"Was it an emergency?"
"I handle security, not reservations. What about Estelle?"
"As soon as I find her, I'll drag her back to the room and chain her to the bed," I vowed solemnly, if mendaciously. Dragging Estelle anywhere would be much like attempting to stuff a large cat into a small bag. "I don't understand why you're upset about tonight, though. All she was doing was playing the slots. That is what customers are supposed to do. Someone has to win every now and then to sustain the feeding frenzy."
"You betrayed my trust, Miss Hanks. That's the only reason I'm upset."
"Here's a better reason," I said as I gestured at the bar, where Brother Verber was teetering on a tabletop in order to preach at a noticeably disgruntled congregation. I couldn't hear him, but I could surmise the gist of his remarks. "Blame Miss Vetchling for this, too."
"You know him?" asked Mackenzie.
"Not in the biblical sense," I said, then deftly merged into the flow of bodies moving down the aisle. This time I would choke the answers out of Baggins.
I returned to the roulette table, but his place had been appropriated by a young woman wearing so much jewelry that she seemed in danger of toppling onto the green felt. There was no point in asking the croupier if he'd noticed in which direction Baggins had gone.
I made my way past the remaining roulette tables, but Baggins was not in sight. He was playing neither craps nor blackjack. The band was striving for new levels of auditory abuse, as if to provoke more hysterical action from the players. The waitresses were tight-lipped as they made their way from table to table. The sour stench of sweat, smoke, and anxiety was impossible to ignore. Men dressed as impeccably as Mackenzie attempted to scrutinize the proceedings with unruffled stares, but their eyes were darting as though they anticipated an event of cataclysmic significance at any moment.
An exit sign beckoned me. I wiggled my way to the door, then went outside and sat down on a planter to regain my senses. Had my self-imposed exile in Maggody led to a bad case of agoraphobia? The sidewalks of Manhattan were always jammed with pedestrians who blundered along like professional boxers who'd had a few too many blows to the head. Department stores, especially during seasonal sales, were crammed with women lugging screaming babies and rebellious toddlers. Waiters and clerks had been recruited from classified ads in the back of paramilitary magazines. Taxis had careened down the streets as if determined to rack up points by shooting through a dozen green lights before squealing to a stop.
I'd never paid much attention.
Once I'd calmed down, I decided to walk across the parking lot to the hotel entrance rather than fight my way back through the casino. Brother Verber had undoubtedly inflamed a minor riot in the bar with his sanctimonious harangue, and Mrs. Jim Bob was apt to be in the vicinity, snarling like a red-eyed harpy. I had no idea how to find Estelle, Baggins, Jim Bob, or Todd. I had no desire to encounter Cherri Lucinda, the above-mentioned evangelists, Mackenzie, Rex, or even Miss Vetchling, should she be skulking in the shadows to keep watch over her pilgrims.
I hadn't planned to be outside, so I'd left my coat in the hotel room. Fog was rolling in from the river, veiling the lights in the parking lot in a smudgy haze. I stood up, brushed off my fanny, and was about to take a reasonably short hike when a man approached from the parking lot. He was wearing a white satin cape over a jumpsuit emblazoned with rhinestones and sequins, and his hair was combed back in an improbable pompadour, with only a single black curl out of alignment.
"Evening, ma'am," he said. "I'm sorry if I'm alarmin' you, but you look troubled. Anything I can do to help?"
I appraised the distance to the door. "I just came out for some fresh air."
"Did you lose your money gambling?"
"No," I said irritably. "I wasn't handling the crowd well. I'm fine now."
"Crowds used to bother me, too, growing up like I did in a small town and all. I was only ten years old the first time I sang in front of an audience, and my knees were so wobbly I could hardly stand up. You sure I can't do something for you? Here you are, a pretty little thing out here in the cold. Are you lonesome tonight? Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a piece of pecan pie?"
"Don't you have a show to perform?"
"I wish I did," he said, then turned around and walked back into the parking lot, gradually disappearing as he moved out of the diffused glow of the red and yellow casino lights.
It was most definitely time to get some sleep. A couple of catnaps could not compensate for an all-night marathon drive. My nerves weren't just shot; they were flat-out riddled with bullet holes.
I began to walk along the sidewalk to the hotel entrance, unable to convince myself that the arctic wind was medicinal rather than punitive. It was likely that Estelle was in her room, counting out her money and eating bread and honey (which she could most definitely afford), or flushing Mrs. Jim Bob's utilitarian underwear down the toilet. I didn't much care.
I'd almost made it when Cherri Lucinda came skittering up to me and came damn close to knocking me into the bushes (where I would have banged my head against at least one chair).
"You got to do something?" she shrieked.
Jim Bob knew he had to do something, but damned if he knew what. He'd been told to sit on the couch, and that's what he was doing, trying not to notice how Saddam had gulped down the last beer, as well as half a bottle of whiskey he'd found under the sink, and looked ready to slide out of the recliner. Joy was flat on the floor, having injected herself with something Jim Bob figured wasn't along the lines of insulin. She most likely wasn't dead, but she didn't look like she was in the right frame of mind to drive him to the hotel.
He pasted on a smile. "You know, Saddam, I was thinking I might head on out so you and Joy can have some privacy. Why, if you could see to loan me twenty dollars, I'll bet I could call a cab and be out of your hair in no time flat."
"I should have shot that bitch," Saddam mumbled. "I went to high school with her, fer chrissake. She probably got on the phone the second I left and fingered me to the cops. Any second now they'll come squealing down the road." He pointed a finger in the general direction of Jim Bob. "When they do, I ain't gonna go out the door with my hands in the air. You ever see Bonnie and Clyde? They didn't wuss out. Gawd, I loved that movie."
Jim Bob nodded energetically. "My all-time favorite. You know what, we could rent it and watch it this very night. Why don't I take the car and go to the video store? I could be back in twenty minutes. I'll pick up a pizza and more beer. It could be a regular party."
"On my sixth birthday, my pa took me to see Clyde's grave in Dallas. Ever since then, I've wanted to be on the FBI's most-wanted list." Saddam let out a belch that rattled the windows. "Fuckin' awesome, huh? You get your picture in every post office in the country. My last mug shot was kind of cool. I got this little shit-eatin' grin, and-"
"You asshole," Joy said as she sat up. "Next you'll be saying you want your handprints on that sidewalk in Hollywood. Armed robbery's no big deal."
"Is too," he said. "What's more, when the cops show up, I'm gonna get my shotgun and make my stand in the doorway. Nobody's walking away."
Jim Bob felt a chill run down his spine. For one thing, he didn't doubt Saddam's sincerity for a second; if the cops showed up, all hell would break loose in the form of tear gas and assault weapons. Nobody in the shoddy little house would be in any condition to crawl, much less walk away. What's more, he was not only a fugitive waiting to be charged with murder, he was also implicated in an armed robbery. There was no way the police would believe he was an innocent party.