Drawing Dead (30 page)

I corralled Butch. He still had his game face on. Serious. Hooded eyes. His shaved head slick with sweat. Needed to take a walk, he said. Shake out the tension. Okay, I said. Meet you there.

It got hot in that joint. Two thousand players. One room. Too much.

Four more days. Even with a couple of off days, this shit was going to take some stamina.

And some smarts.

And a whole lot of luck.

I
TOOK A SEAT IN THE
V
ELVET
E
MPORIUM
. Leaned back with a double scotch. Felt good. One day down. End of the long, long day. Still in it. Up a bit. Victory of a sort.

I thought about Madeleine.

You would think that a poor young girl of eighteen, fatherless until moments ago, subject no doubt to all the sturm und drang that adolescent flesh is heir to, that she’d be at least, I don’t know, tongue-tied. Have a pimple. Or something. But she wasn’t. Didn’t. She had deep almond eyes. Long, luxurious hair. And a wit, it seemed.

Most miraculously, she played Debussy like a dream.

And I couldn’t take credit for any of it.

She’d probably make a great poker player, I mused. She was preter-naturally composed. She was a great musician. Music and math skills are closely related. Math skills are a big advantage in poker. Only question was, did she have the competitive fire? You had to want to crush people. Take their money.

I wanted to ask her about her mother. What had happened. How she’d fared, alone with a child. Why she had never called, tried to get in touch. I used to make lots of money. I could have helped out. Hell, what was I thinking? For all I knew, she’d immediately latched on to some handsome gazzillionaire, poisoned his cold asparagus soup, the one with the tender sprigs of fresh dill suspended on top, the artfully placed dab of sour cream, daily with arsenic for weeks, until he withered away and died, and then lived in queenly comfort thereafter, she and Madeleine.

In fact, I was certain of it.

Butch showed up. Rescued me from my twisted mind. He had a Day One story similar to mine. Hours of boredom, moments of terror. Survival.

That calls for some champagne, I said.

Won’t get an argument from me, Butch answered.

An hour and two bottles of Cristal later, there was no sign of Brendan.

I tried his cell phone. No answer.

Butch sent him a text message. No answer.

The poker day was over. The tables were empty. It was too soon for him to have fallen asleep. There was only one conclusion.

He was doing something stupid.

Natalya, I said.

Say what? asked Butch.

Natalya. In the beer tent. He’s gone out with the Russkies. She’ll know where. Or have a good idea.

My icon of investigation, said Butch. I bow to your superior technique.

As well you should, I said. I’m going to hit the tent.

Butch stood up and bowed. Followed me in mock obeisance.

The tent was empty. The pool tables looked lonely. Damn, the whole place looked bereft. There’s not much lonelier than an empty beer tent.

Outside the tent, we saw a guy. He had a plunger in his hand. He was yelling at us. Something about Jesus. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. But it didn’t seem important.

Nice plunger, I said.

He yelled something at my back. I couldn’t hear what it was. It didn’t seem important.

I followed an instinct. It was a large and luminous, orange-coloured instinct. A sort of setting-sun instinct. It led me around the back of the tent.

Natalya was there. Having a smoke with some guys. Young guys, sitting on bar stools at a small round table. Guys in denim vests. Guys with tattoos. Guys with piercings. The umbrella that grew through the middle of the table was open, shading them from the stars overhead. They were passing around a joint and a bottle of Tequila. One of them looked up, gave me a blank look. The others ignored us.

Natalya gave me a smile.

Brendan’s friend, she said along with the smile.

Yeah, I said. And this is Butch. He’s Brendan’s friend, too. Coincidentally, he also happens to be my friend.

She laughed. A nice warm laugh. A laugh that wasn’t trying to prove anything.

You seen him? I asked. Brendan?

A while ago. He was with the usual—

Andrei?

And Anatoly.

Any idea where they went?

They were talking about going to this club. Give me a second.

I’ll give you more than that, I said, you give me half a chance.

Excalibur, she said, ignoring me. Or something like that.

We’ll run with that.

You’re welcome. And thanks for stopping by.

Oh, sorry, I said. I’m kind of distracted. And next time, I promise, it’ll be all about you.

Promises, promises, she said, turning back to her posse of punks.

Excalibur, I said to Butch. Heard of it?

Nope. We can ask the concierge.

What’s a concierge for? I responded.

If not for that, I don’t know what.

Sammy was at the concierge desk. Sammy was old-school, round and balding and perpetually cracking a joke. He was there to help. To be your best friend. To do all the scut work for you. Make those pesky reservations and phone calls. Tell you some old-time jokes, if that’s what you needed.

He proved to be helpful, if a bit taken aback.

Sure, he said, pulling out a street map. It’s right here.

He marked an X on the spot. It was in a neighborhood I wasn’t familiar with.

But, he continued with a puzzled air, I’m not sure it’s exactly the kind of place you … you gentlemen … would be looking for.

Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I chuckled. I think I know what you mean. I don’t know the place. But we’re looking for a friend.

A friend who might like that kind of place, he nodded.

Exactly, I said.

He seemed relieved.

Anyway, he said. It can be hard to get in, I understand. I think perhaps it would be best if you … dressed appropriately.

Might have to do a little clothes shopping, I said.

Exactly, said Sammy.

What would you say? A little leather? Metal studs? That kind of thing?

In that neighborhood, he said.

Okay. Thanks, my man.

I slipped him a twenty. Sammy smoothly, expertly pocketed it. It was as though it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t something you wanted to flaunt. You were with a friend. Your good friend Sammy.

Money had nothing to do with it.

