Six Bad Things

PART THREE DECEMBER 14-17, 2003 Still Two Regular Season Games Remaining

T was a quiet kid in junior high, one of the Dungeons and Dragons crowd that kept their heads down, trying to draw as little attention as possible. In the summer following eighth grade, his mom died, eaten from the inside by stomach cancer. He showed up the first day of freshman year with a brand new mohawk, safety pins in his ears, and a Clash shirt with the sleeves ripped off. The only punk in a school full of jocks, cowboys, and lowriders, he spent the next couple months getting gang-tackled and having his face stuffed in a toilet every time he turned a corner. Until he bit off Sean Baylor’s earlobe. After that, everybody decided the risks of beating on the school freak outweighed the pleasures.

The only group that would have anything to do with him were the burnouts, and that was only after he started selling off his mother’s leftover pain medication. Then Wade’s mom died, and he and T started hanging out. By the time I came around, T was a regular in stoner circles. He was the guy that could get his hands on good weed, acid, speed, mushrooms, and coke from time to time. But that didn’t make him any less freaky.

Going to T’s house to score an eighth was a roll of the dice. He might be zonked in front of his Apple II playing Zork, or he might be in the backyard, shirtless and frenzied, the Dead Kennedys screaming from the house stereo, bench-pressing a board with cinder blocks balanced on either end until veins bulged over his scrawny torso like swollen night crawlers.

We didn’t talk much. He was just too strange for me to handle, and I was just the crippled jock tagging along with his pal Wade. He was the only guy in school who actually gave me a bad time about my injury. Hey, superstar, how’s the leg? Hey, superstar, race ya to the corner. Hey, superstar, that joint ain’t a talkin’ stick, pass it over here. My bad, I’ll come get it, you need to stay off your feet.

Last time I saw T was at graduation. He had spent four years smoking, sniffing, and eating anything he could lay his hands on, alienating virtually every member of the student body, faculty, and administration, and he graduated with an effortless 3.9. Someone told me he had scholarship offers from the computer departments at Berkeley and Stanford. Instead, he did a quarter at Modesto Junior College, started dealing crank, and ended up taking a jolt in county, and later another for the state.

– EASY, HITLER.

I wake up shivering.

– Easy, Hitler.

Why is it cold in the Yucatan? Because it’s not the Yucatan maybe? Ass. Hole. Something growls.

– Shush, Hitler.

I open my eyes, and see a dog as big as a truck. It’s growling and showing me all of its teeth. It’s wearing a collar, but no leash. I tilt my head and look up. Elvis Presley is standing behind the dog. He’s about five eight, wearing pegged black Levis, black engineer boots, and a black leather vest over a white T-shirt, is beanpole skinny, and has sideburns down to his jaw and an oily black pompadour.

– Who the fuck are you and why are you on my fucking porch?

What am I doing on his porch? I start to sit up.

– Don’t fucking move or Hitler’s gonna eat your face.

I don’t want my face eaten by anyone, let alone Hitler. I stick out my hand to ward off any face eating and Elvis grabs the Christmas card that I’m clutching. He opens it.

– What the fuck?

He looks from the card to me, and does the best double take I’ve ever seen in real life.

– Holy shit! Holy piss, shit, motherfucker, tits. Fuckshit. Holy fuckshit, fucking Christ. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

– Nice to see you too, T.

He picks up all the money, drags me to my feet, hauls me into the trailer, and dumps me on a couch in only slightly better repair than the one on the porch.

– Still havin’ trouble walkin’, huh, superstar?

He takes the two guns from my pocket. The dog stands in front of me, teeth still bared, assuring that I stay put. No problems there. I close my eyes.

– WAKE UP, superstar.

I open my eyes. T is sitting on the coffee table in front of me, his left hand resting on top of the dog’s head. The dog is an English Mastiff, a light-coated two-hundred-pounder with a sad face. T snaps open a Zippo with an American flag sticker on its side, and holds the flame to the Marlboro Red in his mouth. I stop staring at the dog and reach in my own pocket for a smoke. The dog twitches.

– Hitler, no!

The dog eases back. Comprehension finally dawns.

– Hitler is the dog.

T nods.

– Hitler is the dog.

I take my empty hand from my empty pocket. I’ve lost my cigarettes somewhere. I point at T’s pack.

– Can I have one of those?

He nods, hands me a smoke, and lights it for me.

– Didn’t think superstars like you were supposed to smoke.

I take a huge drag.

– Yeah, things change.

He laughs.

– Shit yeah, they do. Shit. Yeah. I mean, check this out. Me and you, we never had much to say to each other, and yet here we are chatting. How’s that for change? Or how ’bout this? Last time I saw you, you were this kind of fallen, small-town golden child and I was a wigged-out school freak. And now? Wow. I may not have come far, but look at you. Now you’re a full-blown success story, an American celebrity. Must feel great to have all that thought-to-be-lost promise come to fruition. Yeah! Gotta admire a guy with that kind of drive. Can’t get to the top the way you planned, so just go out and blaze a new trail up there. Bang, bang, bang. I tell you, man, everybody back home is real impressed at what you’ve done with your life. Especially, you know who is especially impressed? Wade. Oh, I’m sorry, that should have been past tense, shouldn’t it?

There are burn scars up and down T’s forearms. The smaller ones are dots the size of M&Ms, the largest are lines almost exactly the length of a cigarette from tip, to the top of the filter. T’s favorite game in high school was Cigarette Chicken. Two players press their forearms together and drop a lit cigarette lengthwise into the crease where their arms meet. First one to pull his arm away loses. I never participated. From the fresh pink of some of the scars, it looks like T is still an avid player.

– I didn’t kill Wade.

He stubs his cigarette out in an ashtray made from an old cylinder head.

– No shit, numbnuts, no one said you did. Seems pretty fucking clear to anyone who can watch TV that that punk Danny Lester was to blame for that shit. One look at that guy on the tube and you just know he’s the biggest dick ever. A lying sack of shit, he is. But fuck, who cares, right? Wade is dead all the same, which believe me when I say I think is pretty fucked up, seeing as he was just one of the only people I gave a shit about in the whole world. And now here I come home from a late night of work and find you nodded out on my porch in a pile of money with the Christmas card I sent him in your hand. Which has to beg the question: What the fuck is your fugitive ass doing here, trying to fuck up my already legally fragile situation?

I open my mouth, close it. Open it again.

– I.

I take in his bouncing knee and the way he’s furiously scratching Hitler between the eyes, and I realize for the first time that he’s thoroughly speeded up. He opens his red, jiggly eyes wide as they will go.

– Come on, man, enlighten me.

– OK, I. See. How much? Do you know much about New York? Or?

Oh, Jesus, there is no way I can do this now.

– T, I don’t think I can really.

I open my hands, my jaw slacks helplessly.

– I don’t even know where to.

– Right. Right. It’s late and you’ve clearly had a rough night and would like to get some rest. We can take care of that.

He opens his cigarette box, digs his index finger inside, and pulls out a little white tablet.

– Take this.

– Oh, T, no, that’s such a bad idea right now.

He balances the pill on the tip of his index finger and holds it in front of my mouth.

– Don’t be a pussy, superstar, this is a fucking diet pill. I deal harder stuff to the kids at UNLV so they can cram for their finals. Eat it.

He presses it onto my lips.

– C’mon. Here’s the train, open the damn tunnel.

I haven’t popped a pill since my freshman year of college. But I don’t have the will or the energy to argue with a speed freak right now; especially not one with a monster dog at his beck. I open my mouth. He drops the pill inside, and it sits bitterly on the tip of my tongue. I dry swallow it down. T smiles.

– OK, spill.

And I do. I start talking, and soon enough, I couldn’t shut up if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. My thoughts crystallize into a lattice of narrative logic and I want nothing but to share it with T. I tell him the whole story, with illustrations and examples drawn from film, literature, popular music, and Greek philosophy, with sidebars on the topics of media politics, Superman vs. Batman, and Schrodinger’s Cat, with references to our shared history and revelations about a secret and mutual admiration, I tell him the whole story in every detail. I have never told the whole story before, not even Tim knows all the things I’m spilling to T.

And now I sit exhausted and sleepless, sucking on my twentieth or thirtieth cigarette of the day, and looking out the window at the sky getting ready to go a brilliant desert blue. And I feel better. I feel better having told the story and having someone else know everything. No matter what else, I feel better.

T goes into the kitchen and comes back with a small brown pill bottle. He shakes three pills into his hand, pops two in his mouth, and offers me one.

– No, no way. I’m never gonna sleep again as it is.

He shakes his head.

– It’s a ’lude.

I look at it. I don’t want to take it. I remember what it’s like to go on a speed jag, pills to get up, pills to get down. I don’t want to take it. But I know in my heart I’ll never sleep without it, and I need sleep now, more than anything in this world I need sleep. I drop it in my mouth.

T nods.

– C’mon.

He starts down the hall. I get up and follow him, and Hitler follows me. T stands in an open doorway at the end of the hall.

– Spare room.

I look inside. There’s a worktable, a computer, masses of paper, and jumbled piles of disks. The walls are covered in thumbtacked rock and anime posters. In one corner is a foam pad covered by a dingy sheet and a rumpled blanket. T jerks his thumb toward the other end of the trailer.

– I’ll be in the master suite. Holler if you need anything.

I stumble to the pad. It’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in, so soft and mushy, just like my skeleton is soft and mushy. Whoa. Here comes the ’lude. T flicks off the light.

– Night.

– Night, T.

He turns to go.

– Hey, T?

– Yeah?

– What now?

He is an angular silhouette in the doorway.

– My dad died.

– Sorry, I didn’t know.

– Cancer got him last year. Just like my mom.

– Sorry.

– Being an orphan sucks. That’s what I’ll miss about Wade, knowing there’s a guy who knows how I feel.

– Yeah.

His silhouette shifts, he looks down the hall.

– So we’re gonna find your buddy and your money and save your mom and dad from the bad guys. OK?

– Yeah. Thanks.

He disappears down the hall, followed by his huge dog. I close my eyes.

– Superstar?

I keep my eyes closed.

– Yeah?

– It’s kind of cool you came to me for help.

– Didn’t have no one else.

I hear him laugh.

– Yeah, well, it’d have to be something like that, wouldn’t it?

I WAKE up to the sound of Hank Williams singing “Mind Your Own Business.” My body is impossibly stiff and sore. The good news is that the needle-sharp pains, nausea, and confusion of the concussion seem to have receded. The bad news is that they have been replaced by a post-speed hangover made up of blunt trauma, general anxiety, and global-sized guilt pangs.

I make it to the bathroom and look inside. T is standing in front of the mirror, combing globs of Murray’s Superior Hair Dressing Pomade into his hair, crafting it into a high pomp. He turns to face me and spreads his arms wide, smiling.

– Morning, superstar! Ready to take a bite out of life?

He slaps me on the arm and I flinch.

– Hell, you need a pick-me-up.

– I need a shower.

He turns back to the mirror and flicks the comb through his hair a couple more times.

– Well, it’s all yours, but I’m telling you what you need, and what you need is a pick-me-up.

– Uh-uh.

– Suit yerself.

I step out of the way as he heads for the kitchen.

– There’s something wrong with my water heater, so turn the cold on all the way and don’t touch the hot. Otherwise, you’ll burn your hide off.

I close the door, turn on the shower, and peel Sid’s filthy clothes from my body. My right ankle is puffy and bruised, but I can move it. Steam is already pouring from the shower. I stick my hand in to test the water and just about sear the flesh from my fingers. I wait another minute and climb over the side of the tub. It’s way too hot, but I can take it. I let the water run over me, sluicing off the grime and sweat of the last couple days. The water soaks the crusty bandage on my left thigh and I strip it away. The wound has mostly scabbed over, but a slight ooze of blood is leaking out from a crack at the edge. I scrub my body hard with the bar of Lava from the scummy shower caddy. Slowly, tension eases from my muscles and the pain in my head recedes, but the anxiety and the guilt stay right where they are.

I get out, find some Band-Aids under the sink, and stick a couple over my wound. I wipe steam from the mirror and look at myself. The cut over my left eye is closed up. I have bruises on my shoulders and ribs and a big one across my chest where the Monte Carlo’s seat belt caught me during the wipeout. My hands and knees are scraped up from all the falling down I’ve been doing.

I look at the tattoos. They start on my left forearm, run up to my shoulder, across my chest, and down to my right wrist. When Dad saw them he made the same sound he made when he saw me light a cigarette. Mom kind of liked them. She touched the one that says Mom and Dad, shook her head at the naked pinup on my right bicep. Tears leaked from her eyes when she saw the banner on my chest with Yvonne written on it. I hold up my left arm and look at the hash marks. Still one short; got to get Mickey on there.

I carry the trashed clothes to the kitchen, a towel around my waist. T is drinking a beer and eating a Hostess Fruit Pie.

– Want one?

My stomach is tight and empty, but I don’t feel hungry.

– Pass.

– OK, but there ain’t much else.

– I’ll manage.

He scarfs the last bit of crust and gooey cherry filling and washes it down with the dregs of his Bud. I hold up the clothes.

– Any place I can dump these?

He takes them from me.

– I’ll take care of ’em.

Hitler wanders in from T’s bedroom and growls at me. T comes around the counter to me.

– Here, we gotta take care of this.

He wraps his arms around me.

– T?

– Hitler needs to see you’re a friend.

– Oh.

We stand there like that for a minute, T embracing my half-naked body, Hitler sniffing around us as T whispers to him, calling him a good dog, telling him I’m a friend. Hank Williams singing “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.” And even in this context, it feels so good to be held.

T lets go of me, takes a step back, and Hitler comes over and licks my hand.

– That should keep him from eating your balls.

– Come again?

– He’s a rape dog.

– Come again?

– He’s an attack dog. I had him trained by these guys in Colorado who specialize in dogs for victims of rape, women who have some serious fears based on fucked-up personal experience. So he’s trained to go for an attacker’s balls or neck. Whatever’s closest.

Hitler sniffs my crotch.

– OK, I’m gonna head out to work for a couple hours and then I’m gonna pick up some clothes for you. A disguise. How ’bout that? Later we’ll go find your guy’s place. There’s a robe in my room. Help yourself to whatever else you find. I’m gonna take some of this money for the clothes, OK?

He scoops up a handful of money from the pile on the coffee table. He opens the door, turns, and looks at me.

– You sure about that pick-me-up, man? You look like shit.

I stand wounded in his living room, my bare toes flexing in the greasy fibers of his carpet. I look around at the beat-up couch, the brick-and-plywood coffee table, the milk crates stuffed with vinyl and paperbacks, the stacks of porn videos surrounding the TV. I think about being alone in this room for the next several hours, watching the few bits of my life that I have left, the few I kept because I thought I could control them, spinning away from me the way the blood spun off of Mickey’s head as he bounced down the stone steps.

I think about what an ideal place this is for a suicide.

– Yeah, maybe you better give me something.

He gives me a Xanax, and gets Hitler into his Chrysler 5th Avenue. I stand in the open door in his robe as he pulls out.

– T, wait.

He puts on the brakes.

– Yeah?

– I thought you were dealing?

– Sure.

– So what’s the job?

– I DJ the morning shift at a strip club on Fremont. It’s fun and the girls are great customers. See ya in a couple hours.

He drives off, Hitler sitting up in the seat next to him. I stand in the door and look out at the sharp blue sky over the trailer park.

AMERICA IS in love with my parents. Eighty-six percent “support” them and a whopping ninety-three percent “feel sorry” for them. This according to a poll on CNN.com.

Other than a written statement read by their court-appointed attorney, they have refused to speak with the media. We are so sorry for the losses suffered by the families of Deputy Fischer, Willis Doniker, and our friend, Wade Hiller. We don’t understand what has happened. All we know is that we love our son and we want him to come home and turn himself in so that we can help him. Their stoicism, combined with their blue collar-suburban appeal, have “endeared” them to the American public. This, according to one of CNN’s media/legal experts.

I’ve already seen the tape of them being escorted from the court building in Modesto and being loaded into the unmarked car that took them to a hotel. They can’t go home because the house is still sealed, being picked over by the FBI. They look tired and old and confused and lost. Not even the Xanax can make this bearable. So I don’t bear it.

I switch on ESPN.

The NFL wrap-up is starting on the six PM Sportscenter. The Dolphins coach is talking about how disappointed he was in his team’s effort against Detroit. But, he’s telling everyone in South Beach there’s no need to panic just because the Jets beat Green Bay and moved into first in the division. The Fins still control their own destiny because they play the Jets on the last day of the season. Get a win against Oakland this weekend and against the Jets the following weekend and the division is ours. I am not reassured.

Miles Taylor is doubtful for Sunday, and Coach is babbling about passing more. This, despite the fact that he has a noodle-armed quarterback whose one great ability is to hand a football to Miles. Add to this the Raiders’ top-ranked secondary, and I have yet another reason for wishing Coach would stop breathing air that other people could be using.

I hear a car scrunch up through the gravel. I look at the clock on top of the TV. Over six hours have drifted by since T left. The back door opens and Hitler explodes into the trailer. He freezes when he sees me, growls once, remembers we’ve met, and hurls himself into my lap. I wince as he puts a paw on the bullet wound in my thigh, and manage to shove him back to the floor, but not before my hands are coated in drool. T walks in behind the dog, his arms loaded with shopping bags and a big cardboard box. He dumps all of it on the floor.

– Here.

He walks back out the door and the dog runs after him. I look through the bags: 501s, a black cowboy shirt with white piping and pearl snap buttons, and a pair of black Tony Llama boots. I pick up the box and set it on my lap. T comes back in, a case of Bud balanced on either shoulder. I open the box and pull out the black Stetson within. T turns from where he’s set the beer on the counter and smiles.

