Drawing Dead (21 page)

But enough of that. Fact was, if I were to have a conversation with Scarface, confirm that he was indeed The Guy, or maybe knew who The Guy was, further discover if he was the repository of any Clues, I would have to find this Terrible place, scope out the upstairs bar therein, and await my fate.

Not a problem. I’d endured worse. Even in the last forty-eight hours I’d endured worse. Far worse.

The cabbie, who smelled of Listerine and almond-scented massage oil—I wasn’t about to ask—knew what I meant right away. Took me there.

It was pretty terrible, all right. But when you think about it, the amazing thing about these places is that it’s not that they’re not trying. And it’s not that they don’t have enough money. The sixteen hideously mammoth chandeliers didn’t come free. The potted plants ubiquitous in faux brass sconces cost something. What was amazing was that somebody, somewhere, had decided, had been paid to decide, to purchase live plants that looked exactly like plastic plants.

The elevator lobby had all the charm of a moldering log. They’d designed it with drop-down curved ceiling pieces, intended, I guessed, to be reminiscent of the Guggenheim or some such. But the effect was more like that of meandering Oreo cookies.

The cost of carpeting all of that acreage must have been enormous. And sure, they didn’t have the budget of the Bellagio. But some person no doubt holding themselves out as something of an expert consciously chose this design, abstract sworls of dirty oranges and jaundice yellows, splotches of insect green on a dark background of indeterminate murk. Colors that were guaranteed to become filthier and more unattractive with every compulsive gambler’s staggering footprint. It was as though
someone had dropped a vat of tricolor pasta on the floor circa 1993 and people had been tromping through it ever since.

And they were all like this, every low-rent, upward-striving hotel and motel and conference center in the whole of these United States of America was the same in all relevant respects. Sure, the details differed. Maybe the design professional they hired for the Quality Inn down the road selected a slightly darker shade of beige for the faux Danish lobby furniture. The Red Roof Inn had faux Bauhaus instead. In any case, they all managed to wear the faux like a neon sandwich board.

You say ugly is relative? Okay. You got me. Then the place was, relatively speaking, ugly as hell.

On the upside, once inside it took but four or five queries to discover what my new best friend Harold must have meant by the upstairs bar. I mean, it was a bar. No mistaking it. They served drinks. And access to it was via a staircase. Hence the upstairs bit.

Hah, I said to myself. Not many out there can out-detect old Rick Redman, say what you will about his untrimmed shock of startlingly white hair, his air of utter confusion in the face of anything more complex than a motel receptionist, his inability to resist the charms of anything more attractive than a floor mop.

Ninety or so minutes later, Harold appeared. By that time I was teetering on the edge of thoroughly toasted. I was relieved that Harold had gotten there while I still could speak.

Harold! I said too loudly, stumbling to my feet and offering a hand.

He took it reluctantly.

His hand was rough and greasy. I hadn’t been aware that a hand could be both.

Sit down, I said. What’re you drinking?

I’ll have a beer, he said.

I called over the waitress. She was very large, stuffed into a tiny black miniskirt and bustier. A roll of fat tumbled over the waist of the skirt.

The Bellagio this wasn’t.

She was nice enough, though, kind enough to bring Harold his Corona, lime on the side, and my fifth double scotch.

Harold! I said again.

Harold grunted.

Listen, man, I said, I know you don’t want to rat on anybody or anything, but it’s nothing like that. I was hired by this lady in New York
to find her sister. She lives out here. Or used to. Henderson. Big old house. But she doesn’t live there anymore. The lady who lives there now remembered her and her boyfriend, or husband, or whatever. She also remembered them talking about a guy looks like you, worked the bar at Binion’s. They said he was Hispanic, and I guess you’re not, but if your working name is Jose, I was thinking, they could think so. So I thought it might be you. You see? Nothing criminal or anything. Just trying to find this lady’s sister.

I am Hispanic, he said.

Oh. Sorry. I just can’t seem to get this right …

My mother was Irish.

Ah. Well.

