It Was a Very Bad Year

TEN

Outside, with the door locked behind us, we got into the Caddy. Jerry asked if he should drive back to the Sands.

‘No,’ I said, ‘my place. You can spend the night. In the morning I’ll pack a bag and we’ll head over to the Sands. I need to put some fresh clothes in my locker.’

‘What about your pit?’

‘I’m not scheduled to work tonight.’

We pulled into the driveway of my little house. I opened the front door, and Jerry went directly to the kitchen, got two cans of Piels from the frig. He opened them both with an opener and then handed me one.

‘I want to show you something,’ I said. I took the piece of paper from my jacket pocket and showed it to him.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was in his center drawer. Do you know any of the names, other than Frank’s?’

‘Well, Irwin, that’s the photographer’s name.’

‘Why would he write his own name like that?’ I asked. ‘I’d say it was a brother, or cousin.’

‘And these other names? Keenan and Amsler? I never heard of ’em.’

‘Neither have I.’ I took the paper back from him. ‘Could be nothing, I guess.’

Jerry finished his beer and said, ‘We gotta get somethin’ to eat.’

‘How about a pizza?’

The big guy made a face. ‘In Vegas?’

‘You’re right.’ Pizza in Vegas was terrible, especially when you grew up in Brooklyn.

‘How about Chinks?’ he suggested.

‘Sounds good. There’s a take-out place near here. Their menu is in that drawer by the sink. I’m gonna call Danny.’

I went into the living room and dialed Danny’s home number. It was too late to try his office. He didn’t answer. I went back to the kitchen.

‘No answer,’ I said. ‘He must still be watching Irwin.’

‘Why? You only wanted to know where he lived? Why’s he still watchin’?’

‘I guess we’ll find out when he calls us. You pick what you want from that?’ I pointed to the menu he was holding.

‘Yeah,’ Jerry said. ‘Here.’

‘Why don’t you call it in? I’ll eat whatever you order.’

He looked crestfallen.

‘My food?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘What was I thinking?’ I forgot that Jerry didn’t like to share his food. ‘Order me some spare ribs, and the pepper steak.’

‘Fried rice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Gotcha.’

This time he went into the living room to use the phone. I put some water in a kettle and set it on the stove for tea then sat at the kitchen table to finish my beer and give our evening’s activities some thought.

The table was covered with Chinese food cartons. Both Jerry and I were inept with chopsticks, so we each used a fork.

‘How can you manipulate lock picks, but not chopsticks?’ I asked.

‘Nothin’ beats lock picks for a lock,’ Jerry said. ‘I mean, when ya don’t have a key. And nothin’ beats a fork for eatin’.’ He paused a moment, then added, ‘Besides, chopsticks are stupid.’

As I picked up my last egg roll, I couldn’t disagree with him.