The Big Dirt Nap

Forty-six

"Good to see you," I said. "Thanks for returning my jacket." Lucy and Sam were less sure that it was good to see Oksana since she was clearly upset and holding a gun.

"Everything's gone wrong," she said, eyes weepy, waving the gun around the room. She repositioned the heavy leather messenger bag strapped across her chest and, in doing so, managed to point the gun at everyone in the room. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Feel free to leave," Lucy said. I shot her a look that suggested it wasn't smart to be a wiseass to a fairly hysterical person with a weapon.

Oksana had been fired. When the friend learned Oksana couldn't pay her share of the rent she'd been locked her out of the mobile home. With no other place to go she returned to Sergei, who'd asked for payment of a different kind.

Sam was sympathetic. "I know how it is," he said, "when it seems like everything's gone wrong. But you're so young. You'll wake up tomorrow and see the world hasn't come to an end. And you'll go on. Believe me. Sit down and try to relax."

"Forgive me, but who are you?" she asked, doing as Sam had suggested.

"Sam Dillon." I wondered when he'd last used his entire name. Of course, the name meant nothing to her. "People at the hotel sometimes call me Big Y," he said. At that her eyes widened even further.

"You're Big Y? Is Billy here, too?" She stood up and looked around nervously. "You've got to get out of here. All of you. Sergei and his men are looking for you. He was hired to make sure nothing interfered with the casino deal. Nick tried to butt in and look at what happened to him."

After years of being a gofer for the Mishkins, Nick wanted to cash in. When he couldn't he threatened to go to the press with a story that would have had the hotel's investor on the first boat back to China and maybe even queer the Quepochas' chances for recognition.

"Sergei saw Nick talking to me and thought I was a reporter, right?" I said. Oksana nodded. "Did he have someone follow me to Springfield and search my house?"

"Could be Vitaly. And Marat. I heard Sergei tell them to check your computer. But not at the hotel because then the cops might suspect something." She rubbed her runny nose on the back of her hand, the one that held the gun.

"Wouldn't you like to put that gun down?" I said.

She acted as if she hadn't heard me. Sam nonchalantly reached for his can of soda and moved a little closer to Oksana, ready to make a move if necessary.

"They were supposed to reason with Nick, not kill him. I don't know what happened. And then, then . . ."—she closed her eyes briefly—"Sergei asked me to find out how much you knew. I didn't want to be involved. I liked Nick, but I owe Sergei my life."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you knew nothing about the Mishkins' loan, the casino, or any of this business, that you were nice." She wanted me to believe her and I wanted to, but she was a practiced liar, and whether she'd admit it or not, Sergei clearly had a Rasputin-like hold on her. "I told him it was another woman . . . named Lucy." She looked at Lucy and raised her shoulders as if to apologize.

"Now he thinks I lied to him and they are after me, too. These people would just as soon kill you for fifteen hundred dollars as they would for fifteen million." Fifteen million dollars was indeed a powerful motivator. If Sergei thought he could get his hands on that kind of money, who knew what he'd be capable of? Oksana had sensibly taken the gun from Sergei's building for protection.

"Well, if it makes any difference, you didn't lie to him," Lucy said. "That's exactly why I was meeting Nick. After I saw the Crawfords." The realization dawned on Lucy's face; her fling with Claude may have saved her life. Talk about friends with benefits.

I tried to think of a way out of the hotel that would help us avoid Sergei and his men, if they were, in fact, looking for us. "Oksana, how did you know we were back at the hotel?"

"When that bitch Rachel Page fired me I asked Helayne to put my personal things in a bag. I was picking it up and she said she saw you." Yeah, it was hard to stay under people's radar when you were covered with blood and slime.

I was racking my brain to come up with a plan when our exit strategy knocked on the door. Lucy leaped out of her seat. Sam covered Oksana's gun with his hand. "Let's keep this out of sight, okay?" She agreed and put the gun in her hobo bag, which looked as if it was stuffed with all of her belongings.

A young girl in heavy Goth makeup was at the door. She held a bundle of clothing, my hundred-dollar rental from Taylor, the desk clerk. She looked around the room and saw a homeless guy dressed in rags; a model-thin Ukrainian girl with tear-streaked makeup; Lucy, nervously hopping from one foot to another; and me, barefoot in tight leather pants.

"So, are you guys dressing for the party?" she asked cautiously.

"Say it again?" I said, recognizing the voice but not the look.

"It's me, Amanda." The corpse flower had bloomed, and so, apparently, had she. The blond, blue-eyed homecoming queen who'd been recording the growth of the corpse flower was wearing white foundation, thick black eye makeup, leather wrist cuffs, and a cadaverous expression. The bicycle chain formerly used to lock the greenhouse was now doubled around her waist and tied off prettily with the lock.

"I called you," she said to Lucy, "but the line was busy. The whole school is downstairs. We're going to be partying all night in the lobby. Is this your cameraman?" Amanda asked, looking at Sam.

"One of them," I lied.

"These are pretty good outfits, but it's not really Goth unless you make your faces a little whiter. I have white shoe polish if you like."

So much for the rosy glow artfully applied to the apples of my cheeks; I asked her in.