– How ’bout that? I almost went with brown, but then I thought, you’re a bad guy, why fight it?

I turn the hat in my hands.

– T, I thought you were gonna get me a disguise. Something to make me less conspicuous.

He takes the hat from my hands and sets it on my head.

– Rodeo week in Vegas, man. No one is gonna look twice at you in that stuff.

Rodeo. I’ve heard that before.

– Rodeo?

– The NFR, man. National Finals Ro-day-o. Ten days of broncs and bulls, man. Big business for me, that’s why I was out so late last night. I tell ya, those cowboys are bigger speed freaks than the strippers. I’m making bank over at the Mack Center and hanging around the Frontier.

– Rodeo. Got it.

I get up, walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. The hat covers my hair and the brim leaves my face in deep shadows. T may be on to something.

I walk back out to the living room. T is in the kitchenette tossing beers into the fridge with freakish precision and speed. He looks over his shoulder at me.

– Well?

I sit back on the couch.

– Yeah, it works.

– Shit yeah right it works.

He takes a last beer from one of the cases, tosses it high in the air, hops to his feet, kicks the fridge door closed, and catches the beer.

– Ye-haw!

He grins at me, waxy skin sheened with speed-sweat, eyes popping and dark ringed. Jesus, did he sleep at all? He cracks the beer open and guzzles half of it. Then he hunts through the pile of shopping bags and grabs one with something heavy sagging the bottom.

– Got these for you, too.

He upends the bag and the contents bang onto the coffee table. Two boxes.

9 mm.

.44 Magnum.

T STARTED going gray in high school, so he’s been dyeing his hair since he was twenty. He uses a set of clippers to shave my beard, leaving a long drooping cowboy ’stache down to my chin, and sideburns to my earlobes. I wash my hair and he combs in the same black dye he uses himself, then does the moustache, burns, and my eyebrows. He speed-raps the whole time, giving me a rundown on his life in Vegas, a detailed Godzilla filmography, and his top-ten porn-star list.

I rinse and wash and dry and go in to the spare room and put on my cowboy gear: BVDs, Levis, wife-beater, clean white socks, pointy-toed boots, pearl snap shirt, black leather belt with a big silver buckle, and the hat. It all fits. I step out of the room and T takes a long look at me.

– Bad. Ass. You’re like Sam Elliot and Greg Allman’s secret love child.

I look in the mirror. Badass.

I’VE REMEMBERED Tim’s address. It’s a wonder what a little sleep and medication will do for a concussion. We park in front of a stucco fourplex on King’s Way, me and T up front and Hitler in the back. T kills the engine and the headlights.

– This is it.

I look up and down the block. It’s a street full of driveways that lead into apartment complexes. Only Tim’s building and a couple others front the street itself. I look at T.

– Kind of early. Maybe we should come back later, when people are asleep.

T shrugs.

– It’s a 24/7 town, man. Doesn’t really matter what time it is. But the good news is, people pretty much mind their own business.

– OK, OK. You, uh…

– Wait here?

– Yeah. You wait here and…

– Honk if someone shows?

– Yeah, that’s good.

– Yeah. That Xanax still cooking? You seem a little out of it. You want something to give you an edge?

No, no more pills.

– No, no, I’m cool. I mean, I’m mellow. I’m just not exactly sure what to do. Can you, if I can’t get in, can you pick the lock?

T looks at me sideways.

– Shit, man, I’m a dealer, not a thief.

I don’t want to bring the guns. I don’t want to bring them, but I know I should. So I split the difference. I leave them in the plastic grocery bag with the ammo, tucked under the passenger seat of T’s car. I feel safer without them.

Tim’s apartment is #4, upper right corner. I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell. I ring it again. And one last time. There’s a kitchen window. I push on it and it slides open, unlocked. Great, Timmy. I look up and down the empty street, and boost myself through the window.

I land on the kitchen counter, my hat tumbles to the floor, and I slide after it. I get to my feet and turn on the lights. The kitchen has one of those pass-through counters that opens on to a small living room. The living room has a sliding glass door that opens on a tiny balcony. There are two bar stools at the pass-through. The place looks pre-furnished, lots of black leather bachelor stuff that is not Tim’s style at all. But he’s been at work here. The walls are covered in jazz and blues posters. And there’s a brand-new stereo, the box full of foam packing still sitting next to it. It’s one of those hunks of Japanese engineering that only an audiophile like Tim would buy. I walk down a short hall to a large bedroom. The bed matches the living room furniture. More posters here, a nice boom box, more CDs, an orange iMac on a desk, and a beeper and a huge bong on the nightstand.

There’s a knock at the door. Shit. Concerned neighbor? Girlfriend? Russian mafia? Why did I leave the guns in the car? I sneak up to the door and press my eye to the peephole. T is on the landing. I open the door and he comes in, followed by Hitler.

– What? Is someone here?

– No.

– What’s that matter?

– I couldn’t sit out there, I’m way too jacked-up, man. I was about to fucking vibrate to death.

– Jesus, T. You’re the lookout. I mean, fuck.

– You were right, superstar, you don’t need anything to give you an edge.

– Yeah, I’m on edge. And, Jesus, what about the dog? What if it starts barking?

He rubs the top of Hitler’s head.

– Hitler don’t bark. Ever. Only time this dog makes noise is when it farts.

– Great. Look, just, just see if you can find anything out here or in the kitchen. I’ll be in the bedroom.

I head down the hallway.

– And what am I looking for?

– A really big box full of money.

It doesn’t take long. I don’t find the money or any indication that Tim was kidnapped or killed. The place is a mess, but that’s just Tim.

T is on his knees in the kitchen, his head stuck in the cabinet below the sink. I kick the sole of his shoe.

– Anything?

He pulls his head out.

– This.

He tugs a blue day pack from the cabinet and unzips it, revealing about twenty small, colored plastic boxes. This is Tim’s dealing stash. Each box is stuffed with hydro-grade buds of varying quality. The color of the box indicates the content’s price. Hitler sticks his nose into the pile of boxes and shoves them around.

T shakes his head.

– I don’t know your boy, but speaking as a dealer? I generally take it as a bad sign when a professional disappears without his stash.

T FINDS a couple bottles of Tullamore Dew in one of the cabinets and breaks the seal on one of them. I get a glass of water from the tap and flop on the couch. T takes a slug from the bottle of whiskey and starts flipping through Tim’s CDs. Hitler rolls around on his back.

– So you think he ripped you off?

I stare at the wall.

– Could be.

– Think maybe the Russians found him?

– Could be.

– What now?

I look at the clock on the VCR. It’s almost nine.

– I need to make a call.

I take the cell from my pocket. T sits on the floor with his back against the wall, empties Tim’s day pack in his lap, and starts looking at the little boxes.

– Dylan?

– Yeah.

– What ya gonna tell him?

I don’t know, so I just dial the number. It rings once.

– I thought we agreed to updates every twenty-four hours.

– Hi, Dylan.

– Did we not agree to that?

– Yes, and it’s not quite twenty-four.

– That’s cutting it very fine, Hank, very fine indeed.

– Sorry.

– No, no, you’re right. We said every twenty-four hours from nine PM pacific. You’re right. So what have you got for me?

– Not much.

– OK, well, that’s fair, but this is supposed to be a progress report so why don’t you tell me what progress you’ve made.

– Well, I haven’t been captured.

– OK, sarcasm aside, that is progress. What about my money, Hank? Any progress there?

T is trying to juggle three of the little colored boxes from Tim’s stash.

– I haven’t been captured.

Pause.

– Yes, we covered that.

Pause.

– You haven’t asked about your parents, Hank.

Pause.

– How are my parents?

– Have you been watching the news?

– Yes.

– Then you may have seen that they were released from custody and taken to an undisclosed location.

– Yes.

– Well, you’ll be happy to know that they are staying at the Days Inn at the Los Banos rest stop. I’m told by my employees that the security at a Days Inn is somewhat lax, and shouldn’t present any difficulties for them. You understand?

– Yes.

– Good. So, have you made any progress on my money?

T drops the boxes, gets up, and walks back to Tim’s bedroom.

– Yes.

– Good. Tell me, please.

T comes back down the hall carrying Tim’s bong.

– I am lying low while I ascertain if my position here is tenable.

T looks at me and crosses his eyes. I listen to Dylan.

– Good. And?

– I expect to make contact with my “banker” in the next twenty-four hours.

T is shaking his head. He cracks open one of the little bud boxes and starts filling the bong.

– And?

– Within twenty-four hours of that, I expect to receive your money and have it in your hands shortly thereafter.

T puts his lips to the top of the bong, holds the flame of his lighter over the bowl, and rips.

– Good. That’s good. See, this is the kind of clarity I’m looking for. Like I told you, Hank, I’m a control freak. The more information I have, the more in control I feel. And that makes me more comfortable. None of this is about you or your abilities, it’s about my personal weaknesses. And I want you to know how much I appreciate you dealing with them so well.

– Sure.

– And… I guess that’s it?

– It is.

– OK, I’ll expect to hear from you in the next twenty-four, and look forward to seeing you in the next forty-eight to seventy-two.

– Yes.

– Well… good-bye.

He hangs up. T exhales and starts hacking.

– What? Hack! What the fuck was that? Hack! Bullshit?

– That was the kind of bullshit he wants to hear.

– Fuckin’ A. Hack! What a prick he must be.

I nod, and lie back on the carpet. T comes over and stands there looking down at me, bong in one hand and one of the pot boxes in the other.

– What now?

I stare at the ceiling. What now? Fucked if I know. Why can’t someone just tell me what to do for a change? Why can’t someone tell me how to stop all of this?

– T, I get it that you’re not a criminal mastermind or anything.

– Thanks, asshole.

– But do you know how to get information? About people?

He smiles.

– Shit, yeah. No problem.

T SITS in front of Tim’s iMac. I sit on the foot of the bed and look over his shoulder as he scrolls through the Google results for “Dylan Lane.”

– There’s a shitload here, man. Guy’s got a record

– What for?

T clicks around.

– SEC violations.

– What?

He clicks on the heading.

– Looks like he was investigated for insider trading and some other shit.

I shake my head.

– I don’t think that’s him.

He clicks a couple times and a photo starts to resolve on the screen.

– This your boy?

I look at the pic. It’s Dylan. He’s a few years younger, standing in a big, partitioned office space, surrounded by a group of very young and geeky-looking men and women.

– Yeah, that’s him.

T clicks through a series of articles from the New York papers.

– So dickhead here was some kind of financial whiz kid in the stock market. Kind of a flavor of the week broker in the early nineties, but then he got busted for manipulations and shit and disappeared for a couple years. Didn’t do jail time, of course. Fuckos like that never go to jail. Then he pops back up just in time for the fattest part of the Internet boom. He got money from somewhere to get a start-up rolling in Silicon Alley. Well, he was the flavor of the week again, and his company is a big fucking hit, and then the market folded. No criminal charges this time, but he disappears again, except for some gossip column shit about him. Stuff like, “Dylan Lane was MIA for fashion week, but several of his comrade investors were in attendance in hopes of giving a bear hug to the former dot-com darling.” And more of the same. Innuendo about him being a shady character, but no details. Any help?

I flop back on the bed.

– It explains why he talks like an asshole.

T spins the chair around to face me.

– So?

– What?

– What now?

– What now? I’m fucked, that’s what now. I don’t know how to find Tim. I can’t go to the cops without risking Mom and Dad. I don’t have anything to use to cut a deal with Dylan. I have a few days till Sunday to do something, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. You know this town. How do I find Tim?

T shrugs.

– Fucked if I know.

I stare at the ceiling. My heart is jumping and sweat is starting to break out all over my body. I know what this is. It’s panic. A scream has been living in my gut for years, and now it wants out. I don’t have any moves left to keep it down and the Xanax has worn off and it’s going to come out.

T sits next to me on the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder.

– You OK?

I shake my head side to side. The scream is in my chest now. Climbing.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pill.

– Here.

I look at it. I don’t want any more drugs. I want to feel this. I deserve to feel this. But I can’t afford to feel it right now. I can’t scream now. If I start now I’ll never stop. It’s in my throat.

T presses the pill against my lips.

– It’s Percocet. It’ll chill you out.

I remember the Percs my doctor gave me after my leg broke, the ones I shared with Wade and Rich and Steve. They killed the pain and made the world balloon off and bob at the end of a string.

I let the pill into my mouth and swallow. It chases the scream back down into my belly, and, almost instantly, long before it can possibly be taking effect, I feel better.

– I don’t know what to do, T.

He picks something up from the floor and hands it to me. It’s one of Tim’s pot boxes.

– I think I know someone who can help us.

T DRIVES us to the North Strip. We park the car, leave Hitler inside, and walk down Fremont Street. A few blocks of Fremont have been converted to a pedestrian mall and covered by a canopy about two stories high, its underside lined with lights. Christmas carols are blaring from a PA system as the lights flash, creating a variety of holiday-themed images that flicker across the canopy. A crowd of tourists fills the mall, their heads dropped back to gape at the spectacle as candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, and Santa and his reindeer all twinkle overhead. T nudges me and points ahead.

– It gets better inside.

In front of us is a strip club; a huge neon cowgirl in white boots, a bikini, and a cowboy hat hangs above the door. A long line of cowboys waits underneath her to get in.

– No way, T.

He looks at me.

– What?

– We can’t go in there.

– Why not?

– Way too many people.

– So what? They’re all drunk and they’re all dressed like you.

– No.

He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a pair of big black Wayfarer sunglasses, and puts them on my face.

– There. Now you look even more like every other rube in town.

I take the sunglasses off and start to head back to the car. He grabs me.

– Look, man, this place is my office, right? I kick back to the house and they give me the franchise in there to deal speed to the strippers.

– So?

– I have the speed franchise. Someone else handles all the pot.

He shows me the little plastic box Tim’s pot came packaged in.

– And last time I checked, it came in these.

I put the sunglasses back on.

WE JUMP the line. The bouncer gives T a hug and we’re inside. On one side of the bar is a long runway with a pole every few feet. Each pole is being worked by a G-stringed former aerobics instructor who realized she could make ten times as much money by taking her clothes off. Screaming cowboys waving dollar bills in the air fill every square inch of floor space. On the other side of the bar is a row of smaller stages. Each has a single pole and a dancer. Banquettes line the walls, occupied by a rail of cowboys being lap danced in the shadows. At the back of the club is a separate room, Champagne Lounge spelled out in pink neon above the door. Flecks of red and green light spray from a Christmas-colored disco ball and bounce off the mirrored walls that have been flocked with fake snow. T puts his mouth next to my ear so I can hear him over the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.”

– Merry Christmas.

The bartender comes over, a woman with dark skin and a pile of curly black hair. She’s in a red tube top and jeans cut so low you can see her hipbones sticking up over the waistband. Anywhere else, she’d have all eyes locked on her. Here, she is seriously overdressed.

– Hey, T, what’s up?

T points at me.

– This guy’s my friend. Keep an eye on him, OK?

She shrugs.

– Sure.

T puts his mouth next to my ear again.

– You hang here, I’m gonna go set something up with the pot franchise.

He squeezes into the mob of denim. I turn back to the bar just as the bartender sets a beer in front of me.

– First one’s on me.

– Ya know, I don’t.

But she’s already gone to take care of the service bar.

I look at the beer.

The Percocet has smoothed the edges of the pain in my leg and ankle. The scream is still there, but has been drawn away into the distance where I can contemplate it without feeling it. I like this. I like feeling like this. Feeling so little.

I look around the club. When was the last time I was around so many people, all crammed together, music blaring, that smell of beer and sweat soaked into the floor and the upholstery? Years.

I look at the beer.

I slide my finger through the drops of condensation on its side.

Drinking this beer would be a bad idea.

Something soft and smooth presses against my back. Hot breath hits my ear.

– Can I have some of that, cowboy?

I turn and look at the stripper standing behind me. Her face is inches from mine. Too much makeup, too much hairspray. I look at her hand, set lightly on my thigh. A woman’s hand touching me. I take in her body in its translucent sheath of pink Lycra. Breasts patently fake, booth-perfect tan, ass and legs stair-machined to some ultimate balance of muscle tone and body fat. She leans into me, reaching for the beer, and her superhero breasts graze my upper arm. She holds up the beer in front of my face.

– You mind?

I shake my head and she takes a long sip, then hands me the bottle. She’s so close.

– Thanks. Dancing makes me thirsty. Hot and thirsty.

I look at one of the solo stages. A stripper has one knee cocked around the pole and is spinning like an ice skater.

– I guess it would.

– What about you? Dancing make you hot?

She’s so close. She’s silly and fake, but she’s so close. And I don’t feel the panic, the visions that grabbed me when I scared the smiling Spanish girl on the beach.

She scratches a fingernail against the nape of my neck.

– You wanna dance with me?

I remember my last time with a woman. I was still drunk. Once I stopped drinking, I started thinking. That was it for women and me. I don’t say anything.

She smiles, mock sadly.

– Your loss, cowboy.

She turns and starts to leave, her hand slipping from my thigh. I grab her wrist. She turns to face me.

– Is that a yes?

I nod.

– Well, come on then.

She takes my hand and starts to pull me from the bar.

– Hang on.

She stops.

I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be doing any of this. I know that.

I put the beer to my lips, turn the bottle upside down, and empty it.

– OK, let’s go.

And she leads me to the banquettes in the darkness against the far wall. She sits me down and the dress slides off. Wearing only a G-string and high heels, she takes my hat from my head and waves it in the air and rides my lap slowly, while “Sweet Emotion” plays.

