Funny that, Jimmy thought, I have no intention of leaving.
After he checked into his room, Jimmy went to the lobby and asked about rates. Four-hundred a week. Unbelievable. In New York, Jimmy knew people who paid three times that to share a Bronx studio with a ten pound rat named Bruno. The complex was geared towards conventioneers, but what the hell. It had a friggin' pool. Jimmy paid the guy a month's advance and hit the tables, looking to build his kitty.
Before the clock turned the day over, Jimmy was forced to give up his first Vegas dream of becoming a career gambler. Three hours in the casino and his pot was already down five hundred between the craps and blackjack tables. Not long after his final double-down implosion, Jimmy was filling out an application in the casino bar for poker dealer. Work had never exactly been Jimmy's favorite four-letter word, but all he had to do to stay positive was to remind himself that he was alive and 2,500 miles away from Jonathan Bass' pointy things.
"Rise and shine Jimmy," came Norm's cheerful voice from behind the door.
Jimmy's eyes sprung open. He sat bolt-upright out of another nightmare (pointy, pointy). Then his stomach sat bolt-upright. While the rest of Jimmy found its bearings, his stomach went on to do the Worm, the Slide, the Twist and every other dance move Wilson Pickett sung about.
First night in Vegas, Jimmy had allowed himself a couple of drinks. The price was right in his new budget, in that they were comped. A couple turned into God-knows how many. Even skunk drunk as he was from the free table liquor, Jimmy managed to charm the phone numbers off two women he'd struck up conversations with. He was too shitfaced to entice them back to his room, but he'd be damned if the old Jimmy Romance magic wasn't still strong as ever.
Jimmy opened the door too quickly, then stumbled back as the heat and blinding sunlight smacked into him again. That shit was going to take some getting used to. It also felt like unbelievable torture on his hangover.
"Whoa," said Norm. "Looks like somebody tasted a bit too much of the old Vegas high life last night." Norm cackled and Jimmy fought the desire to unpack his gun and put an end to the high-pitched torture. "Listen," he said, "I'll go get some breakfast and be back in an hour. You think you'll be ready?"
"Yeah," Jimmy mumbled through dry and cracked lips.
"Super."
Jimmy took the coldest shower of his life, hoping to wash the hangover away. He stood under the freezing jets with an empty coffee cup, repeatedly filling it under the stream and chugging it back into his dehydrated self. When he was done, he felt a little better, but his schlong had crawled halfway up his sternum.
When he pulled a shirt out of his bag, Jimmy looked at the revolver he'd packed just in case. He'd disassembled it and packed each piece into a different item, but it was still a minor miracle that the TSA hadn't dragged him off and turned him into a sock puppet for a few hours just for the attempt.
Luck.
Jimmy Romance was feeling it, brother. Long as he could suppress the memory of the previous nights' bad streak at blackjack, it was all coming up roses. He was gonna make it work.
He was heading out the door when he looked at the gun on the bed again. His problems were gone. What did he need the gun for now? Jimmy stopped at the door again.
Looked back at the gun.
Just in case.
The hard sell started the second Norm pulled onto the highway. Jimmy had trouble keeping his eyes open.
"Fortune Estates is going to be the premiere…" Jimmy's eyes drifted shut. "…golf courses accessible from the property."
Closing again.
Asleep.
Jimmy jumped up with a start at the hand on his shoulder.
"Whoa, whoa, there cowboy. Didn't mean to scare you," Norm said, his hands held up in mock-defense.
"Where are we?" They weren't even on any road to speak of anymore. All Jimmy could see on three sides was desert. Directly in front of the car was a ramshackle construction site. A couple of empty bulldozers were parked at the lip of what looked like a half-dozen empty foundations.
"The future site of Fortune Estates." Norm held his arms wide, like he was introducing Adam to the Garden of Eden.
"Nothing here," Jimmy croaked. His throat felt like it was full of dry ash. He went to get a bottle of water, but the glove compartment was locked.
"Nothing yet," Norm said, reaching into the back seat. He handed Jimmy a plastic gallon of Poland Spring. "Truth is, you're the first potential buyer we've brought here. We weren't planning on showing the site for another month. Been waiting for the weather to cool off a bit, but your circumstances made us bump up the schedule."
Jimmy sucked hungrily at the water, his head pounding a rumba. This was why he didn't drink.
"That wasn't fair of you," Norm said with a wink.
"What wasn't?"
"Sleeping through my pitch." Norm gave Jimmy another toothpaste ad smile. "C'mon. Let's go see the construction."
The desert wasn't what Jimmy expected. The ground had a gravelly consistency, like the stuff they poured in the infield at Jimmy's old Little League park. He was expecting more of a beach-type sand. There were no pointy cacti, just a lot of scrub. Scrub, gravel, and not a lot more. Jimmy stared down into one of the eight-foot deep foundations. His foot skidded in the sand and Norm grabbed Jimmy by the shoulder.
"Don't want to fall in there. It might be just sand, but that first step's a doozy." Norm haw-hawed.
Jimmy forced a smile. Yeah, a doozy. Me breaking my neck is real funny, too. He started feeling the old paranoia creeping back. There he was, literally in the middle of nowhere. The sensation was somehow sharpened to a point (pointy, pointy!) in the desert. The city kid inside him screaming for some concrete, one skyscraper to base perspective from. The sickness in the pit of his stomach was familiar, but the sweats were missing. Where were the sweats? Oh yeah. Sucked off by the hot air. Even his familiar fear felt wrong in this overheated death hole.
He'd tuned out Norm as they walked around the big nothing. What was wrong? There wasn't anybody who knew he was there. There was no place for anybody to hide. It was just the two of them, the open desert and…
And…
And a lot of holes in the ground.
"…right back." Norm said.
"Huh?"
"I said I'll be right back. I want to go get something in the car." Norm smacked Jimmy on the shoulder and trotted off. "Don't fall in."
It all came to him in a rush. Was it just a fucking coincidence that the offer came just at the right time? Jimmy hadn't been offered any timeshares before in his life. The thoughts bounced around Jimmy's brain like a superball. Butcher Bass had connections. Connected connections. Connections to crime.
Sin City.
Mean Gene. Mean Gene was getting a head start on his vacation tan. In Paris? Who the fuck went tanning in Paris?
In April.
There was, however, a casino called Paris right here in Vegas, the town hot enough to suck the moisture right off your bones.
Sin City, baby.
Jimmy watched Norm open the passenger door and lean down.
He was unlocking the glove compartment.
Jimmy didn't think Norm was getting mittens in the 110-degree heat.
For the first time since he'd arrived, Jimmy felt sweat on his neck as the rest of his body went numb. Without a second thought, he pulled his gun from the back of his pants and fired three shots into the windshield. The windshield splintered with a sound that reminded him of the one that Ricardo's face made when he slammed the tanning bed on it. Norm's outline bucked once and slumped over. Jimmy sucked the furnace air in rapid gulps. A couple of breaths later, his throat was squeaking dryly.
He started shuffling over to the car when the engine turned. Jimmy started running (to hide where exactly?) and emptied the gun at the shiny Beemer as it surged forward. The windshield exploded. The huge car didn't get far. It rolled into one of the empty foundations with a boom that echoed in the desert's empty expanse. The car's rear wheels kept rolling even though they had no ground to roll against anymore.