What the fuck does that mean? he said, standing now just a few inches from Mike’s face. Get the fuck out of here.
Rick, Nat said, doubled over, still trying to catch his breath. It’s OK.
What the fuck it’s OK? Rick said. And then, to Mike, again: Get the fuck out of here.
Don’t do that, Mike said.
I’ll do anything the fuck I want. Who the fuck are you?
I’m Mike. Maybe you need to wait out in the hall like I asked you to.
Fuck you, Rick said, but the end of the word was clipped off by the strike of Mike’s fist in his side. The blow had come without apparent physical precedent and with such speed that Rick seemed merely to stagger backward of his accord, slipping toward the doorway. In the next moment Mike’s hand came forward and pressed him, almost gently, through that aperture and out onto the concrete platform that topped the stairs, swinging the door closed with his foot and locking the deadbolt.
Please don’t hit me again, Nat said. I’ll get it. I’ve almost got it.
Rick’s fists were banging on the door now, his voice calling Nat’s name over and over, the sound of it muffled through the wood.
My god that guy’s irritating, Mike said. Look, you’re gonna have to give me something.
Like what?
I’m not leaving empty-handed, Mike said.
I’m tapped out, Nat said.
Didn’t you get paid last week?
Yeah, but it wasn’t a good week.
Ah shit, Mike said, exhaling. What did I tell you last time?
Not to miss a payment, Nat said, but I’m not going to miss it. I’m just a little late. That’s all. The hammering had stopped now and in the silence Nat could hear his own heart beating as if the distant echo of Rick’s fists on the wooden door. I’m trying, Mike, Nat said. I really really am. I promise.
You promise? I’m pretty sure you promised last time. Johnny doesn’t like excuses.
I know, I know, Nat said. He had straightened up now. His stomach felt loose and flabby, as if the muscles there had given up and were now hanging loose from his ribs. Look, you can take the Atari? OK? Will that work for right now?
What am I gonna do with that?
I don’t know, he said. Pawn it. Or take it home.
Mike stood looking at him. What kind of games you got?
It came with Space Invaders. We got Pitfall and Frogger.
Pitfall’s the one where you’re jumping over those ponds and snakes and shit?
Yeah.
That’s pretty fun, right?
I like it.
He seemed to consider for a moment. Both joysticks?
Yeah.
All right. Unplug it and put it in a paper bag, he said. But this is just a delay. I’m telling you, Nathaniel, if you knew the shit I had to do, you wouldn’t be late with a payment. Not ever.
I know, Nat said.
No you don’t, Mike said. He stood there for a moment in the doorway and then reached into his pocket and extracted a pack of Parliaments. You want a smoke? he said.
Yes please, Nat said.
He held up the pack and Nat took a cigarette and then was handed a silver Zippo upon which was engraved a skull surrounded by roses. The instrument weighed heavy in his hand and the flame it produced seemed to dance everywhere before him but he managed to get the cigarette lit and drew upon its smoke as if it were cool clean air.
You get that thing unhooked for me, OK? Mike said.
Nat turned and slid the television away from the wall and jerked the little tabs from their screws and then pulled the small game box forward, its four toggle switches shining in the grim slanting light. He wrapped the cables around its body and then went to the kitchen and hunted for a paper sack and was relieved to find one pressed between the refrigerator and the cabinets and he loaded that bag with the Atari and the two joysticks and then the game cartridges. His hands had stopped shaking now and his breath curled in white smoke before him.
What’s this place cost? Mike asked.
Two hundred.
That seems like a lot for such a shitty little apartment, Mike said, and then added: No offense.
It’s what they cost now, Nat said. The one we had before was three fifty.
Jesus, Mike said. That’s just robbery.
Nat handed him the paper bag and he took it.
Why don’t you make sure your friend isn’t going to coldcock anyone when I come through the door, Mike said.
Nat unlocked the door and opened it, the cigarette held in his hand. Rick stood on the landing under the darkening sky. Somewhere he had found a small length of metal pipe and he stood there brandishing it like a stubby baseball bat. What the fuck? he said.
You gotta put that down, Nat said.
What the fuck is going on, man?
Just put it down. You’re gonna make this a lot worse. His voice cracked at these words and he realized that he was on the verge of bursting into an agony of tears.
Jesus Christ, man, Rick said. He did not drop the pipe but he stepped back a few feet and stood there at the edge of the stairs. Down the walkway, a man leaned forward against the rail in a white sleeveless T-shirt smoking a cigarette, watching them impassively.
Nat tried to say something more but no words would come and he clenched his teeth tight against his own shuddering breath.
Mike stood behind him in the doorway, his presence all but filling it. Why don’t you two head on down the stairs, he said.
What the fuck? Rick said again.
He did not move until Nat arrived at his side and then both of them, together, began to descend, Rick holding the short black pipe erect in the glowing air.
Toss me the keys so I can lock up, Mike said from the top of the stairs.
Nat paused, Rick looking at him. Then he fished the keys out of his pocket and threw them, underhanded, to where Mike stood in the doorway. The man exited the apartment and closed the door and locked it and then turned and tossed the keys back to Nat, midway down the stairs. You gentlemen have a nice evening, Mike said.
Neither of them made a sound in response. Instead, they continued their descent, Rick still holding the length of pipe even as they reached the parking lot and Nat unlocked the battered Datsun and they both slid inside, Nat puffing on the cigarette as he started the car and pulled them out onto Fourth Street at last.
What the fuck was that, man?
I owe some money.
To who?
Johnny Aguirre.
Johnny Aguirre? Are you fucking serious?
He did not answer. The road before them was cast under a sky the color of burnished metal.
Jesus Christ, Rick said. Jesus fucking Christ. Johnny Aguirre? Fuck me. What kind of money are we talking about?
A grand.
Jesus Christ, Rick said. He lifted the pipe as if to smash it against the dashboard but instead swung it back and forth in the air and finally set it on the floorboards at his feet. Then he leaned forward and depressed the car’s cigarette lighter with a faint click. What happened?
They were already thick in the casinos, their lit facades towering over the car, all in flashing lights and colored signs. Harold’s on one side and the Silver Dollar on the other, between which hung the arched sign proclaiming Reno the Biggest Little City in the World. They had driven under that sign when they first came out from Battle Mountain for the concert, and it had seemed a magic archway into some other world. Now he had driven under it a thousand times on his way to and from work, driven this way even though there were certainly other paths he could have taken, paths with less traffic, but the sign and that strip of casinos along Virginia Street still seemed to hold some power over him, over them both, the rotating metal star above the four yellow octagons that held the letters R-E-N-O shining its way into some universe that he had not known or was even possible, their dreams always a kind of abstraction: a way out of Battle Mountain, a way out of the cupped sagebrush desert of their lives.