I FEEL great. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, this great. It makes me wonder why I haven’t had a drink in so long. I mean, it’s been at least five minutes since I had my last beer.

– Hey, yo, ’nother Bud down here.

The bartender nods in my direction as she sets a couple drinks on a cocktail waitress’s tray.

– Comin’ up.

A guy with a buzz cut, wearing tight Levis and a PBR Tour T-shirt, shoves into the space next to my stool.

– Sorry, been tryin’ ta get myself a beer for ’bout a half hour.

I smile.

– Hell, no problem.

The bartender comes over with my beer and sets it in front of me.

– Eight bucks.

I pull out a twenty and hand it to her and point at the guy in the PBR shirt.

– Here, get this guy one too and keep the change.

She takes the money and looks at the guy.

– What ya having, cowboy?

– Burt Light.

She slides open a cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coors Light, yanks an opener from the back pocket of her low-rider jeans, pops the cap, and puts the beer on the bar.

– Thanks, fellas.

Me and the PBR guy watch her ass as she walks back to the service bar to take care of another cocktail waitress. PBR shakes his head.

– Damn. That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

A dancer in a formfitting green slip dress presses herself up against PBR’s back. Her hand slithers through his buzzed hair.

– Cowboy, if that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen, you need a dance with me.

PBR looks her up and down.

– Honey, you are damn right about that.

– Well c’mon, Hoss, I’ll give you the rest of this song and all of the next.

She walks away with him trailing behind like a dazed child. He looks back at me.

– See, ya ’round, pal. Thanks for the Burt Light.

He hoists his beer in the air. I stand up on the foot rail of my stool to keep him in sight.

– Hey, why ya call them that?

But he’s gone.

– That’s what they call them in Oklahoma. ’Cause Burt Reynolds drinks Coors.

The bartender with the lowriders is in front of me. She places a Coors Light on the bar.

– Burt Light.

She places a Coors Original next to it.

– Burt Heavy.

I pull out another twenty.

– I’ll take one of each.

She pops both tops, puts the beers next to my almost full Bud, takes the twenty, and looks at the three beers.

– Got some catching up to do.

– Baby, I’ve been resting up for this.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I slip off my stool. T catches me.

– Whoa!

– T! T, where ya been? This place is great! I’m having a great time.

I guzzle beer and some of it slops onto my shirtfront. T grins.

– I thought you weren’t drinking.

– Who me? No, you have me confused with some limp-dick, pussy motherfucker who doesn’t know what’s good for him.

– Well, what ain’t good for you is drinking while you’re on Percocet. You’re lucky you can stay on that stool at all.

– Stay on the stool? Stay on the stool! That’s the least of what I can do.

I start climbing up to stand on the stool and T pulls me back down.

– C’mon, King Kong, let’s get you back in your head.

He’s tugging me from the bar.

– Wait a sec, wait a sec.

I grab at my beer, but it’s not where it looks like it is and I knock it over.

– Aww, fuck man, look what ya made me do ta Burt.

My head bobs around on the end of my neck. Colored lights whirl through the air, cowboys and pole-dancing beauties orbit irregularly around me. The sweat covering my body goes cold-hot-cold-hot.

T leads me into the john. We walk past the condom machine and the line of occupied urinals, to the second of three stalls. We both squeeze in and he closes the door. I lean against the partition and start to slide down. T grabs me and sets me on the toilet seat. He takes a fold of magazine paper about half the size of a matchbook from his vest pocket, leans over me, and shakes its contents onto the back of the toilet tank. A tiny heap of rough yellowish crystals. He gets out his lighter and presses it flat against the pile and rocks it firmly side to side, the crystals making little crunching noises as he pulverizes them into powder. He lifts the lighter away and licks some dust that is clinging to its side. Finally, with an old Kinko’s copy card from his wallet, he shapes the brown powder into two fat lines, gets out a twenty, rolls it into a tight cylinder, and hands it to me.

– Batter up.

I look at the twin lines of crank.

– I don’t think I’m up to that, T.

– Hank, this is your doctor speaking. We have people to talk to, things to do, and you’re about set to go all gape-mouthed and drooly on me. You need to wake up and get your head back in the game, superstar, and this is what’s gonna get you there.

What is he talking about? People to talk to? Man, I just want to relax at the bar. I look again at the crank. But hey! I seem to remember being able to drink like a maniac on this shit. I stick the rolled bill in my nose, place the other end against one of the lines, and inhale.

It burns. It burns like a motherfucker. Like a hot razor blade being dragged down my nasal passage to the top of my esophagus, where it stops and a bitter, mucousy poison drips down the back of my throat. I rip my face away from the line and tilt it back and press the heel of my palm against my nostril.

– Fuck me!

T laughs. He grabs the bill, neatly whiffs half of the other line into his right nostril, half into the left, and hands the bill back to me.

– Clean your plate.

The burn has crept up behind my right eyeball. I look down at the half line left on the toilet tank. I do the remainder into my left nostril and it feels like scrubbing ground glass into an acid burn.

– Jesus! Jesus fuck!

T runs his finger over the specks of crank left on the tank, licks it clean, and does the same with the residue on the inside of his twenty.

– C’mon. Let’s go see my friend.

He leads me out of the bathroom, and I’m already starting to think he was right about the crank because things are really starting to fall into place and make sense to me, who I am, why I’m here, what I’m doing, how, in an amazing way the shit I’m in has given my life purpose and meaning; I mean, here I am, a man with a mission, a real mission, how many people can say the same, I mean, for the first time I can remember, I know exactly who I am, where I am, and what I’m doing.

I’m Henry Thompson.

I’m in a strip club.

And I’m trying to save my parents’ lives.

SHE’S A big girl, probably five ten in her bare feet, but well over that with her fuck-me stripper heels on. She’s all tits and ass and pale white skin, her black hair clipped in a Betty Page. There are Vargas-style pinups tattooed on both of her shoulders and a row of emerald-green, quarter-sized stars trace the edge of her collarbone above the bustline of her black vinyl minidress.

– This is Sandy Candy. Give her three hundred dollars.

The Champagne Lounge is a small, very dark room set off from the main club. I’m half-blind in here, what with the sunglasses still on my face, but I make out big padded chairs, small cocktail tables, and a handful of cowboys getting some serious full-contact lap dances from their strippers.

– Why?

– Because it costs three hundred dollars to be in the Champagne Lounge.

I peel three bills off my depleted bankroll and hand them to Sandy.

– Sandy, what do I get for three hundred?

She tucks the bills into a miniature Hello Kitty! lunch box she’s carrying.

– Tonight, you get to talk to me while I get off my feet.

– That’s some expensive talk.

– I’m known for my conversation.

T takes the little plastic pot box from his pocket and puts it on the table.

– We’re looking for a guy.

She picks up the box and shakes her head.

– Fucking Timmy.

I lean forward.

– Yeah, fucking Timmy, that’s the guy.

SHE WORKS for the same guy as Timmy.

– What the hell is your name anyway?

My name? I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

– Wade.

I look at T. He keeps his eyes on Sandy.

– His name is Wade.

Sandy nods.

– OK, Wade, here’s the deal. Like I told you, I work for the same guy as Timmy, guy named Terry. What we do, the delivery guys, we show up at work, which is this small warehouse over in Paradise. We don’t all come in together, we have different times. Staggered. Like, I used to see this therapist because I used to be bulimic because I had all these food issues because when I was a baby my mom didn’t want to mess with feeding me so she tied my bottle to the side of the crib like a hamster bottle so I could feed myself, so because of that I saw this therapist and she would stagger the patients so you didn’t have to run into anyone if you didn’t want anyone to know that you were coming to see her. I didn’t care myself, but some of them were freaky about it. Like, I came in early once and this lady was coming out of the office and saw me in the waiting room and the therapist had to come out and ask me to turn my back while this woman left. Weird. So, Terry, the boss, he does the same thing so that not all the delivery guys know each other, which is the way some of them want it in case someone gets busted. But me, I’m pretty mellow, and so is Tim. So we run into each other over there a couple times and find out that we’re both cool. So sometimes if I came up short on my stash, I might call Timmy and he’d front me so I could take care of my customers. He’s cool like that. So, the point is, we never all come in at once to get our stuff. But!

She holds her hands up like she’s about to deliver a dual karate chop. She’s a big hand-talker, Sandy is.

– But! This one day I show up and everybody is there. All the delivery guys are in there, the ones I know and the ones I don’t know. Terry, the boss, he’s not even really a boss, he’s just a dealer who pays us a commission to make these deliveries, but we call him a boss. But Terry, he’s been making us all stay until everybody is there, except Tim. And that’s when he asks if anyone has seen him around. And it looked to me like Terry did it that way so he could watch everyone all together when he asked, to see if anyone looked at each other, like they maybe knew something they weren’t telling. But no one did. And that’s pretty much it.

She peels her lips away from her teeth and grinds her molars.

– Shit, T, this is serious stuff.

I shake my head.

– So, wait, but where’s Tim?

– Hell if I know.

– That’s, that’s all you?

– For now. I tried to get ahold of Terry, you know, see if anything had popped up, but he ain’t around. I can try him in the morning, I mean after the sun comes up. But.

She shrugs.

– But, what was the last time someone saw him?

She slaps her forehead.

– Oh, shit. Right. Well, maybe Saturday because Tim always takes Sunday off and Monday was when he was missing, but that’s not what I was gonna. This other guy! I forgot to tell you.

– What other?

– Hang ooooon. OK, this other guy was in there, in the office I guess, this morning, when I went in for my pickup, and I heard him talking to Terry a little, and I think I heard him say Tim’s name, and then he left.

– Who was he?

– Well! At first, I thought the guy was a cop collecting a payoff because he was in a suit, but then when the guy left I heard him say good-bye and he can’t have been a cop, because of he had a Russian accent.

My heart jackhammers. I could say it’s just the speed. But I’d be lying.

I WALK out of the stall. At the sink, I splash water on my face and inhale, sucking it into my nose to ease the chemical burn from the bump I just did. I look in the mirror and there I am: Stetson pulled low, sunglasses still on, skin waxy and drawn under my Mexico tan, jaw muscles flexing as I grind my teeth. I turn off the sink and walk out of the bathroom, water still dripping from my moustache.

Coming out of the tiled calm of the bathroom, I am hit by the ceaseless wave of slots racket. Gding-gding-gding, punctuated by the occasional mechanical cry, “Wheel of Fortune!” or the chang-chang of a nickel machine paying out. My heart leaps arhythmically in my chest, trying to match time with the din. I freeze.

Where am I? I stand in place and turn in a slow circle and look around the Western-themed casino. I see a sign. Sam’s Town Gambling Hall. Oh, right. Sam’s Town. This is the place Sandy wanted to hang while… While? We’re waiting for something. For…

– Where have you been, baby?

Sandy grabs me from behind and wraps her arms around me, I rotate within her grasp, feeling our bodies slide against each other, and put my hands on her hips.

– Got me.

She smiles, puts a finger on the bridge of my sunglasses and pushes them down. She looks at my eyes.

– Oh, baby, you are tweaked aren’t you?

– Got me.

She laughs.

– Well, hand it over, it’s mama’s turn.

I dig in my pocket for the bindle T gave me and pass it to her. She points at the tables.

– T’s right over there.

And she walks toward the bathrooms. I turn and find T at a ten-dollar craps table.

– T, what are we doing here, man?

He tosses a chip onto the table.

– All the hards, heavy on the eight.

I stand next to him at the table, watching the multicolored chips dance across the green felt, shuttled by the croupiers. I put my hand on his sleeve.

– I mean, this is bad, I shouldn’t be out.

The roller tosses the dice. A croupier calls them.

– Seven! Craps!

T’s chips are raked from the table. He looks at me.

– We’re waiting for the call.

– What call?

He shakes his head.

– The call, man. Her boss is gonna call with some more skinny on your boy Tim.

– Right, the call.

Sandy crashes into us, giggling and grabbing at our arms to keep from falling on the floor. We catch her and get her steady on her feet. She gives us both a kiss on the cheek.

– OK, who’s buying the next round?

SANDY’S BOSS still hasn’t called.

We’re in T’s car; the three of us squeezed together, Sandy in the middle, her arms draped across our shoulders. She wants to party some more.

– I got a couple bottles of Veuve at my apartment. I got them, this regu-lar of mine is a liquor salesman and he’s always bringing me stuff, and I have these amazing bottles of champagne. So, so we take the party back to my place and we can smoke some grass, and what I love is to sprinkle a little meth over the weed and base it that way, and we’ll open the bottles and maybe I’ll do a little dance. Put on a little shoooow for you boys for being so niiiice to me.

I lean against the door and look through the window at the bluish tinge lining the edge of the valley. I look at Sandy. Her pale skin is almost glowing it’s so bloodless, her mascara has run, giving her raccoon eyes, and a smear of red lipstick is slashed from the right corner of her mouth. T is leaning forward, bony finger wrapped tight around the wheel, chewing on the butt of a Marlboro, eyes bugging at the road ahead. I shake my head.

– I’m done.

Sandy slaps my thigh.

– Doooone? C’mon, Wade, I’m talking about a party here, special prizes and giveaways and.

– I’m done.

She crawls into my lap.

– Baby, don’t be a party pooper.

I am not a pooper. I mean, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. There’s a Russian looking for Tim. What the fuck am I doing here? What the fuck am I doing? I need some sleep. I need to get this shit cleaned out of my system and get some sleep and.

Sandy is nuzzling my neck.

– C’mon over and just hang out. You can lie down if you want and then you can join the party later. C’mon. My guy’ll call soon and.

I push her off.

– No. T, we got to go home.

He keeps his eyes locked on the road.

– Fuck, man, I ain’t got to do nothin’. You want to go home, cool, but I’m gonna party with Sandy.

Sandy screams and turns around and grabs T, making the car swerve.

– See, Wade, T knows how to make a girl happy.

T UNLOCKS the trailer door.

– I’ll be back in a few hours.

He hands me the key and jerks his thumb toward the car, where Sandy is waiting.

– Sure you don’t want in?

I shake my head.

– No. I need to sleep.

– OK. Percs are in the medicine cabinet, that’ll put you down.

– No, I’m too fucked-up, doing stupid shit.

– What’re you supposed to be doing, man? We’ll talk to Sandy’s dealer later, see if he knows anything. Other than that? Pain sucks, so kill it.

He’s right, pain does suck. I have been killing it and I like killing it. It’s so easy. I worked so hard for so many years to control myself, to keep everything in balance, but it’s so much easier to just take a pill. Easier and better. But I’m starting to fuck up. And I can’t do that.

– Call me when you hear from her boss.

He shakes his head.

– I don’t have a phone in the trailer.

I take Dylan’s cell out of my pocket, turn it on, and its number flashes on the screen. T finds a pen in his jacket and writes the number on his hand. Sandy sticks her head out the car window.

– Hey, T, leave the dog here, I don’t want it crapping on my rug.

He walks toward the car.

– Sorry, baby, he’s not the kind of dog you leave at home with company.

He gets in the car and they drive off.

I’m alone.

The speed is crashing hard and I’m starting to feel all the booze I drank tonight. I’m going to be in very bad shape very soon. I open the door, step inside.

The TV is on.

I start to turn and run, but someone trips me and I fall onto the porch and I’m dragged back into the trailer. Someone sits on my back. I struggle.

– Chill, dude.

ROLF IS pissed, so he beats me up a little.

Sid sits on the couch and watches.

Rolf drags me to my feet, makes sure I see the gun Sid is holding, and punches me in the gut. I fall back on the floor and he kicks me a few times in the back and the legs, then he gets down on his knees, straddling my body, and pummels my arms and torso as I try to cover my face. And then he’s done.

He slaps the side of my head and stands up.

– You keep acting like I’m a tool, Hank. Not telling me and Leo who you really are, so we can’t do our job the right way. Then that shit in the desert? Dude. That was bogus beyond belief. But then, dude, you come here, to the address that was on that Christmas card? After you totally know that I saw the thing? I mean, do you think I smoked away all my short-term memory? Oh, and, dude, by the way, where the fuck is my money?

– Rolf, I have no clue.

He picks up a book from T’s coffee table.

– You ever read this, dude?

It’s Sid’s copy of The Man Who Got Away. I nod.

– Skimmed it.

– Yeah, well, let me read you my favorite part.

He flips to a dog-eared page near the end.

– And what was it all about? The blood and the killing? The murder of innocents? The chaos that reigned in Gotham for two days as Henry Thompson rampaged through the streets? With no survivors or witnesses left to tell the tale, we can only surmise. But were there no witnesses? What of the bodies of Edward and Paris DuRante, later identified as the duo behind a string of daring Midwest bank robberies? What of the investigations into Lieutenant Detective Roman’s dealings in the underworld and the revelations of his ties to organized crime? What of the scale of the carnage in Paul’s Bar? What might inspire such bloodshed? And, finally, what of Thompson’s utter and complete disappearance? What could facilitate such an escape? All these mute witnesses point to one thing: money. A great deal of money. Rumors on the street suggest that the long hours of fear that clutched The City That Never Sleeps were the product of the powerful lust for profit that rules the small minds of brutal men. The ill-gotten gains of the DuRante’s, estimated by some to be well over ten million dollars, were no doubt the treasure sought by the darker figures of this tale. Their error was to have swept Thompson into the storm of their greed, never knowing the beast that lurked inside his secret heart.

He holds the book out to me. I take it from him, look at the page, close it, and hand it back.

– It’s only about four million really.

Rolf jumps to his feet.