W
E COULDN’T BRING OURSELVES TO GET INTO FULL COSTUME
. We did what we could. I bought a cowboy hat at the Caesars mall. I’d wanted one anyway. I had my bomber jacket. That would have to do. Butch had his leather motorcycle jacket. His shiny black boots. Hey, it was a little out of date, but maybe we’d be seen as charmingly retro. Add a little dash of the old YMCA. If not, hell, we could bully our way into the place, we had to.

I’d expected some Vegas-style extravaganza, but the Excalibur turned out to be a one-story concrete block on a sorry-looking street. Not a palm tree in sight, unless you counted the neon one in the window. In which sat, lotus-legged, a neon Arab boy in full cartoon-Arab-boy regalia, brandishing the eponymous sword.

Didn’t know King Arthur was an Arab, said Butch.

In Vegas he is, I said. That’s why they call it the Magic Kingdom.

That’s Disneyland.

Right. Well. You know what I mean.

We knocked.

No answer.

We knocked again.

The door cracked open. A wizened face, long and badly lipsticked, topped by a platinum blonde wig, peered out.

Yes? it said.

Uh, we’d like to come in? I said.

It slammed the door.

Butch didn’t take well to being disrespected. And he didn’t hesitate to express his displeasure. He stepped back. Crouched sideways to the door. Gave it his best black-booted straight-from-the-hip tae kwon do kick.

The door splintered and dropped in pieces like week-old matzo. Any old matzo.

Which brought out the troops.

Well, the troop.

He was big. He was bald. He was wearing false eyelashes. But that didn’t fool me.

He meant business.

He took a swing at Butch. Butch ducked, threw up a blocking right arm. Eyelashes stumbled. Butch crouched, spun, kicked at the back of his knee. Eyelashes crumpled.

Butch walked through the shattered door. I was about to follow, but Eyelashes was too quick getting back up. He slid in front of me. He was too big to get around.

Goddamn it. I wasn’t about to be a pussy, call to Butch to come back out and help me. And I hadn’t brought the Mauser, the Great Equalizer. I was going to have to dredge up some of the old fighting moves. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. It’d been at least two decades
since I’d been in a serious bar fight. I sure didn’t have the muscle tone anymore, after twenty years of drink and dissolution. I’d have to bank on the reflexes. Wait. No. Two bottles of Cristal. Fuck the reflexes. Okay. The surprise factor.

I grabbed him by the balls.

I really did. I had no choice. I had to make a preemptive move.

I’m not saying I enjoyed it. But I grabbed him by the balls.

And squoze.

He froze.

Fear in his eyes.

And? I said.

Okay, he said. It’s all right. No problem.

You sure? I asked, giving them a little twitch.

Sure. You got my word.

Was there honor among scumbags? I asked myself.

Well, I answered myself, it’s either believe there is, or stand here with a sackful of nuts in my hand all night.

I let go.

He stepped back. Looked about to launch a haymaker at me.

I cocked my head.

You sure you want to do that? I asked.

He hesitated.

And being the hesitator, he lost.

Shit, he said. I’ll buy you a beer.

Scotch, I said. Laphroaig. Water back.

You got it, he mumbled.

I’ll have a double Dewar’s, said Butch from inside the doorway. On the rocks.

He’d been watching the whole thing.

Fuck you, I said.

Larry, said our new best friend, holding out a surprisingly soft but still huge paw.

Rick.

Butch.

Pleased to meet you, said Eyelashes.

I could have sworn he said it with an Oxbridge accent.

He led us down a long, narrow corridor patched, floor, walls and ceiling, in what looked to be carpet factory remainders. The corridor
widened into a large room, similarly appointed. By which I mean not appointed at all.

The joint was populated. Larry introduced us around. One blonde, square-shouldered, in a dress closer fitting than its country origins might easily bear. A four-foot-five-inch Asian queen in Hawaiian shirt and pompadour. A guy in a tight-fitting dress and a scowl. You met the face alone, you’d expect her, him, to be on the porch, sporting a shotgun, ordering you off her parched half acre and a mule. And a sick tall blonde masterpiece. Nothing fake about that one. A Nordic pallor skillfully maximized by cheekbones and highlights, ravine-like cleavage and an air of abandon. Gretchen, an Asian transsexual with a thinly disguised paunch and a Hong Kong accent. When you think about it, I mused, if it weren’t for his sexual orientation, she’d be washing dishes in a grungy Chinese restaurant.

God Bless America.

From somewhere in back, over the screams of some long-ago Aerosmith hit song, came the cry, Show us your dick!

On the wall was a sign:

Leaning up against the wall next to the empty resuscitation-kit box was our good friend Brendan. Wearing a tuxedo. In bare feet. Sporting a carnation in his lapel. Looking way too happy.

Brendan, I said. What the fuck. You were supposed to meet us at the Hang.

What the fuck to you. I changed my mind. I’m an adult.

You’re not acting like one. You could have told us.

Fuck off.

Listen, man. You’re right. You’re an adult. You can spend your leisure time any way you like. But maybe you could show your friends some respect?

My friends are here, he said, indicating the assembled degenerates.

What is this shit? Did we do something to you?

Nothing, man, he said, dropping the aggressive pose. Nothing. I just want to live my life.

Okay, I said. Whatever. Live your life. But Day Two is coming up fast.

Forget Day Two.

What, you’re going to drop out?

I’m already out, he said with a shrug.

What? said Butch. You said you had a hundred five.

I lied.

I don’t believe it, I said.

Believe it. Check the board at the Rio. I busted out the first hand. Set over set.

Aw, Jesus, man, I said. That’s a tough beat. You should have told us.

He shook his head, walked away. Started talking to a guy in the corner. The guy was wearing a bikini. He had a tight body. Curves. Slim calves. You’d never have guessed it was a guy. Until you looked at his face. Under a blonde sixties-style flip-up wig was the narrow, sunken face of a forty-five-year-old insurance auditor.