When he got to the house, the light was on inside and Radney was standing guard outside, which meant Snake was alone in there with her. Radney watched him as he lumbered up the stairs. Radney had his gun hand under his coat and fear in his eyes.
Crip just wanted to get close enough to him before he took that gun out. He was half-way up the stairs when he waved at Radney and said, half-joking, “What? You guys start without me? What, you break into my house when I got the key right here? You’re gonna pay to fix my door, I swear to God.”
Radney, showing his teeth, withdrew the gun hand from the coat. “Don’t blow a fuse. It’s Snake. He said we hadda do it now. He outranks me.”
Crip was at the top of the stairs with Radney smiling at him. Crip smiled back and shoved the blade between Radney’s ribs, stepped over him when he fell, and pushed through the front door. In a flash, he took it all in. The TV was on. He could hear Sapphire locked inside one of the bedrooms, pounding on the door and screaming to be let out, probably because of what she saw in there. You didn’t want to be locked in one of those rooms, alive or dead. Snake was on the bed — there was a bed now. And the girl was on Snake’s lap and his hand was under her shirt and his other hand was pointing the gun straight at Crip, who lurched forward because there was nothing else he could do. He was her only hope.
The first shot ripped through him, though he didn’t feel it much, but his blade was gone, so maybe the shot through his ribs had caused him to drop it. But he wasn’t worried too much about that because his hands were around Snake’s neck now. Trying to muster his strength. Rolling on top of Snake on the bed. Trying to snap his neck. He was slippery as a snake. The second shot, that one he felt. That one went through the guts, zapped his strength. The girl screaming. Sapphire pounding to be let out. The TV on too loud. Snake was slippery as a snake. Trying to stop Snake from raising the gun. Snake was trying to shoot him in the head. He lowered his head. Face to face like he was kissing Snake. His stinking gold-teethed mouth. The pervert. The child molester. He found his strength. He felt it and heard it loud when Snake’s neck snapped. It felt like his own fingers had snapped too. He lay on top of Snake like a lover and caught his breath.
Crip called the girl over, told her to stop screaming, stop crying. She was a brave kid. She stopped crying. He told her, Take this key, go to the closet, close your eyes, don’t look inside, there’s stuff in there I don’t want you to see, get on your knees, feel around for shoes, there’s something in the shoes feels like a wad of paper, bring it back to me. She did as she was told and she came back with all the money he had left in the world. He took the money, four grand in hundreds, and rolled over on his back next to Snake. He told her, Now take the key, go get Sapphire out of the room, then close back the door, don’t look inside, tell Sapphire to come here.
A moment later, the pounding and pleading to be let out stopped. When he opened his eyes, Sapphire was looking down at him. He handed Sapphire the money. “You gotta get her back to Tennessee. You gotta get her there now. She’s got a grandmother. You can’t find her grandmother, find somebody. An aunt. An uncle. Somebody. She has to have somebody. What money’s left over, you keep.”
Sapphire said, “Gold Man is gonna kill me. What about Gold Man? What about him, huh?”
“Come here,” he said to Sapphire. “Lean down.” When she leaned down, he grabbed her by the throat and slapped her around a little bit. “Get the kid outta here. Get her back to Tennessee. You hear me? She’s just a kid.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it. Okay,” said Sapphire, hollering and crying.
Then he called the girl over again and shoved a couple hundred in the pocket of the pants he had bought her. “Run,” he told her. “Run. Soon as you get a chance, run. Grow up and be a doctor. Save lives.”
Then he scowled at her and made his bug eye jump in its socket to make her laugh one more time. She hugged him around his face as he died.
A nobody.
Just an ugly, coal-black man who didn’t take kindly to people hurting kids.
That was back in the early ’90s, about fifteen, twenty years ago. You look around Las Vegas today and you’ll see the casinos are more lavish, more prosperous, and the gamblers are even more desperate. They still don’t have a state lottery in Nevada, only casinos. And they still got that Air Force base at Nellis. Still got problems with the boys stationed there and their gambling. The Gold Man’s Gentlemen’s Club is still doing good business with those who like to see the titties dance, though the Gold Man himself is partially retired because of his stroke. He has a son who runs the place now. The son has a degree in business from UNLV, but he’s just as cruel as his old man and just as slimy as his brother they used to call Snake.
Of course, the Mustard Man is gone, and if you want to see the only sign that he ever existed you’ve got to know what you’re looking for and you’ve got to look real close to see it. It’s right outside the Gold Man’s Gentlemen’s Club. Barely perceptible. Four smooth grooves in the polished marble tile where a throne used to rest.
Well, there is one other sign that a coal-black man with a twisted face and a tender heart once did exist, but you’d have to fly to Tennessee to find it.
She’s a young, very pretty pediatric physician who’s married to another doctor, a general practitioner by the name of Dr. Eli Yates McKitrick.
They named their firstborn son Eli Mustard McKitrick.
Not too many people know why they did that.
Three times a night, every other night
by Lori Kozlowski
North Las Vegas
His guitar was out of tune and he was fiddling with the strings when he heard her voice.
“It’s my wedding and I’ll curse if I want to!” the bride growled, flipping her veil behind her, whipping her new father-in-law in the face.
Wally recognized the voice. His head began to hurt, and he rubbed his temples, touching his calloused hands to his unruly sideburns.
A wedding party paraded into a dark-walled Irish pub inside a locals’ casino on Tropicana Avenue, which was crowded at that hour — bustling with quick-handed dealers and green gamblers who couldn’t count.
Brenda, the bride, was carrying her train in one hand and a bottled beer in the other. She took two more steps and then murmured, “Isn’t that right, baby?” nuzzling her face into her new husband’s neck. The groom just smiled, gazing at her, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses, saying nothing.
The wedding party took seats in the middle of the room, so they could see the round stage. She placed herself front row, center.
Wally Whittaker, the Irish singing wonder who played three times a night, every other night at the pub, eased out from behind a heavy burgundy curtain. He cleared his throat. The lights dimmed, though she remained glowing. She was a big stark white reminder in the middle of the room.
“Tonight’s a Wednesday, folks, and all the good people of Las Vegas have come to see me. We’re gonna have some fun, my fellow drinkers. Why don’t I tell you a wee story about a girl I used to know,” he began, strumming his guitar, sitting on a wooden stool. “There once was a girl named Sherry. But Sherry had no cherry. I said that’s okay, hun. We can still have fun. Cause the hole still works where the cherry came from!”
Some people giggled. Some blushed. Wally guffawed at his own limerick, then immediately burst into song. His laugh was phony, and his voice was off, but he was getting through the verses.