Drawing Dead (34 page)

Evgeny spotted me.

Rick-ay, he called out. Come play! We got hot strick goink!

I was about to go over. Play the obliging confederate. Help keep his strick goink. But then I remembered that I hadn’t finished the job yet. First thing Evgeny would ask me. And I didn’t feel like explaining.

In fact, I thought, as I picked up the pace towards the lobby, Evgeny’s voice fading behind me into the rattle and hum of the slots, I didn’t even know if I had an explanation. I’d taken Yugo’s word for this Delgado thing. The whole thing could be a ruse.

Self-aggrandizement, I could hear Sheila say. Why the hell would someone want to pull some elaborate ruse on me? I wasn’t important enough. Somebody wanted to mess with me, they could just punch me in the chest, like Bruno.

Speaking of which, I’d almost made my escape when the Italian Buffoon himself hove into view.

Redman, he said. I got something I got to talk to you about.

Yeah, well, I’m in a hurry, I said.

No, listen, man. It’s important.

As I tried to bull on past him, he stepped sideways, blocking my path.

You’re gonna help me with something, remember?

I panicked.

I took a hard right towards the Chinese noodle shop. Ran past the main cage, skidded to the left, took a glance behind. He was after me, all right. Luckily, his physique wasn’t tailored for speed.

Neither were my lungs. But desperation can sometimes buy you a couple extra miles an hour. I managed to launch myself down a flight of stairs to the car park, circle out through the garage, approach the taxi stand from the back end.

I flung myself into a cab.

It smelled of pickled onions. And anxiety.

A
COUPLE OF MINUTES INTO THE RIDE
, once my chest had stopped heaving and the tremble in my legs had subsided, I leaned back and tried to figure out whether the pain in my chest was another heart attack, or merely severe panic. I tried to remember how I’d gotten myself into this bloody mess. Oh, yeah. Money. My fabulous poker career. Which, with all this other shit going on, I was not exactly attending to.
Which might not be such a bad thing. I’d probably just lose what little I had left. Get whacked by the Russkies.

At least I still had my Kelley.

Which reminded me. Before the Delgado message, I’d made a date with Madeleine. Shit. Peter and Kelley afterwards. There was no way I was going to make either of them. And Louise. Shit.

I reached for my cell phone.

It wasn’t there.

I’d left it in the room.

I felt naked. Angry. Frustrated. Pissed.

And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

When I got out of the cab, the street was dark. Nobody in sight. The car took off. I watched the taillights fade to pinpricks in the night. My eyes adjusted. I saw that I was in an industrial-looking area. Loading docks. Trailer trucks. No sidewalk.

I found a street corner. I was in the right place. I looked for a sign, a bit of neon. Some evidence that the joint existed. There was nothing. Not even a number on a building.

A hot wind picked up, took my cowboy hat into the street. I chased it down. My new cowboy boots were pinching my feet. I’d figured I should complete the costume.

I felt a fool.

I was a fool.

I wandered back and forth on the block. Nothing good was going to come of this. It was pissing me off. Worse, it was scaring the shit out of me. I’d blindly followed the directions in an anonymous voice mail to here, the middle of buttfuck nowhere, so I could wander deserted streets in the dark? What kind of dumb shit was I? How long before the gang of creeps appeared, black-masked and ready to disembowel me with blunt objects?

Lucky I hadn’t thought to pack the Mauser. It only would have inflamed the mob.

I stared at a brick wall, painted black. Something odd about it. I tried to think what it was. It came to me. Industrial-type enterprises didn’t paint themselves black. ‘Paint It, Black.’ The song began to echo in my head. I could remember the tune, the refrain. I couldn’t remember the lyrics. Not optimistic, I was willing to wager. It was early Stones, after all. Something hidden behind a Stones wall, I mused.

I walked the length of the black wall. Back again. Two-thirds down, I saw what I’d missed before. A small brass sign. Above eye height. Inconspicuous. Available to the connoisseur:

My, I thought. A clue.

I felt like a veritable detective.

I scoured the wall around the sign. Yes. There was a door. No doubt about it. But it was flush with the brick, and also black and made of brick. Almost impossible to see in the gloom. And on it, also black, a button. A small mesh screen.