– Four million! Dude. OK! OK, we need to get organized. That guy you were with, Elvis? When’s he comin’ back?

– He said a few hours.

– Cool. So no hurry.

He looks at Sid, who’s still motionless on the couch.

– Sid, did you hear that? Four mil?

Sid shrugs, keeps his mouth shut, his eyes on the TV screen. Rolf waves a hand like he’s done with him and kneels next to me.

– Now, dude, all fucking around aside, where is the money?

What was my life like before the money? Was it a good life? Was it interesting? Did I live it well? Was I useful to other people? Was I happy? I don’t really remember anymore because I’ve heard the question Rolf is asking far too many times.

– I don’t have it, man.

– Look, dude, I understand. Four mil is a lot of money. I get it how you don’t want to let on and all. And look, I’m not, we had a deal for 200 K and you broke it. So yeah, I want more, but I’m not greedy. I’m not some asshole who wants to clear you out. I want half. So it’s like this simple question of How valuable is your life? Almost anybody would kill for two mil. And almost anybody would pay two mil to keep from getting killed. So tell me where the money is and you get two, and I get two, and everybody goes their own way. Flipside is, dude, no one gets nothing and we kill you.

Sid points at the TV.

– It’s on again.

Rolf looks at the screen

– Shit!

I catch a quick glimpse of nighttime video footage. A bunch of SWAT guys surrounding a vehicle pinned in the spotlight of a hovering chopper. Rolf switches the set off.

I look at him and smile.

– Man, that looked just like Sid’s Westphalia. You guys really need that money now, don’t you?

– Shut up.

– You may have wanted it before, but, man, you need it now. Have they shown Sid’s driver’s license photo yet?

– Shut up, dude.

– ’Cause that’ll be next. They’ll find out who that thing is registered to, and his photo will be all over the place. After that? They start looking into his known associates. Did anybody see you when you hooked up in San Diego? Any of your old buds?

– Shut the fuck up, dude!

– Or what? Look at me, I’m a fucking mess. Go ahead, beat on me some more.

He clenches his fists and shakes them.

– Just tell me where the money is, dude.

– Duuuude, I told you, I don’t know where the money is.

He talks between gritted teeth.

– Tell. Me. Where. The. Money. Is.

– In. My. Ass.

He puts his hands on my neck, holds them there, shaking. Sid is leaning forward on the couch, watching closely. I could die here. This is another time that I could die. But I don’t. Rolf takes his hand away, walks to the couch, and kicks it five times, then sits down.

– Dude, just tell me where.

– Rolf. I don’t know.

I get myself off the floor.

– But someone else does.

I tell them the truth. Sort of. I tell them about Timmy and how I have a great lead on him. I tell them all I have to do is wait for a call that will tell me where he is, and then we can go get the money.

I don’t tell them about Dylan. If they find out about him, they’ll know there is no way in hell I will ever let them near the money that can save my parents’ lives.

And the story I tell them gives me time. Time for all of us to sit on the couch and watch TV and wait for a call that may never come, while I try to figure how to get them out of here before T comes home and chaos ensues.

My phone rings.

– WHO IS it, dude?

– I don’t know.

– Well, is it your connection or whatever?

– I don’t know.

Rolf grabs the phone and looks at the screen.

– Where’s your caller ID?

I take the phone back.

– I don’t think it has that.

– You bought a phone and didn’t get caller ID? Dude, ID is key.

The phone rings for the fifth time. What if it’s Dylan? I don’t want to talk to Dylan in front of these guys. It rings again.

– Well, answer it, dude.

I hit the green button.

– Hello?

– Wade?

My stomach lurches. Then I get it.

– Hey, Sandy, what happened to the party?

– Party? Oh, yeah, baby, we got it goin’ on. But. Hey, hey, baby, good news. I, we came back to my place, and there was a message from my boss, Terry.

– Yeah?

– He says he knows something.

– Yeah?

– Yeah.

– OK, well?

– Well, yeah, but, baby, he wants some money and says he won’t. You know?

– Wait. Does he know where Tim? Hey, is T there, can I talk to?

– He’s indisposed, baby, in the john. But my guy.

– Right, your guy. How much?

– Just five. He said a grand, but I told him you were nice so I got him to go five.

– Thanks.

– Sure. So, he says the money, he wants to get the money and then he’ll tell you.

– He knows where Tim is?

– I think. He said he has some info on him, so I think so, yeah.

– So when?

– Um, he’s gonna come over in like an hour? Is that? Over here? Can you?

– Yeah, I’m just not sure how I’m.

That’s when I hear a noise in the background. A noise I now realize has been there through this whole call.

– Uh, you know, Sandy, I don’t have a car or.

– Well.

– So it’ll take me awhile and I’m still pretty fucked-up, so later would be good.

– Well, he’s really.

– So have T call and tell me what time.

I hang up. She’ll get me a later meet. But it won’t be T who calls. I’m sure of these things because of the way I could hear Hitler barking in the background. Hitler, who never makes a noise except for a fart, barking mad and angry through the whole call.

T’s in trouble.

And I’m being set up.

I look at Rolf and Sid, waiting for me to tell them what the deal is. And I realize that being set up may be just what I need right now.

SID STILL hasn’t said a word to me. He sits as far from me as possible, his arms and legs crossed. I sit on the couch between the two of them and Rolf tells me what they’ve been up to.

He tells me how, after I left them, they drove down to Vegas. How they found T’s trailer and realized there was no way to stake it out without being seen by everyone in the trailer park. He tells me how Sid decided it was time to ditch the bus. How they left it on the roof level of a parking garage at one of the malls in Paradise, Sid hot-wired a car a few blocks away, and they got a room at the Super 8 just up Boulder Highway from the trailer park. How they came back here after the sun went down last night and parked across from the park entrance until they saw T’s car leave. How they followed us, and how it wasn’t until we came back out of the apartment and they saw me take off my hat that they figured out that I was the cowboy.

Rolf nudges me.

– Cool ’stache, by the way.

I nod and look at the TV. My folks were moved back home from the motel last night. The reporters are staked out there now. The lawn is trampled and there’s a lot of empty paper coffee cups and McDonalds bags in the gutter. The reporters are milling around while a group of twenty or thirty gawkers stands behind a barrier on the sidewalk and snaps pictures. A sheriff’s car is in the driveway and a deputy is standing on the porch in front of the door. The camera zooms in suddenly as a curtain is pulled away from one of the upstairs windows, but the curtain drops back into place without anyone being revealed. That you, Mom? Dad? I’m sorry. I’m so.

I shake my head. Rolf continues.

– Anyways, when you guys came out with nothin’, we followed you over to that strip club. And, dude, what was that about?

– We needed to talk to someone.

– You took your time. We waited awhile, then I was like, let’s just blow back to the trailer and search it. I figured if the money wasn’t here we could wait for you and Elvis and jump you. And, dude? Was I relieved when he didn’t come in with that big fucking dog. Hey, here it is again.

He points at the TV. It’s the footage of the SWATs again.

The bus is isolated on the roof of the garage, centered in the jiggling helicopter spot. The team edges up, assault weapons ready, and cracks the sliding door.

Rolf talks over the footage.

– At first, we were hidden and waiting for you guys. Then it just took forever, so we turned on the set and watched this happen live around one AM. Dude, was that freaky.

One AM, when I was in a casino, the last place on earth you’ll ever get news of what’s going on outside.

The morning briefing from Sheriff Reyes comes on and Rolf unmutes the TV.

– The van, the bus, was seen in the vicinity of the collision and shooting on Nicastro Road in the twenty-four hours before, before that, those, incidents. Also, tracks we believe are from this vehicle were recovered and matched. That is, they match tracks found at the scene of the shooting of Deputy Fischer. So, and all this makes us believe that the suspect Henry Thompson and his, his, accomplices may have fled in this vehicle. We put out, with the help of the FBI, we put out a BOLO alert, a “Be On the Look Out” yesterday afternoon. Last night we received word that the vehicle had been found by officers of the Las Vegas Metro Police Department. And the focus, the focus of the investigation is, we don’t really have much to do with it anymore, and this will be, I’ll only be briefing on the case as it pertains to the crimes committed in our jurisdiction. The hunt for Henry Thompson and his suspected accomplices will be, is being… this is Special Agent Willis Tate and he’ll be briefing, answering questions about the, the hunt.

Sheriff Reyes steps aside and a man in his forties steps up to the mikes. He has a slight potbelly and a shiny bald bullet head and wears steel-rimmed glasses and a government suit. He opens his mouth to talk and Rolf mutes the sound.

– This guy. He started showing up last night. Up. Tight. Reyes is cool, like he’s your favorite shop teacher or a mellow uncle. He makes me feel safe. But, dude, this guy makes me feel oppressed, you know? Like, knowing he’s running around with his cronies makes me feel like I’m not even a citizen in this country.

Special Agent Tate speaks into the microphones. He makes a gesture toward Reyes, nods his head, and then turns back to the reporters and starts to read from a prepared document.

I point at the TV.

– We should be listening to this.

Rolf waves his hand.

– Dude, he’s just all, blah blah blah, jurisdiction, blah, good work of local authorities, blah, nobody panic ’cause I’m in charge now, blah.

Tate indicates a video monitor behind him and the camera zooms in on it. The image is fuzzy; a TV image of a TV image of a bad photo, but it’s still easy to recognize Sid in his driver’s license picture.

SID STARES at the picture of himself on the TV. After a few moments, they pull back to the shot of Tate talking at the podium, then cut back to the studio, then to a graphic showing an outline of Nevada with a series of concentric circles centered on Las Vegas. Something swirls up out of the dot that represents Vegas. It resolves into my NYC booking photo and is followed by another swirl that becomes Sid’s photo. Then letters are smashed down below them one by one, as if by a giant, red-inked typewriter: WANTED. And cut to an antacid commercial.

I look at Sid. He looks at me. And nods his head, like some suspicion he has long held has at last been proven true.

Rolf stands up.

– And on that note, dudes, I’ll be using the can.

He heads off down the hall.

Sid and I sit next to each other, the TV still on, silently trying to sell us things. He reaches across me for the remote, picks it up, and turns the TV off.

He pulls his gun from his waistband. It’s an older model Colt .45, a Gold Cup target pistol. It’s a good gun, accurate and powerful, not the kind of thing you get off the street, but a tool you buy because you know its quality. He sets it on the coffee table and stares at the floor, elbows on knees, head hanging.

– I thought about what you said, about killing people being wrong. And, dude, it’s not like I don’t know that. I know people are, like, all sacred and life is a special thing. A gift? It doesn’t have to be from God or anything, it can just be that life is this gift from the universe and it’s special because, as far as we know, there isn’t any more of it, so it’s really, really rare. And what you do with your life? What you do with this gift, dude, that, like, totally makes you who you are. I really believe that. But. I don’t think that makes killing people wrong? ’Cause if our lives are gifts, are special, then all lives are, whether it’s a bug or a cow or whatever, and we kill them all the time. So death and killing is just a part of life, a part of the universe whether God made it, or whatever, it’s just this natural thing. And some things, dude? Some animals? They kill, that’s what they do, and it just makes them what they are? And people? We’re just animals. So why shouldn’t some of us be killers? Why can’t that be just what makes some of us who we are? So I really kind of think you may not be right, and killing people isn’t “wrong.” It’s just a thing some people do.

I look at the gun. I could make a grab for it. Grab the gun while Sid is listless, his eyes on the floor. I’ll have to shoot Sid. Grab the gun, shoot Sid in the top of his head, run down the hall, and shoot Rolf while he’s still trying to get his pants up from around his ankles. I know what it looks like when people get shot, what it feels like to shoot them. I have experience with sudden violence. And violence is like anything else, the more you do it, the more you get used to it. And the better you are at it. I could make the grab and kill them both. But I don’t. Because I think I’m gonna need them.

Also, I’m afraid of Sid.

ROLF IS just coming out of the john when the phone rings again. He runs down the hall and stands in the middle of the living room. Sid picks up his gun and tucks it back in his pants. I flip the phone open and look at the clock. It’s about forty-five minutes since the first call.

– Wade?

– Hey, Sandy.

– Hey, hey look.

– Where’s T?

– Oh, baby, he passed out. You really should have come over.

I think about T while I listen to her light a cigarette. I try to imagine him passing out with anything but an elephant tranquilizer stuck in his neck. Not likely. Sandy exhales.

– You still could, you know, come over and party.

I light my own cigarette and say nothing. Her voice drops to a whisper.

– How’s that sound, a little private party?

I take a drag and jet smoke from my nostrils. Rolf has joined Sid on the couch. They sit there watching me as I pace back and forth across the tiny living room.

– What happened to your boss, that guy Terry?

– He, you know, I told him you wanted to meet later so he’s not coming by for awhile. So what about it?

– Weeell, you know I want to, but I still don’t have any wheels.

There’s a pause and a rustle, like maybe she’s covering the mouthpiece.

– I could come and get you.

I keep my mouth shut, listening. I can still hear Hitler’s nonstop barking. I flick some ash onto the carpet.

– You know what, baby, that’s great, but I still think it’s a bad call. I’m so wasted I’d probably just conk out right next to T. What time is your guy gonna show?

– Uh, well.

Another muffled rustle.

– Around twelve.

I bend over and stub my cigarette out in T’s overflowing ashtray.

– No, that’s still too early. I really need to crash.

– I, well, baby that’s up to you, but I don’t think he.

– No problem, I want to talk to the guy, but if we can’t do it later.

– No. I. When? I can probably.

– Just, you know, a little after six, maybe.

– OK, I’ll need to.

– Hey, what’s your address, anyway?

– Um, I.

I snap my fingers at Rolf and make little writing gestures in the air. He digs through the back issues of Mojo and Hustler that are piled on the coffee table and finds a ballpoint.

– What was that, Sandy?

– Um, 262 Jewel Avenue.

– 262 Jewel Ave. Got it.

I watch as Rolf writes the address in the whiteness of a naked thigh on one of the magazine’s covers.

– But, Wade, I should really talk to.

– No problem, I’ll be there right around six and Terry will either be there or he won’t.

Rolf is holding up his hand trying to get my attention.

– Gotta go, baby.

– OK, I’ll. I’ll call after I talk to Terry and.

– I’m gonna turn my phone off to get some sleep. I’ll just see you at six.

Rolf is waving his arms now. I turn off the phone. Rolf stands up.

– Dude, the Chargers game is on tonight.

– So?

– Dude, it’s a ESPN game. A Thursday night game, it starts at six.

– Rolf, believe me when I tell you, I know how you feel, but it’s about having priorities right now.

– Yeah, I know. I know I’m being lame, but, dude, I really wanted to see that game.

– It won’t take long. We’ll see the second half.

I’m out of cigarettes again. I remember T getting a pack of smokes from the fridge. I head for the kitchen. Rolf sits back down.

– You don’t think this chick and her guy are gonna freak when you show up with two extra dudes? ’Cause you know you ain’t going over there without us.

I open the freezer and pull a pack out of one of the three cartons inside. I remember Wade’s dad used to do that, keep his cigarettes in the freezer so they’d stay fresh longer. I wonder if that’s where T got it. From Wade’s dad. Wade. Did you keep your cigarettes in the fridge in your garage? Did you buy cartons and store them there and sneak out to smoke late at night? Did Stacy ever come out with you to have a couple drags and sip a beer? Shit, Wade, oh shit.

– Dude.

I come back from where I was, close the freezer door, and open the pack of Marlboros.

– Sorry. Fazed out for a second. I think I need some food and some sleep.

– Sure, but answer the question?

– What?

– Why didn’t you tell her you were bringing a couple extra dudes?

I light my fresh, cold cig and draw chilled smoke into my lungs.

– What’s the point? If I tell her I’m bringing guests, she’ll say no way. And, like you said, you aren’t gonna let me go over there alone. We just show up? What are they gonna do? The guy’s gonna want his five bills, so he’ll have to talk. And if he doesn’t want to talk, there are three of us there and he won’t want to piss us off. Either way he’ll end up telling us where Tim is.

Rolf looks at the clock on the VCR; it’s not even eight AM yet.

– We got some time to kill, dude.

– I’m gonna crash, you guys kill it however you want.

I GO to the room down the hall, take off my clothes, and lie back on the foam pad. I’m desperate for sleep, but I need to think first.

I think about our meet with Sandy at the strip club. After we talked she put the call in to her boss, this Terry guy. She said she left a message, that he’d call back. But she could have talked to him, told him there were guys looking for Tim. And he could have told her what to do: string us along, keep us out waiting for a call, keep us drinking and blowing crank. And then she just about begged us to come and party at her place. And she told T she didn’t want him to bring Hitler.

Someone was waiting at her house when she got home with T. At least two guys who work for Terry. Or maybe two Russian gangsters reneging on their deal with Dylan and coming after me for the money. Take your pick.

So I’ll go over to Sandy’s and walk into whatever trap is waiting for me, because she’s still the only lead I have on Timmy. But I’ll bring Sid and Rolf with me.

Whoever’s waiting over there won’t be ready for Rolf and Sid. Nobody is ready for Rolf and Sid. I just need to be ready, ready to grab T when the shooting starts.

I close my eyes.

The chemicals in my body are still fighting a pitched battle. My heart leaps and starts like a faulty engine.

I open my eyes.

They feel dry, almost cracked. My tongue is swollen and rough and my whole mouth is seared from inhaling smoke. I’ll never be able to sleep.

I close my eyes.

And am swallowed whole by jungle, darkness, and nightmares.

I JOLT awake, covered in sweat. The scream sitting at the back of my mouth. I bite it and swallow it back down.

