Six Bad Things Part 38

I touch her. She closes her eyes.

--Sandy.

She whines.

--Sandy.

She opens one eye, like a kid who's watching a horror movie and doesn't want to see too much of the scary stuff.

--I'm not gonna hurt you.

I reach in my pocket and take out a pill.

--Take this. It'll help.

--I TOLD you, Terry's my boss, my dealer. And kind of my manager.

Oh, Christ.

--Your pimp, Sandy?

--No! My manager.

We're still in the parking lot at Boulder Station, but the Perc has Sandy mellowed out. She's in the backseat changing into clothes from her bag.

--I'm not a total cliche, Wade. He, he knows people at the big casinos, and I want to dance in a show, and he was helping me. He got me an audition at Bally's for Jubilee! But they didn't like my tattoos and I didn't get the job. I'm tall enough and I have the t.i.ts and a.s.s and I can dance, but once they get a look at my tattoos they say no go, and it costs a hundred times as much to get the things taken off as it does to have them put on. f.u.c.kin' tattoos.

She climbs into the front seat, now dressed in faded blue jeans, black Doc Martens, and a black AC/DC tank top.

--What else is Terry into, baby? What else does he do?

She wipes her eyes.

--Mostly he deals. He works for some people, I don't know. The people he gets his gra.s.s from. And sometimes he does other stuff for them, like collections and stuff.

--What about the Russians? Do they know who I am? Do you know who I am?

She looks at me sideways.

--You're Wade?

I let it go.

--Why was Terry there with those clowns?

--Because I called him.

--When?

--After we talked at the club, before I asked for a lift. I called Terry and told him you were looking for Timmy, and he told me to get you guys good and f.u.c.ked-up and get you to come back to my house. But. But. But. You didn't come, and I went back with T anyway and I told him to leave the dog in the car, but he wouldn't, and then I said to put him in the garage, but he wouldn't, but he locked him in the bathroom in my room, in the master bedroom and then I got him to lie on the bed and handcuffed him to the frame like I was gonna strip for him, and then Terry came in and started asking T about Timmy, why he was looking for Timmy and who you were and why you were looking for Timmy, and T didn't know anything, and Terry, he had those hicks with him, and they started beating on T. And. And. And. I like T. I didn't want him to get hurt. And. And. And.

She's gasping for breath.

--Easy, take it easy.

She rubs the heels of her hands into her eyes.

--Terry made me call you to try and get you to come over, but you wouldn't, and that p.i.s.sed him off, and he was also p.i.s.sed because T and the dog wouldn't shut up and the dog wouldn't stop barking and he couldn't do anything about the dog, but T was carrying a bunch of ludes and Terry forced a few down T's throat and that knocked him out. And then. And then? And then we didn't expect you until six or so and Terry had those f.u.c.king guys with him and he had been, he met them at Circus Circus and was supposed to set them up with a couple hookers and when he got the call from me he asked if they wanted to make a couple bucks instead and they had gotten wiped out at the c.r.a.ps table so they went out to their truck and got that gun and that bow thing and Terry drove them over in his Cruiser and we had to wait for you and they were bored and wanted to leave and they thought I was a hooker and wanted Terry to make something happen for them and they kept grabbing at me and Terry made me give them all of T's crank and my Veuve and then you just showed up. And? And?

She runs a hand through her hair.

--G.o.d, I love Percs. Got any more?

--Later. What happened when we showed up?

--Nothing. Oh, except Terry got p.i.s.sed again, but he's always getting p.i.s.sed and flexing his muscles like he invented them. I mean, he's mostly an OK guy, but he was really bad today because nothing was working the way he wanted it to and that's like one of his big things, b.i.t.c.hing about how things don't work the way they're supposed to. Also? He has those guys there to show off in front of and he was doing crank and he's already high-strung from the 'roids so that wasn't a great idea and then you show up and I look out the peephole and you have those guys and he was all Nothing works the way it's supposed to, and then he told me to only let you in, but you brought those guys and . . .

She shrugs. That was that.

--Besides, I think he's scared of the Russian.

Who isn't?

--What about the Russian? What do you know?

--Nothing. Except Terry's bosses told him to help out finding Timmy, so he called him, the Russian, after I called about you, and he told Terry to get ahold of you, and Terry called him from my place to say you'd be there around six, and then after you showed up early, he called him again to say you were there. I think. But that's all I know.

I look at her.

She doesn't know anything. She doesn't even know who I am. And if she did? All she could tell anyone is that I'm in Vegas. And it seems that everyone already knows that. I reach across her and unlock her door.

--You can go.

Her jaw drops.

