Six Bad Things

  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 fuck you, Wade. You kidnapped me and you are fucking 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 championship.

  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 title 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 passing offense in the NFL and San Diego has the top rushing 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 rushing 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 nobody 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 passes 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 ass 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 Café, 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 ass, 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 makeshift 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 scrapes. 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 flushing
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 appetite. 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 Chichén Itzá, 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.

  —Nobody will ever be greater than you, Willie.

  —Weeeell.

  —Nobody.

  —Nice of you to say that, kid. Look, let me give you some advice.

  —Sure.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. Willie tucks his ball away and gets into his hitting stance.

  —It’s about your swing.

  Another tap. I turn. It’s Mickey, wearing a Dodgers cap and holding up a ball and a Sharpie.

  —Excuse me, Mr. Mays.

  I frown at him.

  —Wait your turn.

  I look back at Willie. He’s stroking the bat through an imaginary strike zone.

  —And keeping your balance back like this.

  Tap.

  —Mr. Maaaaaays!

  I turn.

  —Look, you’re not even a Giants fan, so wait your turn.

  I turn to Willie, who is putting the bat back on his shoulder.

  —If you do all that, you’ll bring your average up at least ten points.

  —But.

  TAP!

  —Williiiiiiiieeeeee!

  I spin.

  —Wait! Your! Turn!

  And I shove Mickey. And he stumbles back. And he balances at the edge. One foot raised. Arms waving. Ball and pen still clutched. And then he falls.

  All.

  The.

  Way.

  Down.

  Willie and I stand there, looking down into the darkness. He shakes his head.

  —See what I’m saying, kid? You didn’t think about that at all, did you?

  —HEY, HEY, baby, you OK?

  I open my eyes. A pretty girl is sitting on the side of my bed. She has long black hair with sharp straight bangs, an amazing body, and is wearing very little. I come back from the jungle and remember her name.

  —Hey, Sandy.

  —Nightmare?

  —Uh-huh.

  My eyes don’t want to stay open, they keep sliding me into darkness. Sandy’s are doing the same.

  —Me too. I love Percs, but they fuck with your dreams.

  I drag my eyes open.

  —My dreams are always fucked.

  She scratches her head.

  —Can I get in with you?

  —Sure.

  I hold the covers up and she gets in and spoons her back against my front. She smells good.

  —You smell good.

  —Thanks.

  She yawns. I yawn. She reaches a hand out to the radio.

  —Can I put on some music?

  My eyes are closed again.

  —Sure.

  I hear stations flip by and then a DJ for UNLV radio talking and then Nick Drake sings “Place to Be.” Sandy sighs.

  —I love this song.

  My eyes are closed again.

  —Yeah.

  —Wade?

  I’m almost asleep again, but the name of my dead friend brings me back.

  —Yeah?

  —What did you see when you looked in my house? When we were running away?

  Bad things.

  —Nothing, really.

  —What do you think happened to T?

  Bad things.

  —I think they killed him.

  —Your friends?

  —They’re not my friends, but yeah.

  Her breathing is getting deep.

  —Sandy?

  —Umhunh?

  —Why did you let T go? Why did you unlock his cuffs?

  —I told you, I like T. I was getting ready to go out the window and I wanted him to go too. But he didn’t.

  No, he didn’t. He tried to help me instead. She twists her head around to look at me.

  —What about us? Will those guys try to find us?

  Hadn’t thought of that. Yeah, they’ll try to find me. What else do they have now? And Sandy? She’s a witness. Sid will want her.

  —They might.

  She reaches back, finds my hand, and pulls it around her like an extra blanket.

  —So then we have to stick together.

  I count the people who have been hurt or been killed because they’ve stuck with me. Like counting backward from ten when you’re on an operating table, I am asleep before the pain starts.

  I wake up and find Sandy sitting at the bottom of my bed, eating French toast from a room-service tray. I pull back the covers. Sandy looks at me over her shoulder. She chews and swallows the food in her mouth.

  —Morning, Henry.

  The tube is on, but Sandy isn’t watching MTV.

  THEY FOUND Sid and Rolf’s hot car at the Super 8. The clerk identified Sid and was able to give a good description of Rolf. So they have a sketch of him now. There’s a decent chance someone who knew him in San Diego or Mexico will see it and identify him.

  There’s also some footage of Danny standing with one of the lawyers from O.J.’s defense team, but I make Sandy change the channel before I have to hear them say anything. Sandy is taking it all pre
tty well.

  —It’s just a relief more than anything else. Like when you know you’ve seen an actor in a movie before, but can’t figure who he is. Or the name of a song you can’t remember? How annoying is that? I mean, I knew you had to be wanted for something. But I was like, who is this guy? I saw something on the news about something happening in California a couple days ago, but I had no idea you were supposed to be here. Weird. And now I’m thinking I almost hope those assholes that killed T and Terry find us, ’cause I got you on my side.

  At first I thought she was so wired because she got some good sleep, but then I realized she had found the last three bindles of crank in T’s jacket. I watch as she dips the tip of her cigarette into the yellowish powder and then lights up, giving herself a little freebase hit on her first drag.

  —Wheeew, that’s good. Sure you don’t want some?

  —No.

  My body is still trying to wring out the last of the poisons I’ve been dumping in it, but at least I got some real sleep. I have that stupid feeling you get when you sleep too much. I look at the clock. 9:27. Shit, I slept almost twelve hours. I go to the curtains and pull them open. It’s dark out. Sandy laughs.

  —Yeah, can you believe that? Nothing like Percs to knock you out.

  I look at the clock again. 9:27 PM. It’s Friday night. I’ve slept for twenty-four hours. Again.

  —Where’s my phone?

  Sandy shrugs.

  Where’s my phone? Where’s my fucking phone? The TV. I turn the volume back up, but it’s Larry King now. They’ll cut in, right? If something has happened to Mom and Dad, they’ll cut in. Phone! It’s not in my pockets. I didn’t leave it on the nightstand.

  —Is this it?

  Sandy’s standing in the bathroom door with the phone. I left it in there when I cleaned up. I grab it from her and turn it on. It powers up and chirps and the LED screen shows that I have eleven messages. Fuck. I don’t even know how to get messages off this thing. I flick to the phone book and find the only number in there, Dylan’s number. The phone rings and I jump and it falls to the floor.