised his glass, toasted her with,
“You crazy broad.”
From then on, after they made love or whatever you’d term a form of near mortal combat with sex, he’d slip out of bed, sleep on the floor. No sense in taking chances.
The morning after the knife incident, she woke and was her own sweet self, as if she had no memory of the event, she asked,
“You sleep good?”
Something like real affection in her voice, as if she actually cared, he said,
“Like a baby.”
And got a smile that was as close to sanity as he’d ever witness.
He kept the Walther under his own pillow from then on.
“Thanks for Visiting Vegas, Baby.”
I got married.
Oh.
And
lost Tommy’s book of writing.
That’s where the booze took me.
Britney Spears preceeded me down the aisle a year before in the same church and it would last about the same length of time. She of course went global with the news, my impact was less resounding though equally stupid.
How it went.
Standing in my room at La Concha, I’d taken that long pull of vodka and consciously decided to ride the wind. Perhaps Tommy’s death, the bank heist, departing Ireland, betraying Siobhan with Sherry, gut shooting Juan, perhaps they were the cause or... I simply figured enough already... go for it.
Did I ever.
You take an anal-retentive, big on control, remove the brakes and stand way back, it ain’t going to be pretty.
It wasn’t.
Fuelled on that one drink, I hit the Strip like a banshee, wailing and wild. Circus Circus was advertising margaritas at a buck a throw, sounded good.
I sunk a line of them, those suckers, they slide on easy, each one whispering more. I answered the call. Played some blackjack and you need to focus, lost a bundle. The only game I really know, have played with intent, is poker. The Sands had a game going nonstop but I decided to leave it till I got straight, splurged money on roulette, shots, waitresses.
The Peppermill Diner, open 24/7, had waitresses with legs that don’t quit. Ever. You go in early morning, bleary eyed, guys with cowboy hats everywhere, and the waitress, before you say a word, asks,
“Bloody Mary?”
Christ, yes.
I thought it was just me. Looked round, the cowboys all got one, came with a mess of reen sticking out, like a mini Vietnam, the waitress named Donna, went,
“Lose the vegetation, right?”
I nodded, my head on fire.
Brought it back, sans garden, goes,
“Fix you right up.”
The future Mrs. Blake.
Got the drink down and miracle, felt healed, had me a full breakfast. A few more mornings, Donna and me were old friends. She had a face like a young Mary Tyler Moore, I’m a sucker for that, the mix of pain and vulnerability. Clearing away the debris of my breakfast, she said,
“I finish at noon.”
I didn’t know what day it was, had it been a week, a month in Las Vegas, worse, I didn’t care. I asked,
“Wanna hang out?”
Like what... at the mall?
Jesus, talk about lame.
She gave me a radiant smile, said,