--And do what? Go home? I'm not going back to that place. And who knows who'll find me if I go to the club? So f.u.c.k you, Wade. You kidnapped me and you are f.u.c.king stuck with me. You're the pro, you're the one who knows what you're doing, so I'm sticking with you until those psychos you let in my house are out of the picture.

She puts on her seat belt.

--So what now?

She's right. If Rolf and Sid get their hands on her there's no telling . . . The carnage at her house strobes through my head. The carnage I brought there. I don't want to imagine what they would do to her. But I do. Sandy is my problem now.

I start the car.

--We need a hideout.

She stretches.

--Oooh yeah, I could get behind some sleep.

--Where?

She yawns.

--I know a place.

THE ROOM at the El Cortez has cable. I sprawl sleepless on my bed and watch the Chargers and Broncos go at it.

The teams of the AFC West have been unstoppable this season. Coming into this week, the Raiders and Chargers are locked with unreal 13-1 records and both have clinched at least a Wild Card. Each has lost a game to the other and has an identical division record, but San Diego has a slight edge in their conference record. That's why Rolf and Sid are so eager to have my Fins top the Raiders on Sunday. If the Raiders lose and the Chargers win, San Diego will clinch the division champions.h.i.+p.

Of more concern to me are the Broncos. At 11-3 they still have an outside shot at the West, but only if they beat San Diego and Miami beats Oakland. Even if they lose the last two games, Denver is primed for the remaining Wild Card spot. I desperately need them to lose tonight to keep that Wild Card door open for the Fins, because the 11-3 Jets are playing miserable Detroit this week. So if Denver wins and New York beats Detroit and Miami loses, NY will lock up the AFC East division t.i.tle and Miami will miss the playoffs entirely. Again.

All of these playoff contortions are yet another reason why I hate football, and hate myself even more for having been sucked into caring about it. I hate the NFL for creating Wild Cards, and I hate it even more for having spread that madness to baseball. It used to all be so easy, the best team in each division plays in the postseason. Now? Chaos. Don't get me started.

The game kicks off.

Denver has the top pa.s.sing offense in the NFL and San Diego has the top rus.h.i.+ng offense. It should be a good, close game. Sure enough, the Broncs pick the Charger's secondary to pieces, and the Chargers roll over the Bronc's defensive line. By halftime it's SD 21, DEN 24. Then it gets weird.

The Broncs put up another field goal in the third quarter to stretch the lead to six, but their nine-time Pro Bowl kicker comes off the field limping and word quickly hits the broadcast booth that he has torn his hamstring. The Chargers score another rus.h.i.+ng TD and take a one-point lead. Late in the fourth, the Broncs QB gets chased out of the pocket and turns a busted play into a thirty-five-yard score, but his knee gets hammered as he crosses the goal line and he is carted off. His rookie backup, who has taken three snaps all season, will have to come in when they get the ball back.

The Denver defense holds SD down, all the kid QB has to do is pick up one first down and then he can kneel out the game. I'm banging my head into my pillow, willing the Chargers' defense to do something. On first and ten, the rookie bobbles the handoff, tries to pick up the ball instead of falling on it, and the ball is scooped up by a Charger linebacker, who takes it all the way home. With SD back on top by one, less than two minutes on the clock, no time-outs remaining for either team and the kid QB pinned at his own seven yard line by a monster kickoff, I'm starting to celebrate a little. Then San Diego goes into a prevent defense and the kid starts throwing to the middle of the field and manages to put his team on the Chargers' thirty-five before spiking the ball with three seconds left. The kicking team comes on.

If this was the Broncs' kicker, I'd be worried. That guy's been slamming fifty-yard field goals in the thin air of Mile High Stadium for the last decade. But it's his backup, the punter. He sets up for the kick, and the rookie QB kneels behind the line to take the snap and hold the ball for him. And n.o.body on the San Diego special teams unit notices that the Broncs' starting tight end has checked in on the right end of his line.

It's ugly.

The ball is snapped directly to the punter, who rolls right as the rookie QB rolls left and the tight end releases his defender and runs upfield. The punter is pancaked, but not before a wobbly duck flops out of his hand, hangs in the air, and lands in the arms of the rookie, who is still behind the line of scrimmage. A Charger defender is running behind the tight end by now, grabbing on the back of his jersey, trying desperately to yank him down and stop him, perfectly willing to take the penalty in order to end this madness. The rookie sets up and launches the ball across the field just as he is speared in the chest and goes down. It is one of the most beautiful pa.s.ses in the history of the NFL. It spirals as tightly as a drill bit and drops into the arms of the tight end just as the San Diego player behind him gives a heave that drags him to the turf. As he falls, the tight end stretches the ball forward, and breaks the plain of the goal line.