Sid is sitting on the edge of the foam pad, holding my arm. He’s changed into a pair of T’s black Levis and a pink bowling shirt with the name Al embroidered over the breast pocket. He releases my arm.

– Sorry to wake you, dude. You were totally having a nightmare.

I pull the blanket up to cover my body. He looks at me.

– You OK now?

I nod. He gets up. I tilt my chin at him.

– Nice threads.

He looks down at himself and tugs at the loose waist of the jeans.

– Yeah. They’re a little big. Anyway, dude’s taste is not mine, but I need some kind of disguise, I guess. I got some shades in my pack and a bandana I can like tie like a do-rag?

I nod.

He points at my cowboy hat sitting on the edge of T’s desk.

– I get the cowboy thing, dude. I didn’t when we saw you, but then I saw all the other cowboys at the strip club and remembered the signs for the rodeo. Good call.

– Not my idea.

– Good one, anyway.

The sun is shining brightly through the hall window.

– What time is it? Can I catch a few more Zs?

– It’s early, but you better get up, dude. We have some shit to figure out.

I nod. He steps to the door, stops, looks back at me.

– I know what that’s like, dude, nightmares. If you ever want to talk, or.

He shrugs once. And leaves the room.

Sid was so high-strung when I met him at the motel in Barstow that I assumed that was what he was like. I was wrong. This is the real Sid; shy, pensive, glum. He was up at the motel because of what had happened in the strawberry field. He was up from killing Deputy Fischer. But the high has worn off. He’ll be wanting that high again. Soon.

I get up and dress.

WE HAVE a new car.

I peek out the living room window and see one of the most fabulously nondescript automobiles ever manufactured. I turn to Rolf.

– Chevy Cavalier?

– I know, dude, but it’s not like I was looking for style. I needed something easy to rob.

– Where’d you get it?

– I hopped one of those CAT buses and rode over to UNLV. Got it out of the parking lot.

– Gas?

– Dude, I’m not a fucking amateur. I stopped by a Shell and filled it up and checked the oil and shit.

– What happened to the car you boosted last night?

Sid looks up from the TV. As promised, he has tied a red and white bandana over his head and is wearing chrome-finish sunglasses that fit his face tightly, like a pair of welding goggles.

– The cops will be looking at stolen car reports from anywhere near where we dumped the Westy. That thing is no good for us.

– Where is it?

Sid looks away, embarrassed.

– About a half mile up the road. At the Super 8 we checked in to.

I stare at him.

– A half mile?

– Dude, I know.

– A half fucking mile?

Rolf puts his hands up palm out.

– Dudes, chill. Even if they find it.

– When they find that car they’re gonna wrap up this whole area. We have to go.

Sid points to Rolf.

– Told you, dude.

– Dude! You said it’d be cool.

– Well, you were all, We can’t walk too far. So, I was, like, OK, we can leave it at the motel, but we don’t want to be around it too long, and you were all, No prob, we’ll scoop up Hank and be outy. So, yeah, I said it was cool to be here for a little while, but dude, not this long.

They grab their day packs while I collect the cell phone and my hat and put on my boots. Rolf goes out and starts the Cavalier. Sid and I wait inside for him to beep, telling us the coast is clear. The car horn sounds, and Sid starts to open the door. I put a hand on his shoulder.

– Hang on.

I run back to the spare room and find the map I bought at the ampm. I head back to the front door, but stop at the bathroom. My head feels like badly scrambled eggs. As much as I need to clean it out and get it straight, I also need to be mellow and clear for the next hour. I open the medicine cabinet and get out the Percs. I try to shake one onto the palm of my hand, but a whole pile tumbles out. I put one in my mouth, start to drop the others back into the bottle, and shove them in my pocket instead. T may be in bad shape. He may need them. That’s what I tell myself.

SID AND I pile into the car, me in the back and Sid up front. Rolf pulls away from T’s trailer and stops at the exit from the park. Sid and Rolf look left. Down the highway I can see the Super 8 sign, sticking up above the telephone poles. Rolf elbows Sid.

– See, dude, no problem.

– Whatever.

– Well, where to?

Where to? It’s just after two PM. I slept for almost six hours. Might as well get started.

– Got that address?

Rolf pulls the scrap of Hustler cover from the tight pocket of his leather pants.

– 262 Jewel.

I uncrumple the map and spread it on my lap. I point to the right.

– That way.

– Dude, I thought we weren’t supposed to show till six?

I check our route on the map. Jewel Avenue is just a few miles away. Ten minutes at most.

– No problem. She kept saying the sooner the better. And this way, we’ll be done in time for kickoff.

Rolf flicks his turn signal and takes the right.

SANDY LIVES in a pink stucco tract house with a roof of fake ceramic tiles. There’s a tidy little lawn out front with a sprinkler waving water over it. A red Miata with a dented back end is parked in the driveway. T’s Chrysler and a black Land Cruiser are at the curb. Rolf drives past, flips a U-turn, and parks across the street. We sit there, the engine running, and Rolf adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see me without turning around.

– Dude, remember all that shit about me not being a tool?

I poke at one of the bruises on my torso.

– Yeah.

– Just for the record, I know something is fucked-up here.

I can see only his eyes in the mirror, staring at mine. I shrug.

– OK.

He turns around.

– What I’m saying, dude, is, let’s not fuck around here. For everybody’s spiritual and physical well-being. Is there anything going on in there we need to know about?

I look at the house, then back at him.

– I don’t know what you want me to say, man. You were there when I took the calls. Far as I know, Sandy took my buddy T home with her, he passed out, she got the call from her guy, and now we’re here. Are they gonna be displeased I brought friends? Sure as shit they are. Do I think it’s gonna be trouble? No. Could the whole thing be a setup? Shit, man, anything can be a setup. Should we be on our toes? Well, it always pays to be prudent, right? That’s all I can say. If it’s not good enough, we can drive out of here and wait for her to call again and set up something else. But I’d just as soon get this done.

He looks me over, turns back around, and looks at Sid. Sid nods. Rolf reaches under the dash and untangles the two red wires twisted together there, and the engine dies.

– OK. But, dude, if it’s fucked in there? Sooner or later we’re just gonna get sick of your shit and kill you, money or no.

He opens his door and gets out. Sid tucks his pistol into the rolled waistband of his too-loose jeans, drops the tail of his shirt over it, and we get out and follow Rolf.

From the porch we can hear Hitler barking somewhere inside the house.

Rolf taps me.

– That your buddy’s dog?

– I guess.

– What’s he pissed about?

– Nothing, he always barks.

I face Sid and Rolf.

– All paranoia aside, guys, let’s remember these are just some mellow potheads. Try to be mellow too, OK?

Rolf shrugs.

– Hey, dude, they be mellow, we be mellow.

Sid adjusts the pistol in his waistband.

– Whatever.

I ring the bell.

Hitler’s barking gets louder. I wait a minute, ring again, and hear what sounds like someone shouting at Hitler to shut up. We wait another minute, then Rolf nudges me.

– Ring again, dude.

– Hang on, they’re probably sleeping or fucking or something.

Or getting ready to jump us.

– Just ring.

He reaches past me and pushes the button three times in a row and Hitler gets even louder.

– Hang on! Who is it?

Sandy’s voice, right on the other side of the door.

– Sandy! It’s me, Wade.

Barking.

– Hey, baby, what’s up?

– I’m here. Open up.

Barking.

The door opens a crack and Sandy’s face is framed in the five-inch gap.

– Hey, hey, Wade.

– Hey, I got my shit together a little early and thought I’d come by.

– Yeah, uh.

She’s looking past me to Rolf and Sid.

– Sorry, these are my buddies. They gave me a lift over. Is your guy around, or?

– Uh, uh, yeah, he’s here, but.

She looks back into the house and then at us.

– He’s here, but your buddies, they should. Can they wait in their car? He’s in the kitchen and won’t come out till they leave.

– Yeah, sure, but they’re totally cool. Also.

I hook my thumb at Sid.

– He needs to use the can.

She bites her lip.

– Wade, this is pretty uncool. I mean you know.

– Yeah, but T knows these guys. They’re cool. Go get him, he knows these guys are cool.

– Yeah, but T, T is still out, and.

– Jesus, what did you guys?

– We just came back and smoked out and he went down.

– Is he?

– He’s cool, he’s OK, but he’s out.

– Cool, OK, but just let us in so he can use the can and then they’ll leave and we can talk. Be cool and let the guy take a leak.

– Uh.

Another glance over her shoulder.

– Uh, OK, OK, that’s cool. OK. Just, all of you can come in, that’s cool.

She pulls the door open. I step inside. The house is dark. All the curtains are drawn. I pull my shades down my nose a bit so I can peek over them. Rolf and Sid come inside. Rolf nods at Sandy.

– Hey.

She half smiles at him.

– Hi.

Sid doesn’t say anything. Sandy closes the door. She points straight ahead.

– You guys can kick it in the living room. The bathroom is just to the left.

I stay where I am.

– What’s up with Hitler?

Sandy is wearing only a shorty kimono, her legs and feet bare. All her makeup is gone, her hair mussed, face flushed. I can see now how young she is; no more that twenty. She draws the kimono tighter, hiding the stars on her chest.

– He, he freaked a little and chased my cat, so I made T put him in the master bathroom.

– Hunh.

I walk into the living room. Sandy touches Sid’s arm. Sid just stares at her. She tries a smile.

– Bathroom’s down there.

Sid looks down the hallway, the open door of a bathroom visible at its end. A closed door on its right, Hitler’s barking coming from behind it. He looks at me.

– Well, go on, man.

He looks at Rolf, then turns and walks into the bathroom and closes the door, his movements as stiff and unnatural as a robot. But he’s not afraid. He’s excited; charged with violence.

I look around the living room. Electric blue velvet couch against the left wall, matching love seat against the right, a deco coffee table between them, wood floors partially covered by a fake Moroccan rug, fireplace in the far wall, entertainment center next to it, two floor lamps with colored scarves draped over them. On the walls, framed movie posters for I Want to Live and Betty Page’s Variatease, along with a print of Klimt’s The Kiss. Billie Holiday is singing “Good Morning Heartache” on the stereo. Sandy is clearly going for a 1940s Hollywood-starlet bungalow kind of thing.

She goes to the coffee table and finds her pack of Camel Ultra Lights among a jumble of binge trash. Two overflowing ashtrays, a mirror smeared with white residue, crumpled squares of magazine paper, three empty Veuve bottles, a colored pot box like the ones we found at Tim’s, a loaded bong, and three Bic lighters. She drags hard on her cigarette.

– So you get some rest?

There’s a doorway covered by a beaded curtain next to the love seat. I’m guessing that’s the kitchen. Terry is in there, listening. I light one of my own smokes and bob my head up and down.

– Oh, yeah, I’m good to go. But, man, was I wasted.

– Yeah, me too.

I drop a spent match into one of the ashtrays and point at all the gear.

– Not too much to keep going.

– Yeah, yeah, well, me and T got started and then he, you know, and the guy, my boss, Terry, came around so we.

– Kept the party going.

– Yeah, yeah, but yeah, I’m ready to crash.

The toilet flushes and Sid comes back into the room. Sandy jams her smoke out in an ashtray and starts for the front door. I sit on the couch, Rolf drops down next to me, and Sid moves over by the fireplace. Sandy stops.

– So, you guys need to, like, go wait in the car now.

– They’re gonna stay here, OK?

She crosses her arms and shakes her head.

– Motherfucker.

– It’s cool, Sandy.

– Fucking, what is this, Wade?

– It’s cool, baby. These guys are just helping me find Tim and they need to hear what your guy has to say.

– This is so uncool and you know it is.

– Baby, the guy, he wanted a grand, right?

I take my money out of my pocket. After T shopped for me, after paying Sandy last night, and after partying my ass off, I’m down to about fourteen hundred. I count off a thousand.

– Tell him he can have it. All he has to do is walk out here and talk to us.

She looks at the money.

– This is wrong, this is so.

– Baby, take the money and go talk to the guy.

The index and middle fingers of her right hand are scissoring against each other and she’s shaking her head.

– Please. Don’t.

I push the money to the edge of the coffee table.

– I’m sorry, baby. But this is the way it’s gonna be. These guys have to stay. So take the money and go talk to your guy and make him understand. Take the money, baby.

She rubs her forehead.

– Shit.

She steps to the table, scoops up the money, and pushes through the curtain, the strings of beads swinging and clicking behind her.

She’s afraid.

And she should be.

We are violent men.

TERRY’S BEEN spending a lot of time in the gym and the tanning salon. I can tell because of the way his tailored black slacks stretch to cover his thighs, and because his light blue silk shirt with the white French cuffs and collar is hanging open so we can all look at his washboard stomach. He’s completed the look with high-gloss blond hair, sculpted straight back from his forehead, black loafers with no socks, and a Rolex. Terry may be a pot dealer, but he clearly has higher aspirations.

He sashays into the room, his arm draped over Sandy’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers dipped inside her kimono, grazing the top of her left breast. He reclines with Sandy on the love seat across from us.

– Get me a smoke, babe.

She leans forward, gets one of the Newports from the coffee table, hands it to him, and lights it.

– Thanks.

He puts his arm back around her and draws her close until her head is on his shoulder. He looks at Sid by the fireplace and then at me.

– You Wade?

– Yeah.

– I’m Terry.

He waves his cig in Sid’s direction.

– Want to tell your friend there to sit down?

– Why?

– Because he’s making me a little uptight and if he doesn’t sit I’m gonna walk out of the room and you can fuck off.

Sid doesn’t move, but Rolf looks at me.

– Dude.

I put my hand on his thigh.

– It’s cool.

Terry points his cleft chin at Rolf.

– He gotta problem?

– It’s cool.

Rolf rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. I point at the end of the couch. Sid takes three tightrope-walker steps and sits down.

– Better?

Terry nods.

– Oh, yeah, love it.

Sandy has half her face buried in his shoulder. I can see tears on the other half. Her left hand is clenched in a fist, balling the material of Terry’s shirt. Whatever’s coming is coming soon.

– Hey, Sandy.

She jumps at the sound of my voice.

– Yeah?

– You got any coffee or anything in the kitchen you could make for us?

Her lips stretch in a tiny smile.

– Uh, yeah, yeah I could.

She starts to lean forward to get off the love seat, but Terry keeps his arm around her, holding her in place.

– She’s cool here. You guys won’t be around long enough for coffee.

Sandy crouches back into his embrace and hides her face again, closing her eyes this time. Hitler is still barking, somewhere on the other side of the wall right behind me. Barking and barking and barking. Terry smokes and says nothing, a dicky smile on his face. I pull another of T’s cigarettes out of the box in my breast pocket.

– So, Terry, what’s up?

He raises his eyebrows.

– With me?

I put the cigarette in my mouth.

– Yeah.

He shrugs, the smile still on his face.

– Not much, just hanging out mostly.

Rolf slaps my leg with the back of his hand.

– Dude!

– It’s cool.

I start to light my cigarette, and realize that I am already holding a lit one. I flick my eyes up at Terry and watch the smile spread wider on his face.

– Hate it when I do that, don’t you?

I keep my mouth shut, light the new smoke, and stub the other one out in one of the ashtrays already crammed with butts. Camel Ultra Light butts. Newport butts. Pall Mall butts. Lots of Pall Mall butts. Hitler’s barking gets louder.

I look from the ashtray to Terry. He nods.

I start to move, but the sound of a shotgun being cocked to my right stops me. Terry takes a drag from his cigarette and blows a smoke ring.

– So whatsay we all be cool now and just wait for the Russian?

TERRY’S GOONS are a couple of clowns that smoke Pall Malls.

Both wear Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association T-shirts with the word CLOWN spelled out in Western-style lettering. The one with the Remington shotgun has set his outfit off with an NFR 2003 cap, while the guy with the weird little rifle is wearing a camo-patterned cap. NFR stands a few feet away, across the coffee table, covering us with his twenty gauge while the other one pats us down.

He starts with me, holding his gun in his right hand while he feels me up with his left. I look at his gun again. What the…?

– Is that a crossbow?

He runs his hand over my pockets and pulls out my phone and the last of my money, and puts everything on the table.

– Fuckin’ A right it is, boy. So don’t you go movin’ round or I’ll put a bolt through your eyeball.

I stay still. He stands back and takes a long look at me.

– He’s clean, but I can’t figure out what he’s s’posed ta be.

He points the crossbow at my face. I flinch away from it. He laughs.

– Ya s’posed ta be a cowboy? That it, you a cowboy?

He turns to face the guy with the shotgun.

– Hey, Ron, fella thinks he’s a cowboy.

He knocks the hat off my head and the sunglasses from my face.

– Shit, ya ain’t no cowboy.

Camo Hat finishes with me. He moves on to Rolf and looks at his dreads.

– An’ who the fuck you s’posed ta be, Snoop Doggy Daaaaaawg?

He laughs and puts his hand on Rolf’s shoulder. Rolf slaps it away.

– Uh-uh, dude.

Camo Hat guy stiffens and brings his weapon up in both hands. Ron shifts so he can blast Rolf with the shotgun without hitting his pal. Rolf puts his hand down. Camo Hat leans in and presses the crossbow against Rolf’s forehead.

I lean away, not knowing how much blood might spray if he shoots that thing.

– Don’ you fuck around with me, boy. This is a two-hundred-pound Exomag. I pull this trigger an’ this bolt’s gonna jump at three hundred and thirty feet per second. Know what that is in real numbers, boy? That’s over two hundred miles an hour. It’ll go clean through your skull and inta the next room and stick the guy in there.

Guy in there. Now I know where T is.