Press the button.

I thought twice about it. Three times, to tell the truth. Maybe more.

Curiosity took over.

I pressed the button.

The door swung open.

Sure, I said to myself. They’ve been watching me. All the time.

I peered in.

A black hole.

Black brick walls. One in front. One on each side. One above. I was surrounded. I looked down. At my feet, a staircase. Also in black. Barely visible.

I took a deep breath. I’d come this far. What was I going to do? Call a cab? Didn’t seem feasible. No cell phone. Let alone prudent. If someone had it in for me, they’d come out after me. I might as well go down. Meet my fate.

I descended. The staircase turned and turned. Always another corner you couldn’t see around. I could feel my heart, alive in my chest. Talking to me. Fear, it was saying. Feel fear.

Around the final spiral was a six-foot-square space surrounded by more stone walls. A very large man stood in front of me. Very large indeed. He had a padlock hanging from his left ear. Not an earring in the shape of a padlock. A real, live, heavy brass padlock. The earlobe to which it was attached stretched almost to his shoulder.

You couldn’t make this shit up.

I thought of turning around. Scampering up the stairs. Running like the wind. Getting the hell out of there.

No, I thought. That would be rude. Not to mention physically challenging.

Behind Gargantua was an enormous door. The door was studded with large bolts. It was painted a glossy black.

Novel color scheme, I thought to myself.

There was a sign on the door:

This was reassuring.

Mr. Padlock told me to raise my arms. I hesitated a moment. So he did it for me. Grabbed my elbows and launched them above my head. Held them there for a moment.

I got the message.

He patted me down. Looking for livestock, I surmised. I wasn’t nervous. I knew any livestock on my person had been dead for weeks.

Fifty bucks, he said.

Fifty? I asked.

Fifty, he said with a curl of the lip.

I gave him the fifty.

I didn’t ask for a receipt. I wasn’t going to ask. Evgeny was going to have to take my word for this one.

He opened the door.

Inside, the place was dark. Once my eyes got used to the blue-orange dimness, I discerned yet more stone walls. What looked like railroad spikes embedded in the crumbling mortar here and there. There seemed to be a pattern. I didn’t know what it was. On some of the spikes were hung small crepe-paper lamps that shed in blurry pools the little dimly colored light there was. On other spikes, or strung between them, were Devices. Clamps. Chains. Collars. Enormous Vise-Grip-like things. Coils of rubber hose. Black vinyl bodysuits.

Good job, I thought. Definitely set the right tone. And the lighting. Just right. Nothing more disconcerting than a brightly lit S & M club.

It was too early, it appeared. Nobody in the place. Except you and me, I said to myself. I sidled up to the bar. One for the road, I hummed. One more for the road, I corrected myself. ‘One for my baby, and one more for the road.’ What a genius, that Frank, I mused for the thousandth
time. What soul. And I, I was quite certain, possessed such soul. I, among all the pretenders, truly could sing like Sinatra. Could have. If only I’d started my singing career earlier. Earlier than never.

I stumbled on a bar. A real bar. With bar stools. And an enormous illuminated fish tank. Filled with spectacular orange and blue fish. Some were darting about in groups. Schools, I guess they were. The thing was huge. Big enough to hold a school. Of fish, that is. Several of them. Which it did. It was mesmerizing. They were mesmerizing. The schools of fish. I pulled up a stool. I starting singing ‘Willow Weep for Me.’ Softly. Almost in my head. Maybe it was in my head. If I sang to myself, and there was nobody there to hear …

I remembered that I couldn’t sing on key.

My reverie was interrupted by a lithe blonde thing in leather and studs.

Coincidence? That she’d come from the back moments after I’d sat down? Of course not. Surveillance cameras. They were everywhere.

She smiled.

I smiled back.

Can I get you something? she asked, in what sounded like an Irish accent.

Eclectic place, this Vegas.

Cranberry and soda, I said.

You sure? she asked.

I’m sure. It’s going to be a long night.

She smiled that smile that says, Yes, I know exactly what you mean.