SD 35 DEN 40 FINAL.

SANDY TOLD me she knows the front desk guy at the El Cortez Hotel and Casino.

She sometimes works a hustle on guys she picks up at the club. She brings them to the El Cortez, gets a room, and starts to get frisky. Then Terry busts in like the jealous boyfriend and the mark empties his wallet to keep from having his a.s.s kicked. The guy at the desk gets a cut, so he's happy to take cash for our room and keep his mouth shut. I try to give her the last of my money, but she doesn't need it. She grabbed her stripper/dealer stash on her way out the back window at her house, a clutch of rubber-banded cash rolls. Be prepared.

She goes in alone and comes out with a key. I drop my guns in her bag and lock up the car. We walk through the lobby together, my face buried in her neck; just another couple in romantic Las Vegas.

Upstairs, I stay in the room and she goes back down for a couple things from the drugstore and gift shop off the lobby. When she comes back she has cigarettes, shampoo, soap, deodorant, four Hershey bars, Band-Aids, Ben-Gay, a couple cheeseburgers from Careful Kitty's Cafe, and a few airline bottles of vodka.

She showers while I eat my burger, and comes back into the room in red panties that say Friday across the a.s.s, the AC/DC tank, and a towel wrapped around her hair. I go into the bathroom and strip out of my clothes. The jeans have a dark, crusty spot where my thigh has been leaking blood. I take the Band-Aids off my thigh and the makes.h.i.+ft bandage from my ankle and get into the shower. Fear and violence make you sweat. I stink of fear and violence.

Out of the shower, I use the vodka. Sandy said they didn't have rubbing alcohol in the gift shop, this was the best she could do. I pour it over the bullet wound in my thigh and rub it into my various cuts and sc.r.a.pes. I use several large Band-Aids to hold the wound closed, and cover all my lesser injuries, then I rub Ben-Gay into my sore muscles. There's a bottle of vodka left. I could drink it. I pour it down the drain. I think about flus.h.i.+ng the seventeen Percs I have left, but don't have the willpower. They make me feel numb, and I may want to feel that way again. Soon. I pull on my dirty BVDs, my jeans, and my tank top, and go back into the room.

Sandy is trying to eat her burger. She says the Percs took her appet.i.te. She's starting to cry again, tears running down her face as she chews, and then she's gagging and running into the bathroom, where I hear her vomiting.

When she comes back she asks for another Perc and I give it to her. She's done. She's had too much today and can't fight off the things in her head anymore. She takes the pill, crawls onto one of the full-size beds and falls instantly to sleep.

I turn off all the lights, draw the curtains and shades so that the room is nearly black, and lie on top of the bedspread of my own bed. The clock radio on the nightstand glows 4:46 PM. I close my eyes. And I am instantly wired and restless. I lie on the bed with my eyes closed, praying desperately for a sleep that seems to be creeping further and further away, until, over an hour later, I finally give in and turn on the game.

And when that is over and sleep is still no closer, I surrender again to weakness, take two Percs, and return to the jungle.

I AM back at Chichen Itza, on top of Kukulkan. It is night. I'm alone, looking out at the darkness, the jungle black against the slightly lighter sky. I hear someone behind me and I turn. It's Willie Mays, dressed in San Francisco Giants' home whites. I smile.

--Say hey, Willie.

He smiles back at me.

--Say hey, kid.

He has a bat in his right hand, the barrel resting casually against his shoulder, and he's tossing a ball up and down with his left. I point at myself.

--You won't remember, but we met when I was a kid. I did a Giants fantasy camp and you visited one day and gave a hitting clinic.

--Sure, I remember you. You had a cap with Dodgers Suck written on the bottom of the bill.

--That is so cool that you remember. You signed a ball for me that I still have. Or, I don't have it, 'cause it was in my apartment when I got into some trouble a few years ago. So now it's maybe at my folks' place or maybe the super or a cop or someone stole it. I don't know.

--I heard about that, that trouble you were in. How'd that turn out?

--Don't know, it's still happening.

--What's that about, kid? What's all this trouble about? Kid like you in all this trouble.

--I wish I could tell you.

--What are you thinking out there, doing all that stuff?

--I dunno.

--I do. You're not thinking, that's the problem. Smart kid like you, if you just think things through, you'll always do the smart thing.

--Ya think so?

--I know so.

--Thanks.

--Kid with skills like yours. Yeah, I remember you, eight years old and I could tell you were a pro soon as I saw you. You could have been the greatest Giant ever.

He winks.

--Or the second greatest, anyway.

--n.o.body will ever be greater than you, Willie.

--Weeeell.

--n.o.body.