Terry flicks his cigarette. It bounces off the back of Camo Hat’s neck and Camo jumps.

– Hey! Don’t fuck around like that when I’m holding a weapon.

Terry waves his hand.

– Yeah, sure. How about this, Dale: you shut your mouth and just do your job and check them out.

Dale grunts, turns back to Rolf and starts to pat him down. Terry points at me.

– Wade.

– Yeah?

– What’s the score?

– The score?

– What’s the fucking score?

– I don’t.

– Hey! Hey! Hey!

He lights a fresh smoke and points it at me.

– Think about it.

– Wh?

– Hey! Think about what you are going to say. What’s the score?

I think about it.

– I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

He gets up and shrugs his open shirt onto the floor. I don’t think he’s quite five seven, but he’s made up for it with the weights. His skin is strained over muscles so sharply cut I can see the fibers and veins scrawled all over his torso. He looks like he’d pop if I stuck him with a pin.

– It’s like this, Wade. I’m a team player. I go along, help out the team. Somebody needs to get hurt, they get hurt. But I like to know what the score is. Couple days ago, they tell me a Russian guy is coming around for Tim. No problem, I play. Problem is, nobody tells me the score. They don’t tell me that Tim isn’t supposed to know someone is coming for him, so I tell him not to go anywhere for a couple days, and what happens? He takes off. Tim goes missing. I try to find him. I play. Then the big bad Russian comes to town, and I don’t have Tim, and suddenly my bosses want to rip me new assholes. And all of this, why? Because I didn’t know the score. Now Sandy calls me, tells me a guy is looking for Tim. I play, I call the Russian. But I still don’t know the score. And I want to know it, before the Russian gets here. Because I don’t want any new assholes. So I ask again, what’s the score? And you’re gonna tell me or I’m gonna come over there and give you some free dental work.

Sandy jumps off the couch.

– Stop it!

Terry looks at her.

– Shut it.

– Fuck you. This is my house and I don’t want any more of this in my house. Just get out of my house.

He punches her. He balls his hand into a fist and punches her in the mouth and she drops to her knees, blood pouring from her lips.

Dale turns to watch, but Ron keeps us covered with the shotgun.

Terry grabs her by her hair and yanks her to her feet.

– I said, shut it.

Blood is running down her chin and spattering her kimono. Terry lets go of her hair and she runs up the hall and I hear a door open and slam shut. Terry shakes his head.

– Chick wants to make some money, but thinks it should be easy, thinks nobody should get hurt.

I exhale. Because I know the score now. These clowns may be OK at roughing people up, but that’s their limit. That twenty gauge is a small-game weapon. And a crossbow? Not what a pro is likely to carry. As for Terry, Terry’s not a killer; he’s a girl puncher. There are only three killers in this room, and we’re all sitting on the couch. I can chill this out and put myself back in the driver’s seat and all it’s gonna take is a little talk. I open my mouth.

Hitler stops barking.

We all look.

T is slumped against the wall in the hallway. His eyes are glazed, only half open. His face is swollen and bruised and dry blood is crusted around his nostrils and lips, fingers of it dribbled down his neck. Hitler is standing next to him, teeth bared, straining forward, an invisible force holding him at bay.

Dale swings his crossbow around and aims it at Hitler.

– Control your animal, fucker!

T slumps farther. Hitler edges forward.

– Control that fuckin’ thing, boy!

Ron’s mouth is shut, his shotgun still centered on the couch. I slowly raise my hand.

– Everybody just take it easy. No one has to get hurt if we all just take it easy.

Sandy emerges from the hall behind T.

– T! No, T.

Terry shakes his head.

– Stupid bitch.

T lifts his left hand, from which a pair of handcuffs dangle, and points at Terry.

– Hitler! Auschwitz!

Hitler launches himself at Terry.

I put my feet on the coffee table and shove it.

Dale fires his crossbow.

It sounds like someone striking a steel wall with a plastic plank. The bolt hits Hitler in midair, passes so quickly through his left hind leg that it looks like a magic trick, and plunges into T’s calf, pinning him to the wall. The coffee table hits Terry and Ron in the shins just as Ron pulls his trigger. He stumbles, the barrel of the Remington jerks up, and a load of birdshot blasts a hole in the wall just over Rolf’s head. Terry falls flat on his back, his head slamming against the floor, and he gets a perfect view as Hitler soars over him and crashes into the love seat.

Sid pops up from the couch, his hand flying to his gun just as it slips down into the leg of his baggy jeans. Rolf grabs one of the sofa cushions and flings it at Ron as he swings his gun back in our direction, pumping another shell into the chamber. Ron ducks and Rolf jumps across the table at him.

Terry rolls and squirms around as Hitler scrambles back at him. Terry lunges backward and strikes the coffee table, and that’s all the running away he gets to do. Hitler latches on to the closest target. Terry starts to scream like a dying rabbit.

Sid’s gun slides down his pants leg, out the cuff, and clunks to the floor, and Dale swings his crossbow at him like a pickax. Sid leans back, the crossbow whistles past his face, Dale is dragged off balance, and Sid grabs the back of his neck and pushes him down to the ground.

Rolf has grabbed the barrel of the Remington and is lurching around the room with Ron as they struggle for control of the weapon. Blood is gushing out from between Hitler’s locked jaws as he jerks his head from side to side. I’m almost grateful for Terry’s screams, for keeping me from hearing the tearing sounds.

I grab my money and phone and step over to T. He’s out cold, keeled over on the floor, the fletched shaft of the bolt sticking out of his leg. I grab hold, and yank. The bolt doesn’t budge. It’s gone through his leg and the Sheetrock of the wall and sunk itself deep in a 2x4 stud. I look over my shoulder.

Rolf has forced the barrel of the shotgun into the air and grabbed Ron’s throat with his free hand. Ron is still holding the butt, his finger on the trigger, but has his other hand on Rolf’s throat. They swing around in a circle a couple times, and then Ron pulls the trigger, blowing a hole in the ceiling, and Rolf yelps and lets go of the gun. Sid is kneeling on Dale’s back; he’s grabbed one of the Veuve bottles and has it raised in the air. I turn my head, but hear the sound as the thick glass shatters against the back of Dale’s skull.

I try to get a grip on the arrow, but it’s too slick with T’s blood. I wrench at it anyway and my hand slides off and I end up tugging it to the side, opening the wound farther. T groans, but stays unconscious.

I need to get out of here.

Terry has stopped screaming. I look. Rolf is bent over, his arms wrapped around Ron’s waist in a bear hug while Ron brings the butt of the gun down on his back, trying to break the hold. Sid is rising, dropping the jagged, bloody neck of the champagne bottle as he reaches for one of the two others. Dale is motionless on the floor, shards of glass sticking out of his scalp and neck. Hitler is looking at me. He has released Terry and is standing on his chest looking at me as I try to free T.

I stand up. Hitler takes a step toward me, gingerly placing his wounded leg down, and then lifting it into the air and holding it there. I take a step away from T, and Hitler takes a step closer.

Ron has beaten Rolf down to his knees, but Rolf refuses to let go. Too late, Ron realizes someone is coming at him from the side, and Sid’s bottle arcs toward him before he can bring the shotgun around. The bottle splinters against his face, the gun goes off, one of the silk-covered lamps explodes, Hitler flinches and blinks, and I turn and run.

The door next to the bathroom is open. I lunge through it, spin, see Hitler running at me, and slam the door closed just as he crashes into it. The force of two two-hundred-pound bodies colliding sends us both hurtling backward. I hit a wall and watch him scrabble on the bare wood floor of the hall and come back at me. I kick the door and it bangs closed and latches as he piles into it, cracking the lower half, and starts trying to dig through it.

I turn and get only a glimpse of a big brass bed with a leather jacket draped on one of the posts and bloodstains on the sheets. I tear across the room to where Sandy is climbing out the window with an Adidas bag around her shoulders. She’s crying and trying to pull the bag loose from where it’s gotten caught on the window lock, and doesn’t know I’m in the room until I yank the bag’s strap free and shove her out the window to fall a few feet into the flower garden outside. I get one foot on the sill, then dive back into the room, grab the jacket from the bedpost, and jump out the window.

Sandy is still picking herself up. I hook the bag strap and start dragging her after me as I head for the path that runs to the front of the house. Sandy screams and tries to pull free. I wrench her to me, wrap my left arm around her neck, and lock my hand over her mouth. She struggles and scratches at my arm and I give her a hard shake, still pulling her along.

– Sandy. Stop it. You’ll die if you don’t stop. You’ll die.

She stops, but I keep her in the headlock, my hand over her mouth. We round the side of the house and start down the short path to the gate that opens onto the driveway. I stop at the back door and peek through a gap in the curtains.

It’s awful.

Dale is still immobile, unconscious or dead. Ron is on his back, rolling from side to side, his face covered with both hands, blood streaming from between his fingers. Terry is still alive and has somehow gotten himself flipped over, inching himself toward the front door, leaving a snail-trail of blood in his wake.

Sid has recovered his .45 and is standing over Ron, watching him writhe. He starts to raise his foot. Rolf has Ron’s shotgun and is pointing it up the hallway. T has come to and is holding his hand in the air, out toward Rolf, warding him off. Hitler is barking in the hall.

I start to look away, but I’m too late and I see it all. Sid’s foot coming down on Ron’s face. Rolf pulling the trigger. The blast that was deafening in the small room is just a muffled pop out here.

Hitler stops barking and T screams and struggles to pull his leg free of the arrow holding him prisoner. That’s all I can take.

I haul Sandy to the gate and look over it. Nothing. A quiet street, everyone at work or inside resting up for a late shift. I push the gate open and start down the drive toward T’s Chrysler, holding his jacket collar in my teeth, feeling at the pockets until I find the keys. I walk around the car, open the driver’s side door, and shove Sandy inside, pushing her ahead of me into the passenger seat. She pulls the door handle and tries to climb out. I grab at her and get a handful of hair, pull her in, and get the door closed. I let go of her hair.

– They’re killing people in there, the guys I came with are killing people. We have to go. You have to go with me.

She doesn’t move, so I go to stick the key in the ignition and miss. I try again and miss again and grab hold of my shaking right hand with my shaking left hand and manage to guide the key home. I start the car, over-revving, and drop the gearshift into drive as the front door of Sandy’s house flies open and Sid and Rolf run out.

Sandy screams and I jam my foot down. The tires spin and smoke and we fishtail away from the curb as they run to the sidewalk. I straighten the car out and we’re in the middle of the street, speeding away. I look back and see Sid pointing his gun at us and Rolf grabbing him and pulling him back up toward the house before he can shoot.

And we turn the corner and drive away, the trail of blood behind me stretched longer still.

WHEN I was a kid and I’d do something stupid, Dad would sit me down and ask me, “What were you thinking?” I’d shrug and say, “I dunno.” He’d nod and put a hand on my shoulder and say, “You weren’t thinking, were you?” And I’d say, “No, I wasn’t.” He’d tell me he knew I wasn’t thinking, because he knew I was a smart kid and if I stopped and thought things through, I’d do the smart thing. All I had to do was stop and think and I’d do the smart thing. Always.

How am I doing now, Dad?

I DRIVE us back to Boulder Highway, take a left, drive up the road, and pull into the first parking lot I see: The Boulder Station Hotel. I park the Chrysler near the other cars in the lot, leave the engine running, and reach under Sandy’s seat. The plastic bag snags on something and I give it a yank and it tears and the guns and the boxes of ammo spill out onto the floor next to Sandy’s feet. She gives a little shriek at the sight of the guns and pulls her feet up onto her seat as if the footwell were full of spiders. I flip the cylinder open on the Anaconda, pop open the box of Magnum shells, and start to load the revolver. My hands are still shaking, it’s hard to get the rounds in their chambers, but I manage. I close the cylinder and turn around in my seat and look out at the highway through the back window. I give it a couple minutes and see no sign of Rolf and Sid chasing us. I turn around.

Oh, my God. Oh please, Jesus. I close my eyes and see Terry crawling, trailing blood. Oh, Jesus, what have I done? I open my eyes and see the gun in my hand and raise it and press the barrel against my forehead.

– Jesus, oh, Jesus. Make it stop, please make it stop.

– Nonononononono.

Sandy is pressed against the passenger door, still in her kimono, blood still trickling from her mouth, staring at me, as I’m getting ready to kill myself. I pull the gun away from my head and drop it in the back-seat.

– It’s OK.

– Nonono.

– It’s OK, Sandy. It’s over. It’s OK.

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 tits and ass 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. Fuckin’ 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 grass 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 fucked-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 pissed him off, and he was also pissed 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 fucking 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 craps 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.

– God, I love Percs. Got any more?

– Later. What happened when we showed up?

– Nothing. Oh, except Terry got pissed again, but he’s always getting pissed 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, bitching 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 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 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 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 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.

– 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 pretty 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.

– Fuck.

Sandy reaches for it and I knock her hand away.

– Don’t touch that!

She holds her hands in the air.

– Excuse fucking me.

I pick up the phone, take it in the bathroom, and close the door. It rings a third time and I push the green button.

– It’s me. I’m here. I’m sorry, I.

– Dude, that you? Don’t you ever check your messages? Hey, I got someone here wants to talk to you.

I listen while Rolf passes the phone off.

– Hank? They killed Hitler. They killed my dog.

I COULD let him die. I could tell Rolf and Sid to fuck off. They have no idea where I am. I could just let them kill T, and their part in all this would be over. I mean, who is T? Just a guy I barely knew in high school. Just a crazed speed freak with a death wish anyway. Just a guy who wanted to help me protect my parents for no reason other than he misses his own.

Shit.

And anyway.

Tim is gone.

My friend took the money and he’s gone. That’s clear now. And my choices are gone with him. The ship is sinking and it’s time to get as many people off as possible.

I lie again.

I tell Sid and Rolf I know where the money is. I tell them I got Sandy to tell me where Tim is and I found him and he told me where the money is. They want to know where he is now. I tell them something they’ll believe, I tell them I killed him.

They want to meet where the money is, but I tell them no chance. I tell them we’ll meet someplace public, they’ll let T go, and I’ll take them to the money. They like that idea because it means they get the money and me. We decide to do it at the hotel. They’re calling from a pay phone outside a supermarket. Sandy gives them directions and the name of the guy at the front desk. He’ll set them up with a room, and then they’ll call us and we’ll do the swap.

After I get off the phone Sandy goes down to the front desk to pay for the extra day on our room and to tell her guy that some friends of hers will be coming in.

I make my call.

– Who the hell are Rolf and Sid, Henry, and why are they leaving you messages?

It should have been obvious, I guess. He gave me the phone after all, so of course he has the code to retrieve all the messages Rolf and Sid left for me.

– More to the point, what are they doing talking about my money?

– Take it easy, Dylan.

– Don’t. Don’t even start, Henry. I have been very patient with you, treated you like a professional, and where has it gotten us? You blow off the deadlines for two progress reports, and when I investigate your absence I discover you have been receiving calls from people who seem to be trying to make a deal for my money. And who are these people? No, don’t answer that because I think I know. Sid, I gather, would be the Sidney Cain the authorities are looking for, and Rolf is most likely the nameless gentleman whose sketch is now being circulated. Are these your allies, Henry? Are these the kind of subcontractors you have employed? If so, and I am certain that it is so, I can only call your judgment questionable. No, pardon me, I am being sarcastic, let me be more blunt. You’re fucked-up! You are completely fucked-up and you are pushing me and your parents very close to the fucking edge!

– I have the money, Dylan.

– Where?

– Here.

– Here being Las Vegas, if I am to believe the news reports?

– That’s right.

– Well it is Friday night, Henry. Don’t you think you should be rushing my money to me?

– I can’t

– Why not?

– Because my picture is on the TV, Dylan, and I can’t really travel much.

– What do you propose?

– Come and get it.

I give him the address where I plan to be and hang up.

I try to make myself see this ending with my parents still alive.

I snort two fat lines of crank to give me an edge, and eat a Perc to keep from feeling anything.

All I have to do now is kill everybody.

ROLF CALLS my cell from their room and tells me the number. I tuck the Anaconda and the 9 mm in my pants and give Sandy the keys to the Chrysler and tell her to wait here for fifteen minutes and then leave if I’m not back.

– Where?

– A lawyer, go to a lawyer and tell your story.

– And then what?

– You didn’t do anything. If they’re any good, they’ll get you out of trouble and sell your story to Fox. So just find a good lawyer.

I open the door to go to Rolf and Sid’s room.

The problem is, Sandy didn’t tell her guy at the desk not to give Rolf and Sid our room number, which is why Sid is standing right outside our door, shoving his .45 in my face and forcing me back into the room.

SID STILL isn’t talking to me. I open my mouth to say something, and he shakes his head, and I close it. He looks disappointed in me.

He takes my guns and makes Sandy and me lie side by side on the floor in the little space between the beds. He sits in the room’s only chair and watches us. Sandy is shaking. I put a hand on the back of her head.

I should have sent her to the car right after she came back up from the desk, but she took forever to get her shit together and get dressed. I should have known they’d have something planned. That’s me, three steps behind, as usual. There’s a tap on the door. Rolf. Pissed again.

He grabs me by my hair and drags me out from between the beds. Sandy whimpers and clutches at me, but Rolf yanks me free and she wriggles under one of the beds. I get to my hands and knees, crawling as he leads me around the room by my hair.

– Dude, you are so fucking lame.

– Cool it, Rolf.

– Did you just tell me to cool it?

He pulls my head back so he can see my face.

– You still think I’m a tool, don’t you, dude?

He slaps me.