Save the hard stuff for later, I said.

The ambiguity was quite deliberate. And not lost on my new best friend.

Once she slid the drink to me she leaned back, elbows against the counter behind the bar. I appraised her, up and down. Normally I’d do it in sideways glances when her back was turned, when she was distracted. The civilized man’s ogle. But the effort seemed superfluous. She was way too all there. Out front. In my face. Coyness would be out of place.

Here, it was all about the meat.

Her feet were narrow and tightly shod in thin flesh-hugging leather boots. Sharply pointed toes and leather lacing. Slim calves. Not trusting myself with the parts between, my eyes skipped to her waist. Exposed. Tight. Muscular. Neatly accented with a thin silver chain.

The chain looked to be, by God, pierced in and out of her flesh. All the way around her body.

Oh my.

What’s your name? I asked.

Lucinda. What’s yours?

Lucinda! I exclaimed. A name to conjure with.

And yours? she repeated, not giving an inch.

Rick. My name is Rick.

Ah. Of all the—

Right. You got it. Rick.

Oh, I was pleased. I was very, very pleased.

At which point we were rudely interrupted.

Xena! Lucinda cried.

I turned. I stared.

Xena was wearing a skintight black thing on her lower quarters. The way station between hot pants and a G-string. Not such a great idea. For while Xena had a long and shapely set of legs on him, or her, the upper parts, and even more the buttocks of the beast, were sadly pocked and rippled. Six foot three of estrogen supplements and artful plastic surgery. Surgery that hadn’t, sadly, managed to eradicate the cel-lulite. Maybe that was the next procedure.

I wasn’t about to tell him, her, about it, though. She was bigger than me.

She took the bar stool next door.

You married, honey? she asked.

Me?

Well, there’s nobody else here, is there, honey?

There’s Lucinda, I said lamely.

Oh, beat it with a stick, said Xena with a gargantuan smile. You know what I mean.

Yes. I mean, no. I mean, no, I’m not married. Anymore.

Oh honey, let me ease your pain!

It’s okay.

It’s never okay, honey. There’s always some more pain around the corner, waiting to be eased.

I wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing.

Buy me a drink, Xena commanded. Lucy, I’ll have a cosmo.

Lucinda shared with me a mock-exasperated grimace.

Wow, I said. What a coincidence. My girlfriend drinks cosmos.

Girlfriend!? You didn’t say you had a girlfriend! Xena pouted.

You didn’t ask.

Oh, he’s a clever little honey, isn’t he, Lucy? Why don’t you bring your little girlfriend over, honey? We have toys for everybody to play with. She’d definitely want to play with me, honey. Let me tell you—

She’s busy, I said. No. I mean, not right now. Maybe later.

I didn’t want to offend.

I needn’t have worried. It was clear that Xena didn’t give a damn. Xena was Xena. You’d take her as she came. And by God, you’d take her. If you didn’t, she’d crush your head in one of those mammoth black fists she carried on the ends of her heavily muscled arms.

So you and the missus been exercising your little libido, darling? she asked.

I refrained from correcting the ‘little’ part. That would only get me in deeper.

Yes, I said. We have. We do. But I try to keep it on a short leash.

We have lots of those, too.

Lots of what?

Leashes, honey, she said, rolling her eyes.

Oh, great. Thanks. If I need a new one, I’ll let you know.

Oh, baby, you can always use a new leash.

I suppose you’re right.

I have my own collection, of course.

I’m sure you do. I’m sure it’s a very nice collection.

Would you like me to take you for a walk?

No, thanks. I mean, I appreciate the offer. I do. But that’s not really my thing.

Then what is your thing, baby? I have many talents.

In addition to walking?

Oh yes, she laughed.
Many
other talents.

I didn’t particularly feel like taking a walk with Xena. Or doing anything else with Xena, frankly. What I felt like doing was running. Fast. Out the door and far away. Bobbing and weaving. I wasn’t getting paid enough for this. Actually, I suddenly realized, for all I knew I wasn’t getting paid a goddamn dime for it.

I was spared further humiliation by a ruckus at the door.

Juan! Xena exclaimed.