What if she doesn’t want to get found?

Your mother?

This lady.

Well, I guess she can tell me that when I find her. Meanwhile, her sister’s very worried.

He snorted. Took a large hit off the Corona. Squoze some lime into his mouth. Belched.

So how’m I supposed to know if I even know these people? he asked.

I told him what I knew. The slim woman in the Chinese dresses. Japanese. Whatever.

Harold nodded. Sucked on his beer.

I told him what the house looked like.

Harold ordered another beer.

And the guy, I said. Tall, with an accent. Big guy, probably Russian. Name Vladimir. Probably.

I did it for show. I knew damn well he knew who I was talking about.

Harold didn’t say anything. Looked at me with hooded eyes.

But he had a tell you couldn’t miss from thirty feet.

There’s a vein in the throat. I don’t know what it’s called, maybe it’s the jugular. Maybe not. Everybody has one. In scrawny guys like Harold, it’s easy to see. And when they get nervous, like when they’re on a big bluff, trying to hide something, you can see the thing go crazy. Thump, thump, thump. Elevated heart rate.

I decided not to dick around. With a guy like Harold, the bull rush was the best. My decision was no doubt influenced by the scotch. But that isn’t necessarily fatal to an idea.

So you know them.

I said it as a fact, not a question.

I engaged his eyes.

He looked away.

Then I was dead certain.

And he knew that I knew.

Yeah, he said. So?

Now I knew not only that he knew them, but that they and he were involved in something. Not that I cared. But it was information. And information is … well, it’s information. And that can come in handy when you’re, like, looking for a missing person.

Any idea where they are?

Haven’t seen them, he said.

Since?

I don’t know, six months.

You’re sure it was that long?

Yup, he said.

He was a terrible liar.

C’mon, man, I said. I don’t care what they’re doing, you’re doing. I just got to report to the lady. She wants to know is her sister alive.

Yeah. I got it. She’s alive.

I sighed. I mean, I hate to be crude. Obvious. Trite. But it was now or it was after another half hour of fencing.

I put two C-notes on the smoked glass table.

He looked at the money. He looked at me.

One thing I knew about myself, I looked harmless.

I’m not that big a tipper, I said.

All right, he said, reaching for the bills.

I snatched them back.

Wait a second. Information first, money later. And the same again if it checks out. Besides, I know where you work.

He looked disappointed. But two hundred bucks was a lot of money to a guy like Harold.

I used to run errands for them, he said.

Ah. Thank you, Harold. You’re a good man. But that won’t help me find them. Where are they now?

Last I heard, something bad happened.

Shit, I said, really? What kind of bad?

Not hurt bad, money bad. I heard they got ripped off, they ripped somebody off and got caught, something like that.

And?

And they ended up in some trailer park. Out in the desert somewhere.

Can you be a little more vague?

He looked at me blankly.

Any more than that? I mean, east, west, near the city, in Mongolia, what?

I don’t know. But I know a guy I can call.

All right, I said. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Harold took out his cell phone, got up, left the bar. I took the opportunity to order another drink. It was weak and watery.

I had to get out of the place.

Harold came back.

He says he’s not sure, he said. But it’s somewhere north of Red Rock.

Somewhere north of Red Rock, I said. Very helpful.

It’s out there. Just go to Red Rock. Go north from there. There’s only one road.

Okay. You’re all right, Harold. And if it checks out, like I said, another two hundred.

That didn’t make him look happy.

But then, guys like him, nothing would.

I had downed enough scotch by then that I might have been mistaken, but I could have sworn that I saw, on my unsteady way to the lobby, Bruno and Evgeny shooting craps.

Bruno and Evgeny?

I resisted the urge to get closer, verify the sighting.

I tried to process the information.

I supposed, for a moment, that they could just have run into one another, each having submitted more or less simultaneously to an urge to play craps at the Terrible Bar and Casino, or whatever it was called.

That notion refuted itself.

Then what?

It would not compute.

I resolved to revisit the issue. Once the scotch-flavored fog had dissipated a mite.

