“I’m a New Yorker, do the goddamn math.”
What I did was, I got the hell out of there.
The next evening, feeling stronger, dressed in fresh white shirt, new Calvin jeans, mocs, headed for the Sahara. Checked out the celebrity poker, word was that Ben Affleck, David Schwimmer were in attendance.
Nursing an iced coffee, heard,
“Yo... buddy?”
Turned, to see the fat man, couldn’t get his name, from the plane, dressed in a Western shirt, pearl buttons, and I hope not, but alas, Bermuda shorts, real bad idea. Despite the freezing air conditioning, he had a line of perspiration on his brow, he extended a huge hand, said,
“Bob Milovitz.”
And I added,
“Outta Chicago.”
He lit up, said,
“You remember, but am I surprised?... As those British say... not a jot.”
He did a passable accent, like a guy who’d watched a lot of Masterpiece Theatre, then he went,
“But not an accent you’re wanting to hear, am I right? Don’t tell me... lemme see if I got it... Steve... yeah, that’s it.”
I nodded and he stared at my coffee, asked,
“That... like... a coffee... in Vegas, in a casino?”
I put it on the tray of a cruising waitress, she was a looker and legs... oh, god. Bob asked,
“Wanna grab a beer, bring me up to speed?”
I remembered I liked him from the off, he had that innate decency. The thinking goes, Fat people are jolly and there’s an inclination in there, like, They fucking better be and it’s a crock. Some of the meanest fuckers to come down the pike were carrying weight in every sense.
Really wanted to ask,
“The Sox, baseball right?”
But went the safety route, remarked he was still here?
I didn’t ask him how long that was, lest he tell me. I’d paid my bill at La Concha a few days back, and managed to block out the actual length of time of my stay; the receptionist said,
“You must like it here.”
That was confirmation enough and the security guard now went,
“Yo, Steve.”
Anytime I had the misfortune to run into him.
One evening he’d sneered,
“Got a load on there, pal.”
Being a juice head himself, I’d obviously risen in his estimation. Bob said,
“I’ve been back and forth, maybe three times since we met.”
Shit.
He continued,
“The cards, Steve, I do love to play poker, last night, with a pair of Kings, I cleaned out a couple of good ol’ Texas boys. What’d you say, we grab a couple of cold ones? The bar guy here, he was in the service, like you.”
I noted he’d remembered that, said,
“Sure.”
Propped at the bar, we were welcomed warmly by the tender, got some long necks, clinked bottles, Bill going,
“Gimme the good word.”
The best I had was Irish, so,
“Slainte.”
You say it like you were German with a lisp; he answered,
“Back at you.”
He near drained his in one, ordered more. The beer was good, cold, refreshing, beads of moisture creasing the label, the sound of the casino as point, I let my muscles relax. Had been a while, Bob was assessing me, said,
“You lost some weight there, buddy.”
Got that right.
He asked,
“How’d you manage that, I could shed a few pounds... what’s the secret?”
“Marriage.”
He laughed out loud.
I didn’t.
Fat people, like people with adopted kids, always tell you up front, get it out in the open and if there’s a connection, it escapes me, Bill asked,
“You like Vegas?”
I didn’t know, said,
“I don’t know.”
He enjoyed that, then gave me a rundown on his poker hands. Interesting for all of two minutes, then my eyes began to roam the shelves, seeing brands I’d never heard of... what the hell was ultra dynamite... besides trouble? Then Bill, louder,
“You want a job?”
“No expense accounts, or lunch or discounts/or
hyping up the charts.... no consumer trials, or
A.O.R./in Hitsville U.K.
Took me a moment to register what he was asking, I echoed,
“A job?”
My amazement blazing through, he began to peel the label off the long neck, said,
“I have a chain of security agencies with a little private investigation on the side, all over the country, this climate of paranoia, business is booming.”
I asked the obvious:
“Why me?”
The bartender, unbidden, set up a fresh set of beers, with bowls of peanuts, chips, even a selection of dips; Bill attacked them with passion, said,
“Couple of reasons; first, because I like you, not that it’s necessary but it helps. Two, you’re smart and that definitely is a bonus. Three, you were in the service, know how to handle yourself, that’s a major plus.”
I finished my beer, tried not to hear him grind the peanuts and he asked as I smiled,
“What’s funny?”
I told the truth.
“A private eye, hadn’t figured on that as a career choice.”
He selected a chip with great care, had to be the biggest, dipped it in the cream, offered,
“Here, they’re good.”
I passed, waited, and he added,
“Here’s my card, give it some consideration, pay’s real fine.”
I put it in my wallet, said,
“I don’t have a green card.”
He wasn’t bothered, said,
“Not a problem, am I wrong, you plan on staying Stateside?”
“That’s the plan.”
“So, you’re going to need a job, can’t see you like... what, working a bookstore or some nine-to-five jive.”
Tempted to tell him that was exactly what I used to do, I said,
“I’ve some stuff to get done, then yeah, why not?”
He called to the tender,
“Set us up something special, we’re celebrating.”
I said,
“I’ll stay with beer, that okay?”
He had a bourbon, rocks, asked,
“You want to catch a show, hit the tables, my dime?”
I finished the beer, said
“Love to but there’s a couple of calls I should get to.”
He had his hand out, said,
“I’ve to be getting back to Chicago real soon, but here’s to a bright future.”
I went back to my room, the beer fortifying me, time to call Siobhan, I was up, feeling good, put the call through, waited... then heard,
“Yeah?”
A male accent, worse, a Northern Ireland accent.
Stapleton.
Stunned, I tried to regroup, asked,
“The fuck you doing in my house?”
A laugh, then,
“Stevie, we’ve been worried about you, boy, thought you were never going to call.”
I tried for control, the beer not helping at all, asked,
“Where’s my girl?”
He made a sound, as if smacking his lips, said,
“Good question... she’s like, disappeared.”
I felt the room spin, tried to focus, shouted,
“If you’ve hurt her...”
“You’d do what, write to me, you need to calm down, big guy, she was here, and let me say...”
Pause.
“She’s a hell of a fuck, man, she buckled under me like a wild cat, you know that already, of course, I’m getting hard just recalling it.”
The wet sound again.
I said,
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
He gave a low laugh, then,
“You’re a terrible man, always jumping to conclusions, it’s that Brit in you, let me ask you something?”
I waited and he went,
“That accent them fuckers have, them Brits, if you gave them a fright really early in the morning, they’d talk normal, do you think?”