– You think I’m a tool, and that makes you think you can get away with this lame shit.

SLAP!

– Think you can ditch us?

SLAP!

SLAP!

– Stop it, Rolf.

– What?

Gritting my teeth.

– Just stop, man. Be cool.

– Oh, I’m being cool, dude.

SLAP!

– Be cool. Let’s go to your room and cut T loose and then we’ll get the money and.

SLAP!

– The money, dude? Dude, you really do think I’m a tool.

SLAP!

– Yeah, man, you come here with T and I’ll take you to the money. How many times do you think you can tell the same fucking lie, dude? You’re so like the boy who cried money. You tool.

SLAP!

– Well, news flash, dude: I’m not here for the money, I’m here for you. I mean, fuck that wild goose. Your friend and the cash are gone, any asshole can see that.

SLAP!

– But you, dude? I can go two ways with you. I can use you to cut a deal with the cops. Or, dude, I chop your fucking head off for a souvenir and just run back to Mexico with the 75 K I already got. Once I’m back in Margaritaville, no one can find me. So who’s the tool now?

SLAP!

– Huh? Who’s the tool now, dude?

Rolf taps his finger hard between my eyes.

– Tool. Tool. Tool. Tool. Tool.

And his head explodes.

Sid gets off the chair, a whiff of smoke drifting from the barrel of his gun. I don’t move. I can’t. My face is pressed against the carpet, I can see Sandy under the bed. Frozen like me.

Sid takes a couple steps. He puts his foot on Rolf’s shoulder and shoves him onto his back. I can see the little hole punched though Rolf’s left eyebrow, and the big hole in the top of his head. The blood is pumping out, which means his heart must still be beating, which means he’s still alive. But I guess I knew that already because of the way his mouth is opening and closing, like a fish drowning on dry land.

Sid grabs a pillow from the bed. He places it over Rolf’s face, pushes the gun deep into it, and pulls the trigger. He takes the pillow away, looks at the hole where Rolf’s upper lip used to meet his nose, then looks at the bloodstain on the back of the pillow. He drops the pillow back on Rolf’s face and looks at me.

– Dude, you still got your buddy’s car?

I nod. He points at Sandy.

– Get the girl, dude, we gotta get out of here.

I coax Sandy out from under the bed and she huddles against the wall, staring at Sid. He opens the door. I remember something.

– Hang on, Sid.

I go to Rolf’s corpse, lift his shirt, and tear off the money belt.

– We may need this.

Sid nods.

– Yeah, dude, good thinking.

THE EL Cortez is a very cheap hotel; the walls are about as thin as you would expect. Sid did a good job deadening the sound of the second shot with that pillow, but the first one was more than loud enough. When we step into the hallway, every door on the floor slams shut simultaneously as our nosy neighbors duck back inside. Sid walks us down the hall to the fire stairs. He stays behind us, his gun in his hand, my guns in Sandy’s Adidas bag draped over his shoulder.

The fire alarm sounds as soon as we open the door to the stairs. We’re on the eighth floor; by the time we hit the fifth, a few people have started joining us on the stairs. I think about making a move in the confusion, but it will only get people hurt. Besides, I want to stay with Sandy. I want to get her out of this if I can.

We exit onto the Sixth Street sidewalk, into the middle of a crowd that has been evacuated from the casino. We walk through the mass of fixed-income seniors and hard-core lowball gamblers that inhabit the Cortez, and turn onto Fremont Street, past the main entrance to the hotel. Just as we make it onto the tarmac of the parking lot, I see two beefy security guards escorting a blue-haired woman in a nightdress. She sees us and points. One of our neighbors from the eighth floor. One of the guards lifts his walkie-talkie to his lips while the other one undoes the brass button on his blue blazer and starts to trot after us.

– Halt!

We walk around the corner of the wall that surrounds the parking lot. Sid tells us to stop. He turns and flattens against the wall. The security guard comes around the corner. Sid shoots him in the ear. Sandy screams and tries to run, but I grab her, knowing that he will shoot her down if I don’t. He takes us to the Cavalier and opens the trunk. T is inside. His wrists and ankles are bound with wire, and a gag is stuffed in his mouth. There’s more blood on his face than before, and a red-soaked pillowcase is wrapped around his calf where the crossbow bolt hit him. But he’s conscious. When the lid pops open he lunges weakly at Sid, who brushes him off.

– Get him out of there.

I reach into the trunk, wrap my arms around him, boost him on to my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and start walking to the Chrysler. Sirens are approaching. Sid makes Sandy open the trunk of the Chrysler. There’s an old blanket inside, probably Hitler’s. I lay T on top of it. His left eye is swollen shut and his right has blood in it, but he’s looking at me, seeing me. The gag is made out of duct tape sealed across something stuffed in his mouth. His nose is swollen and clogged with blood. He’s slowly suffocating. I look at Sid.

– I’m taking his gag off.

I rip the tape away before he can stop me, but he doesn’t seem to care. He watches me, studying my moves. I pry a blood-slimed piece of cloth from T’s mouth. He chokes and grabs my hand and hisses.

– Save me.

Sid pushes Sandy at the trunk.

– Her too.

She tries to take a step back, shaking her head from side to side, her hair flailing the air. I pull her to me and slip my arm under her legs, lifting her as if to take her across a threshold, and deposit her next to T. Her eyes are huge. She’s trying to say something; another scream will burst from her mouth in a moment. I slam the lid closed, muffling her cry and cutting off T’s guttural pleas.

Sid hands me the keys and we get in, me behind the wheel, him beside me, holding his gun. We pull out of the lot, away from the El Cortez, as emergency vehicles arrive. I catch a glimpse of the other security guard kneeling next to his dead partner, and then we are back on the Boulder Highway.

Sid wants a hideout.

– Dude, twenty-four hours of cruising around in that Cavalier? Talk about ill shit. Don’t want to be on the road in a stolen car, don’t want to risk trying to steal a new one. Don’t want to park too long in one place and have people being all, Hey, what’s with the two dudes sitting around in that car for so long? So cruise, park, call you, leave another message, cruise some more. And talk about golden tickets? Finding your cell number written on T’s hand? Huge. I mean, dude, that’s the only reason he’s alive. I mean, if we didn’t have a way of talking to you and threatening to kill him? What would be the point, right? So it all worked out. But if I don’t get to sit still for a few hours, I’m gonna freak. Also, dude, like you probably noticed this by now, but I totally reek.

He’s on a killing high again.

Feeling real.

And he wants to take a shower.

I take him to T’s trailer.

I SLOW down as we get closer, and point at the Super 8 up the road.

– You seen any news?

– Naw, dude, told you: drive, park, call, drive some more.

– They found that car you stole.

– Yeah?

He points at the entrance to the trailer park.

– Think they found this place?

I shrug.

– Might have, if someone from the Super 8 saw you guys come over here. You want a place to rest, this is the best I can do.

– OK, dude, it’s cool. Let’s do it.

He hefts his gun.

– But, dude, if there are cops? It’s, like, blaze of glory time.

I can tell he’s into the idea. But there aren’t any cops.

HE WON’T let T and Sandy out of the trunk. That’s OK with me. It means they’re out of the way.

Inside, we flip on the TV. The local stations are covering the parking-lot killing at the Cortez. They don’t know about Rolf yet. Soon, someone will see the dreadlocks on Rolf’s corpse and realize he’s the guy in the police sketch going around, and then CNN will pick up the story.

Sid makes me come into the bathroom with him. I sit on the toilet. The crank I sniffed at the hotel is peaking. My knee is bouncing up and down while I grind my jaw. He stands in front of the door and starts to strip, his gun on the edge of the sink right next to him.

– That was hairy back at that chick’s house, dude. Seriously, I didn’t know what the play was gonna be, but when your dude showed up with his huge dog? That was whack. What kind of dog was that?

– English Mastiff.

– Dude, that was a big dog.

– Sid?

He puts his right foot up on the sink.

– Dude?

– Why did you kill Rolf?

He starts to unlace his moccasin.

– Dude.

He pulls off the moccasin, switches feet, and starts to unlace the other one.

– He was being a dick.

He pulls off the other moc and stands there, looking at it and fiddling with the laces.

– He was, you know, pretty cool to me and my sis when I was a kid. And it was cool when I visited him in Mexico that time. And I thought it was awesome when he showed up and asked me for help. But. Shaaaw! All he was about was getting paid and getting high. And I started remembering things? Like, how, when he was hooking up with my sis, how he used to like to pick on me and be all Mr. Cool, like he always knew everything. And. And nothing was, like, real to him. Like, he wanted to kill you, right? After. After you left us in the desert, all he could talk about was how we’d find you and then get your money and then I was supposed to kill you? But. Dude. I. I didn’t want to. I mean. Dude, I was pretty, I don’t know, hurt by that, you splitting. But I understood. And even after you blew us off again and Rolf was all, OK, that’s it, his ass is dead and fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck, and all. Even then? I kind of had an idea of what you’re about and why you had to leave us.

He strips off his pants. Standing there in his Fruit of the Looms, looking like the skinny kid he is.

– I mean, it’s like. I meant what I said before, about being a fan. And. More than that? A, like, a admirer? And I also felt like I understood, because you’re like, all about survival, and I get that. Like, you’re all, Whatever I have to do to stay alive I’ll do it and fuck everybody else. And that makes total sense to me, and what Rolf was about didn’t. Make sense. And I didn’t want to kill you. Because. Because it seemed like being with you was real and honest, and being with Rolf was a lie. And I just want to lead a real life and do real things that affect people and change things. And then. Dude. While we were driving around? He was treating me like I did something wrong. He was all, Where were you and why didn’t you shoot him and what’s wrong with you? And at the hotel back there? He was, he was being such a dick. He was doing shit just like my dad used to do to me. Picking. Asking questions that he so already knew the answer to. Like to make himself feel big. And it totally doesn’t matter what you say because he’s gonna beat the shit out of you no matter what. I know all about that game and. And.

He rubs his eyes.

– And, I guess, I just realized that Rolf was full of shit, and you’re not. So I shot him.

He pulls off his underwear.

– Sit on your hands.

I sit on my hands. He picks up the gun and pulls the bath curtain open and steps onto the mat between the toilet and the edge of the tub. Still facing me he reaches back and twists the hot water knob. The pipes wheeze and gurgle and spit a jet of scalding water onto his arm, shoulder, and neck.

He flinches away from the water, turning his head, and I kick him above the knee. His feet skid on the bath mat and he tumbles into the tub, clunking his head on the tile and falling into the stream of boiling water.

– Fuck! Fuuuuck!

He still has the gun. He’s flopped in the tub sideways, his legs hanging out over the rim, blood starting to well from the cut on his forehead where he smacked it. He’s trying to draw a bead on me and get out of the way of the scorching water. His skin is already turning bright red.

I drop from the toilet seat onto the floor as he pulls the trigger, exploding the toilet tank. He kicks at me as I reach through the billowing steam and grab hold of his gun hand. The long sleeves of my shirt give me a moment’s protection, and then the water has soaked through and is burning my arms, droplets splashing onto my face and eyes as I try to grip his slippery, naked skin.

He’s flailing at me with his feet, kicking me in the ribs as I lean over the edge of the tub, one hand holding his wrist and the other peeling his finger back from the trigger, bending it. He’s slapping at the hot water knob with his free hand, trying to turn it off, but he twists it the wrong way and it pounds down on us, scalding the side of my face. His finger snaps and I bend it until it’s pressed flat against the back of his hand. He lands a kick on the side of my head that sends me falling backward into the cold toilet water pooling on the floor.

The sudden cold makes me feel just how bad my burns are and I scream. Sid’s mouth is wide open, but a whistling rush of air is the only sound coming out. He pulls his legs into the tub and gets them underneath his body and starts to stand up. The water is still crashing on him and he’s twisting the knob with his left hand. I reach back into the tub and grab one of his legs. He points his gun at me, but his broken trigger finger dangles uselessly. The stream of water fades to a dribble and I yank on his leg and he falls back into the tub, swinging the gun at me on the way down and cracking me in the skull.

The world flips.

The world rights itself.

The gun has bounced out of Sid’s hand and landed in a puddle of steaming water at the hair-clogged drain. Sid paws at it with his lobster-red left hand and shoves his mauled right hand in my face, trying to hold me at bay. His broken finger slips into my open mouth and I bite it. He screeches and slaps his left hand against my right ear, setting off an explosion of pain. I swing my right arm up in an arc, wrapping around his left arm, bring it down, and squeeze my elbow into my side, pinning his arm in my armpit. He’s on his back now writhing in two inches of seething water. His right hand is squirting blood into my mouth, the other is trapped, and his legs are useless inside the tub. I punch him in the face with my left fist, and throw myself on top of him in the tub.

He’s pinned beneath me. He pulls hard on his left arm and it starts to slip free. The flesh at the break in his finger is starting to tear between my teeth. I wrap my left hand around his throat and let his left arm free and he grabs my lower lip and pulls down, trying to free his other hand from my jaws. I reach beyond his head into the puddle of hot water and wrap my fingers around the butt of his pistol. Too late, he realizes what is happening and grabs at my right arm. I lean all my weight into my left arm, squashing his throat. His mouth flies open and I shove the gun inside of it until I feel the tip of the barrel hit the back of his throat and he starts to gag on it.

I pull the trigger. Water drains from the new hole in the bottom of the tub.

WHEN I open the trunk Sandy hits me in the arm with the lug wrench. I take it from her and we get T into the back seat. I give the keys to Sandy and she gets behind the wheel and drives us to Tim’s apartment.

The only place left to hide.

SANDY PLAYS nurse. She gets us inside, puts T in Tim’s bed, fills the tub with cold water, and cuts the clothing from my body with a scissors from Tim’s desk. Once I’m in the tub, she empties all the ice trays into it.

My right arm and hand are raw and red and dotted with white blisters. My knees are also scalded, but not as bad. I know the right side of my face and neck are bad, but I can feel the pain, so the tissue damage can’t be too deep. My vision is speckled with black dots and I don’t remember what happened right after I shot a hole in the back of Sid’s mouth. I try to remember some details and the black dots blur into a single huge dot and I find myself choking on ice water. Sandy pulls me up, out of the tub before I drown. I get up and stand on the linoleum floor while she blots my skin dry as gently as she can. I think it’s a safe bet that Sid aggravated my concussion when he smacked me with his gun.

There’s no burn cream in Tim’s bathroom, but there is a bottle of aloe. We smear that over my scalded skin. There’s nothing to use as a burn bandage except some Saran Wrap from the kitchen. Sandy carefully wraps it around my knees, arm, shoulder, and neck. My face and hand will have to go without. She drapes a sheet around me like a toga and helps me into Tim’s room and I sit on the edge of the bed. T’s awake.

– My dog.

– I’m sorry, T.

– My fucking dog.

– I know.

– Gonna kill the fuckers.

Too late.

Sandy has already stripped him and wrapped a towel around his calf. It’s still bleeding. My hands are shaking from the speed and I don’t think I could hold a needle in my burned right hand anyway. And I could just black out again at any moment. Sandy shakes her head when I ask if she thinks she can sew him up. We have to stop the bleeding.

I give T two Percs and he goes out. I tell Sandy to try and clean up his face and I go in to the kitchen. I want two Percs. Really, I want all the Percs in the world, but I’ll have to live with the one I took back at El Cortez. In the kitchen I find a serving spoon. I turn one of the stove’s gas burners to high and set the handle of the spoon in the flame and go back to the room with a whiskey bottle. We unwrap T’s leg and bathe it in Tullamore Dew and I have Sandy hold a clean towel around it while I go for the spoon. I hold it, the glowing handle sticking out of a wet rag, and press it into one end of the hole in T’s calf. He jerks and I tell Sandy to hold the leg tighter and she gags at the sound and the smell and then it’s over. Then we do it again, cauterizing the other end of the hole, as well.

That’s all I can do for my friend. There’s a murdered body at his home and his car was seen speeding away from the scene of another murder and soon the cops will be after him, and when they catch him they will send his ass back to California and lock it up for the rest of his life.

So he has to go now.

SANDY DRESSES T in a pair of Tim’s shorts and a Les Paul Live at the Iridium sweatshirt. I find a pair of overalls that touch as little of my burned skin as possible.

T comes to as we slide him into the backseat of the Chrysler.

– What the fuck?

– Hey, T.

– What the fuck?

– Yeah, I got that.

Sandy gets behind the wheel and buckles herself in. I sit in the passenger seat, but don’t close the door. T focuses his good eye on me.

– You look all fucked-up, superstar.

– It’s going around.

– I wanna go home.

– I’m sorry, T, you can’t.

– Fuck you.

– I’m sorry about your dog, T.

– Said, fuck you.

– Thanks for helping me. I.

I shake my head, unable to finish. He reaches out a hand, puts it on my arm, and closes his eye.

– Fuck. You.

His hand slides off and he’s asleep again.

I close the door and go stand next to Sandy’s open window.

– You sure?

She runs a finger around the steering wheel and nods.

– Yeah. My fault he’s all fucked-up, anyway.

– OK. Just find a place out of the way, over the state line where the cops won’t look for him. Arizona, not California.

– I’ll find someplace safe.

– And get rid of the car as soon as.

– I will.

I show her the money belt, now stained with the blood of three men.

– Take what you need and give the rest to him.

– What about you?

– I don’t need money anymore.

I hand her the belt.

– Once he’s safe from the cops, go find a lawyer for yourself. You’ll be fine if you.

A car comes down the street and I duck to avoid the headlights as it passes. She points at Tim’s apartment.

– Get back inside.

– Yeah.