W
HEN
I
GOT BACK TO THE ROOM
, I called Sheila.

Sheila, I said. Sorry to have to do this by phone. I know you don’t approve.

It’s not that I don’t approve. I just think that it’s not as effective. And also, you’ve been drinking.

I knew enough not to deny it.

Yeah, I know. But I’m in Las Vegas. Not much I can do. About the phone thing, I mean. The drinking, I’m working on.

I understand.

She always understood. It was one of the great things about her.

I’m starting to realize that I never know what other people are really thinking, I said, apropos of nothing.

What about when you’re playing poker? I thought you said you could read them. The other players.

Well, that’s true. In a limited sense. Often, you know exactly what someone is trying to do. What their cards are. Or at least a probable range of cards. But that’s just it. It’s probability, really. You can never be one hundred percent sure.

Why would you want to be?

Easy money.

Not in the poker context. In the real world. Why would you want to be sure? Wouldn’t that make life a little boring?

Poker, too. It would be just like picking up money off the table.

Let’s get back to the real world.

Me?

Yes, even you.

Okay. What about it?

Why would you want to be certain about what others are thinking?

I guess I wouldn’t. Too boring. I know, that’s what you said. You were right.

Okay, then let’s talk about why you said that.

Said what?

That you’re beginning to realize that you don’t know what others are thinking.

What I was getting at, I guess, is that I’ve been feeling very alone.

Lonely?

No. Alone. Not quite the same thing. Worse, actually. If you’re lonely, you can call up a friend. Go meet somebody in a bar. Whatever.

And if you’re alone?

You’re just … alone.

Nothing to be done?

Nothing to be done.

But are you so sure? That there’s nothing to be done?

What could one do?

Well, you’d be right, if the aloneness was something from outside of you. But if it’s something inside of you. Within your control.

It doesn’t feel that way.

How does it feel?

Frightening.

Yes, but can you put it in words? The feeling of aloneness?

I thought for a while. I lay back on the sectional. I lit a cigarette.

No, I said. I can’t.

Then let’s make that your homework.

Thinking about how to put it into words?

Putting it into words.

Anyway. It’s all a disaster.

How so?

I told her about the poker losses. The twenty grand. The Bruno Episode. Relying on ephemeral promises from known Russian scumbags. Known scumbags who happened to be from Russia. Embezzling Louise’s retainer.

Sounds like you’ve put yourself in a spot, she said.

Yes, I replied. It seems that I have.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unhelpful.

You’re always helpful.

Well, let’s try to figure this out.

Okay.

In terms of the money, the situation, I’m not sure that you and I can do anything about that.

I know, I said. It is what it is.

I hated that phrase. But it seemed awfully apropos.

Yes, she said. But let’s see if we can come up with something. A plan, at least. To get you through it.

That would be something, I said.

We batted it back and forth. We ran it up the flagpole. We saluted it. We tried it on for size. We waved the red flag. Or the white one—there was no bull in the room, after all. I woke up. Saw it for what it was. What ‘it’ was, I wasn’t sure.

We decided that I’d do my best.

It was the best we could do.

I
N THE MORNING
, after four hours of what could only nominally be called sleep, it occurred to me that I still hadn’t qualified for the Main Event. It was preying on me. I had enough other shit to deal with. At least if I could qualify, it would take that load off. There was a mega-satellite. I resolved to win it.

I had some time to kill before it started. Thought I’d pay a visit to the beer tent. Natalya might be there.

Rick! she greeted me with her big-boned Slavic smile.

Natalya, I said with a calculatedly sheepish one.

Just happens I have about a half a bottle of that Johnnie Walker back here. Just enough to warm you up.

You are my princess, I said.

She batted her eyes in faux flirtation. I knew it was faux. I was twice her age. She hung out with tattooed guys younger than her. Guys with the vocabulary of a sea snake and an attitude to match. I wasn’t her type. I was an amusement. Possibly a distorted sort of father figure. But I sure wasn’t a prospect.