I touch her shoulder with my left hand. She brushes it off and starts the car and turns on the headlights and pulls away from the curb. And just like early yesterday morning, T and Sandy are driving away, leaving me alone. I watch until they turn the corner, and then go upstairs.

I GAVE Sandy some of the Percs to feed to T for his pain. I sit on Tim’s couch and spread the ten Percs I kept on the coffee table, right next to the Anaconda and Danny’s 9 mm.

IT’S GOING to be easy.

Doing this is going to be so easy.

DYLAN WILL come here to this address. He’ll come himself because he won’t trust anyone else to get his money. He may bring muscle, but he’ll come. I don’t care about muscle. I just need Dylan here.

At first I wanted him here so I could threaten him and force him to make a call, make him tell his men to back off. And then I could kill him. But that’s not the smart thing to do. I’ve finally figured out the smart thing. The smart thing is for me to die.

But I need him here for it to work. I need him to see my corpse with his own eyes. He’ll get the message. It’s over. The money is lost and it’s over. He’ll call in his dogs and leave Mom and Dad alone. Killing people costs a lot of money and it involves risk. Dylan is an asshole, but he’s also a businessman. After all, who’s gonna drop a nuclear bomb on their enemy when the enemy is already dead?

This is the smart thing. I’ve thought about it, and I’m sure.

I could use a gun, but I don’t have the guts. Funny that. So I swallow the Percs one by one, washing them down with Tim’s Tullamore Dew.

It’s nice, not having to worry anymore. Not having to worry about staying in control, about keeping it all together, about what to do next. I can just take these pills and they’ll do all the worrying for me. I love you Mom and Dad. But I don’t want to hurt people anymore.

– HOLA?

– Pedro, it’s me.

Silence.

– Pedro?

– Si?

– Have you seen the news, do you know?

– Si. I know.

– I should have told you.

Silence.

– How’s Leo?

– He will be OK.

– The police?

– We will be OK.

– OK.

Silence.

– How’s Bud? Is he?

– The cat is fine. The hijos love the cat.

– Good.

I hear a voice in the background, Ofelia. Pedro covers the mouthpiece and says something to her and then comes back on.

– I must go.

– Yeah, I’m sorry.

– No problema.

– Good-bye, Pedro.

– Via con Dios. Henry.

I hang up. My hand goes to my neck, but I’ve lost the holy medal he gave me. Where? Doesn’t matter. Not likely that any saints are going to be looking out for me these days.

I probably shouldn’t have made that call. But it was the closest I could get to calling home. I look at the clock. How long since I took the pills? How much longer will it take? My eyes drift shut. I open them. Not long.

I flick on the TV to pass the time. I flip past CNN and ESPN. Cartoon Network is doing a twenty-four-hour marathon of Christmas shows. I settle in to watch.

I black out.

I’M SITTING on Tim’s couch. The TV is on. It’s a cartoon. A Charlie Brown Christmas. It’s the part where Linus stands on the stage and the spotlight turns on and he explains the meaning of Christmas. My favorite part.

– Hank.

I turn my head. Tim is sitting next to me on the edge of the couch.

– Hey, Timmy.

– Thank God, man. I wasn’t sure you would ever wake up.

I point at the TV.

– Let’s watch this.

– OK.

We watch Linus finish his speech and then a commercial comes on. I turn back to Tim.

– Where ya been, Timmy?

– New York.

– No kidding. How’s the old neighborhood?

He shrugs.

– The same. You know.

– Yeah.

He reaches out a hand to touch me, but doesn’t.

– Hank, you look pretty messed up.

– Well, yeah.

– Maybe we should do something.

– Sure.

– And I think I should get you out of here.

– Sure.

He stands up. I hold up my finger.

– Hang on just a sec, I got something for you.

I reach out my burned right hand and pick up the Anaconda. He takes a step back.

– Hank.

The revolver feels like it’s on fire. I point it at his stomach.

– Don’t worry, Timmy. This is gonna hurt me a lot more than it’s gonna hurt you.

And it does hurt. The huge weapon bucks in my hand and the pain flares up my arm. But it probably hurts him more.

A LOUD noise wakes me up.

I’m sitting on Tim’s couch. The TV is on. It’s a cartoon. A Charlie Brown Christmas. It’s the part where Charlie tries to decorate his pitiful tree and it collapses and he thinks he’s killed it, but then his friends come and make it beautiful. It’s the end.

– Hank.

I look at the floor. Tim is sprawled there, a huge hole in his stomach, his hands pressed over it, trying to keep the blood inside, but it’s spilling everywhere. Something is hurting my hand. I look. I’m holding Wade’s Anaconda. I drop it.

– Timmy?

– Oh shit. Oh shit, Hank.

Nonononono.

I slide to the floor.

– Timmy.

– What? Hank? What?

– Oh. Oh. OK, we can. I can.

– Hank. I did.

– What?

– I did what you told me. I did.

– It’s OK, man, just be.

– I went. Ohgodohgodohgod. This guy from, from New York was, I heard this guy was coming. A Russian. Hank, there’s a Russian.

– I know. Shhhh. I know.

– And I did what you said. And I. You told me if anyone came to. You told me.

– I did. I know. It’s OK.

I’m pressing my hands into the wound, but there’s too much of it to cover.

– You told me to get out if anyone came, and I did, I took the money and I.

– Of course you did, you’re a good friend, Timmy, I knew you’d.

– And my beeper. Ohshiiiiiit. I’m such a idiot. You were gonna call my beeper. But.

– It’s OK.

– No.

– OK.

– I’m a idiot and I forgot the, I forgot my beeper.

Tears are pouring out of his eyes, his teeth and tongue and lips are sheened with blood.

– And the news, I saw it, I saw they said you were here in Vegas and.

He breathes a couple times.

– It’s starting not to hurt as much, Hank.

– Good, that’s good.

– You were in Vegas and, but I didn’t know how to find you or call you.

He winces and blood wells up out of his mouth and over his chin. He spits.

– I came back. I came here. I thought. And you were here, Hank, and it was all OK.

– I know. You did what I told you. That’s all, Timmy, you just did what I told you.

– And, Hank. The money, it’s OK.

– No.

– The money is OK.

– Don’t, I don’t wanna.

– No, it’s OK.

– I don’t wanna know, I don’t wanna.

He’s nodding his head up and down, still talking, but there’s no air coming out of his throat anymore. Only blood. He tries to talk through the blood, tries to say words made out of blood, but there’s too much of it.

I COVER Tim with a blanket.

I WILL be the last one to die.

And could it have ever ended any other way?

For the last time, I close my eyes.

I OPEN my eyes.

Something is in my mouth, stuck all the way to the back of my throat. I picture the barrel of Sid’s .45 stuck deep in his mouth, him gagging on the steel. I throw up. Someone pulls my head forward so I puke between my legs, and then the thing is back in my mouth and I puke again. And one more time. I fall back onto the couch, gasping.

– Here.

A glass of water. I spill some in my mouth and swish it around and spit.

– Drink it.

I take a swallow and cough.

– I feel terrible.

– Yes, I would imagine that to be the case.

A voice I don’t know. A Russian voice. I look up.

He’s in his fifties, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and beard, an expensive-looking gray suit. He’s wiping the finger he shoved down my throat on a silk handkerchief. He points at Tim’s body.

– Did he tell you where the money is?

– No.

– Hm.

He leans over and looks at my pile of vomit.

– How many pills did you swallow?

– Ten.

He covers his finger with the handkerchief and sifts through the mess.

– Yes, they are all here. That is good.

My guns aren’t on the coffee table anymore. I look around the room.

– I’ve hidden them.

– Kill me.

He drops the handkerchief so that it covers the vomit.

– And waste my efforts? No.

– I need to die.

– No, Henry, you need to live. It is very important that you live.

– Who are you?

– David Dolokhov. I am Mikhail Dolokhov’s uncle.

– I don’t know.

Oh, fuck. I close my eyes.

– Mickey.

– Yes. I am Mickey’s uncle. His father’s brother.

DYLAN IS a liar.

– Dylan Lane is a liar, Henry. He is a debtor and a welsher and a liar and he does not do the things he promises he will do for his partners.

I’m sitting on one of the barstools in front of the kitchen counter. David Dolokhov is making coffee and toast.

– When Dylan needed money for his start-up, he went to the usual places. He went to California, to Sand Hill Road where the venture capitalists are, and asked them for money. But they did not give it to him. So he went to the banks. But he had problems with the SEC and his credit was bad. So he went to his family and friends. But they had given him money before and he had lost all of it. So he came to us. And we gave him the money. And with our money, he was able to attract more money, because money loves money. And at first, we were very happy. His company had an IPO. Very exciting. The stock. The stock, it topped at one sixty-four and one half! We were very happy. But Dylan? He is a greedy man. He is bound by laws of the SEC that prevent him from selling his shares just then, and he is greedy. Rather than using his new leverage to finance a loan to pay us back, what does he do? He uses the leverage to invest in commodities. A long story short, he trades on margin and the market craters and his margins are called and his personal fortune is destroyed. And his company’s own stock becomes valueless. And when we encourage him to sell off the company’s assets to repay our money? There are no assets. The company has been a shell game all along. So now, Dylan Lane is in the shit.

The coffeemaker beeps and he picks up the pot. He pours two cups and hands one to me. I lift it with my unburned left hand and bring it to my lips and sip, feeling the heat radiate into the burns on the right side of my face.

– So now Dylan hustles. He hustles this and he hustles that and he makes just enough as a hustler of this and that to make his interest payments. But he has dreams of being a big man again, and he is always looking for an opportunity to make enough money to pay us back. And then he hears the story of Henry Thompson and the four-and-a-half million dollars. And he comes to me with a proposal. He will, as he says, Buy the debt. But with what I ask? He still has no money. He will buy it, he says, on credit, and pay it off along with his own debt when he has the money.

The toast pops up. He butters it and cuts the slices diagonally and puts them on a plate in front of me.

– Eat.

I take a small bite and chew. It hurts.

– I ask Dylan his plan to get the money and he tells me that he has a man who will watch your parents and tell him if you appear. Well, this is bullshit. This is a bullshit plan. And I tell him no. And he leaves. And then nothing. Until a year passes. And my nephew is killed in Mexico.

He wipes the kitchen counter clean, tops off his own coffee, then comes around the counter to my side and sits on the other stool.

– My nephew, Henry. My nephew was an asshole. But his mother, the woman I swore to my brother I would care for, she loved him very much. And so I personally go to Mexico to discover what has happened. I arrive in Mexico last week, on Thursday. I go to Chichen Itza and see where my nephew died, and find out that when he fell, a man was with him on the pyramid. I go to the police and talk to the two men who have investigated the death, and they show me a photograph they have taken of you.

He widens his eyes and spreads his hands open. Shock.

– A coincidence! But not so much perhaps. I suspect my asshole nephew was in some way seeking to extort the money from you. I whisper in the ears of the policemen. I tell them a tale of treasure, and I promise them a share if they will arrest you and bring you to me. And they try. And you disappear.

He hangs his head and shakes it. Such sadness.

– But all is not lost. Because, Henry, because I know you have a friend. I know, we know, that someone helped you in New York, and we believe it is this same man who has recently moved to Las Vegas. I make phone calls. I call people we know from business and find out where this man is, and I make arrangements to meet him. You are running, Henry. Where will you run to, but to a friend? Or to family? I remember Dylan’s man who lives on your parents’ street. I look in my memory and I find the man’s name and I call him and offer him money to “keep his eyes peeled.” And I learn something. He tells me that Dylan has already paid him to watch. For a year Dylan has paid him. Dylan had asked for permission to pursue the money, and he had been denied, but he has paid the man anyway. Greedy. Liar. So I pay the man more money, and he does not tell Dylan that I know of this betrayal. And now, I fly to Las Vegas myself. And two things happen. Your friend in Las Vegas disappears, and the man in California calls me. He has seen you.

He holds his coffee cup up in a toast.

– And I tell him to call Dylan. Because, Henry, because you are a dangerous man. You have killed other dangerous men. There will be risks in dealing with you. I will let Dylan take those risks, and if he gets the money, I will take it from him. Because he is not a dangerous man.

– He has men.

– No. He does not.

I tear a corner off of a piece of toast.

– He is a liar, Henry. He will have told you that he has dangerous men, but he neither has the money to hire such men, nor the knowledge of where to find such specialists to do the things he will have threatened. To kill your mother and father at a whim. It is hard to kill people, Henry. The men who do it well are rare and prized. You should know that.

I push the plate of toast away. David Dolokhov pushes it back in front of me.

– Eat.

I take another painful bite.

– And now there is a great deal of farce, a great deal of following and losing and trailing. And new crazy men arriving to kill. And confusion. But when you run from California, I stay in Las Vegas to be near the home of your friend, where I think you may run to. And you do. I was here, Henry, watching when you came with your new friend and the large hound. I watched, and I realized something. You were searching.

He points an index finger at the ceiling. Eureka!

– You do not have the money. It is your friend all along. He has had the money, and now that you have come for it, he has run away so to keep it. And now I will watch what you do and you will find him for me. But that is not altogether correct, is it?

– No.

I tell him about sending Tim the money. He shakes his head again.

– And he took it to hide it from us?

– Yeah.

– And he came back for you, into the teeth of danger.

– Yeah.

– And you killed him.

– Yeah.

He nods. This is the way these things happen.

– He was a good friend.

– Yeah.

– But he did not tell you where the money is? Do not answer. Why else would you kill yourself? Or try. And what luck! I had lost you, Henry. I lost you almost as soon as I had found you. I fell asleep in my car outside of the Sam’s Town casino. And when I awoke? You were gone. I did not know where to look. But I still had Dylan. If you found the money, you would take it to him, and, so, good enough. And then a phone call from a man named Terry, an unreliable man. But I go to him anyway. And what do I find? Mayhem. Bloodshed. Grotesque.

He closes his eyes. That such things should be.

He opens his eyes.

– And so what now am I to do? Nothing. I can only wait and hope that you will contact Dylan and he will lead me to you. But! If I must wait, I will wait here, outside this building, and see perhaps if your friend makes a return. And last night. You come. With a woman and your friend with the hound, and you are hurt. And there is news on the radio of violence, and I know you have been in it. And I wait until you are alone. But still you are a dangerous man, and so I call for help. And while I wait, I see your friend appear! And he goes inside. And I wait, thinking that this will be it, the money is near and you will lead me to it, but no one comes out. A man arrives. My dangerous man. We come in here.

He turns on the stool and looks at Tim’s body. And we find this.

– My dangerous man takes your guns and goes outside. And I?

He leans toward me.

– I save your life, Henry. To find out where the money is. And you do not know where the money is. But I tell you this story. Why, Henry? Why are you still alive if you do not know where the money is?

I look at Tim’s corpse. Blood has soaked through the blanket that I used to cover him. Why am I still alive? Why has God not come out of his heaven to destroy me?

– I don’t know.

He smiles. His teeth are perfect.

– You are alive because you are a dangerous man. And I have uses for dangerous men.

DYLAN SHOWS a little later.

He knocks on the door and I tell him to come in and he comes in and he looks like shit. He’s wearing the same outfit as when I first saw him, but it’s rumpled and he’s unshaven and has dark rings under his eyes. But he’s excited too. He’s been living on stress and fear, hoping that this gamble will pay off. And now it’s payoff time.

It’s dark outside. I’ve left only one light on and moved the coffee table over the bloodstain where Tim’s body was. Dylan stands in the open doorway, looking at me. He licks his lips and points back outside.

– I have someone with me, Hank.

Liar.

I nod.

He takes a step into the apartment.

– Anyway, I know it’s not necessary to tell you that, I’m just making a point.

He closes the door. I wave him into the living room. He’s nervous about coming farther inside. But he’s greedy, so he does.

– Well, Hank. You look a little worse for wear.

I nod. He nods back.

– So. Shall we?

I point at the cardboard box next to Tim’s stereo. He walks over to the box and opens it and sees the big chunks of Styrofoam inside. I pull the Anaconda from between the sofa cushions and point it at him.

Dylan raises a finger as if to make a final point.

– Your parents, Hank, think of your parents.

I do.

I love you, Mom and Dad.

And I prove it.

DAVID DOLOKHOV’S dangerous man comes out of the bathroom and takes the gun from me and tosses it on Dylan’s body. He takes my arm and leads me to the door and down the stairs and up the block to a silver Lexus. I get in the front passenger seat. The dangerous man nods at David Dolokhov, who sits in the driver’s seat, and then walks away. Dolokhov starts the car and drives down the street.

– My daughter wants a nose job. She is sixteen and she wants a nose job. Why? There is nothing wrong with her nose. She has my nose. Is there anything wrong with my nose?

I look at his flat and crooked nose, and shake my head. He smiles.

– Of course there is not. For me, this is a perfect nose. But for my daughter? She has a point. And I love her. So for Christmas, I will get her the best nose money can buy.

He stops at an intersection, looks both ways, and turns left.

– I tell you this to warn you, Henry. Because the truth is, the man who will work on you? The man who will change your face? I would not let this man near my daughter’s nose.

THE NEXT day Miami gets pummeled by Oakland. The final score is too embarrassing to believe. But in the late game, I get to watch Detroit run back the first kickoff of sudden-death overtime for a game-winning TD over the Jets. And that’s fun. So next week the Dolphins and the Jets will square off in a winner-takes-all game for the division.

The motel is in Henderson, I think. The room is big. It has to be for the pieces of rented hospital equipment to fit. The doctor comes and looks at my face and says we should wait until the burns heal, but Dolokhov says we need to hurry. So the doctor gives me something to make me sleep.

I sleep.