The Best Bad Dream (17 page)

“Oh, yes, I would,” she laughed. A deep, throaty, actressy laugh. Yeah, Johnny thought, probably played some rep company somewhere once, dreamed of being a star but didn't have the talent to pull it off. He looked her up and down. In her seventies he bet, but still quite slim and had a nice pair of breasts and a kind of sexy wide mouth. She must have been a looker in her day, back in the 1800s, Johnny thought.

“This is my wife, Millie,” Marty said.

“The Millie and Marty Show,” Millie introduced them, doing a Betty Boop bow.

They both laughed as though they were pleased by their own ineffable wit. Johnny took fifty dollars from his wallet.

“Lag for break?” he asked.

“Excellent,” Marty responded.

This forced, fake, colloquial speech was really annoying the hell out of Johnny. Who the fuck did the guy think he was, anyway? Henry the fucking Eighth?

“Here's my dough,” Johnny said, handing the fifty to Millie to show what a trusting guy he was.

“And here's mine,” Marty said. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bankroll as thick as a brick. Johnny's eyes opened
wide. Why, there must be a couple of grand or even more there. The old geezer was loaded!

Marty handed his fifty to Millie, who smiled and held the bills tight.

Oh, man, Johnny thought, he was going to enjoy beating the hell out of the old dude. And maybe there was a way to get some more of that roll.

Unfortunately for Johnny, the beating had to be postponed. Marty won the lag, and then knocked in two striped balls on the break. He proceeded to knock in two more before he missed.

He wasn't bad, Johnny thought. He had control of the cue ball, and he had a clean, true stroke. But by the fourth ball his stick wavered a little. Probably some old fuck's palsy or something. Millie watched silently, sucking in her breath once or twice when her husband made a shot.

But now it was Johnny's turn, He had a clear run in front of him. In fact, Marty had done him a favor, clearing away all the blocking balls. It would be a snap to hit the four, roll a little way to the left of the five, then put a little topspin on the cue ball and head down the rail for the three.

It would be easy as hell.

But then Johnny got a notion. The old man was here to bet, but if he lost... he might walk away. Now was the time to play the hustle. Johnny was certain of it. And he knew exactly how he'd do it.

He'd be the wiseass kid who talks a better game than he shoots. He'd play Mr. Overconfidence, and watch old Marty swell up when he beat the young gun.

Johnny laughed and pointed at the table.

“Shouldn't have missed, Marty,” he said. “You left me a clear run. And you know I ain't about to blow it.”

He gave a blowhard's smile and leaned over for his first shot. Bang, the four went right in the corner pocket. He watched as his cue ball
settled in front of the five, an easy duck. He stroked it beautifully, ran the cue ball down the rail and was nicely set up for the three. He looked at Marty with a supercocky grimace, then sized up the angle, picked up the stick, and shot. Too hard. Just barely too hard, but too hard, nonetheless. Not only did he miss but he'd set Marty up for his run. Three balls in a row and an easy shot on the eight ball, which Marty hit gently into the side pocket.

Johnny made a point of being a bad sport.

“Nice game but you know you were damned lucky, old man. Why, if I hadn't missed that duck, you know I was going to run right out.”

“Yes,” Marty Millwood said, picking up his cash. “ There is no doubt whatsoever about that. Wouldn't you say so, Millie?”

“Absolutely, I would,” Millie said. “ If he hadn't missed that one he had a clear table. The only thing is ... he did miss. That's the difference sometimes.”

Johnny looked at her with a hostile sneer.

“The difference between what?”

“Between those who talk it, and those who walk it,” Millie said.

Now Johnny didn't have to act. A violent sensation shot through his brain. How he was going to enjoy this . . . the old hag!

“Well,” he said, “ if you guys think Marty is so hot, maybe you'd like to play again?”

“I don't see why not, young man,” Marty agreed. “ Do you have objections, my dear?”

“None at all,” Millie said. “ In fact, I look forward to another contest between the young and the . . . how shall we say it?”

“The seasoned, Mill,” Marty said. “The young and the seasoned.”

Johnny felt like wrapping his cue around Marty's veiny neck. The young and the seasoned. He couldn't wait to whip up on this old son of a bitch. Reminded him of his old man, Woody, the hippie
car thief and junkie. Always ragging on the kids, always putting him down. Well, he'd shown him, put his hands right around his neck and squeeeeeeezed.

Like he would with Millwood, the pretentious old fart.

But not just yet.

They played the next game for a hundred bucks, “just to make it interesting,” Millwood said, using Johnny's own words against him. Johnny played like an overeager lunatic, as though rage had taken over his mind and he couldn't tell one shot from the next.

He really
was
angry, furious even, but he easily could have reined it in and beaten Millwood.

It was too soon, though. There was big money here; he just knew it. A good hustler always knows precisely when to strike, and Johnny Z had always been one of the best.

He was the man, wasn't he? You know he was, and he was going to bring down this old white-haired asshole and his goofy wannabe Lolita bitch, once and for all.

But not yet. Not in game two, and not in game three, which they played for another yard, and which Johnny lost again.

“Okay,” he said. “ You got me for two fifty. That's a lot of cabbage. I want a shot at winning it back. I'll play you one game for a grand. I'll show you. You'll see.”

He slammed his hand down on the table in a parody of barely controlled rage.

The older man watched and rubbed his jaw.

“A thousand,” he said. “Why, that's quite a hefty sum, John.”

“Hey, you've already beaten me twice. It's not much of a man who doesn't give his opponent a shot to win it back.”

“I don't know,” Marty said. “What do you think, Mill?”

Millie looked at Marty and took a sip of her Negro Modelo.

“That is a real head of lettuce,” she said. “But I think you should give Johnny Z here a shot, Mart. The only thing is we can't do it today. You have to lead the council at five and it's four twenty now.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Marty said. “ I'm afraid we have to go, Mr. Z.”

“Hey,” Johnny said, feeling a little panicky, “you some kinda hustler or something?”

“Me?” Marty admonished. “Heck, no. Tell you what, give me your number and I'll call you soon and then we can play again. At my place.”

“Your place?” Johnny asked, suspicious.

“Why not?” Marty countered. “ I have one of the best rooms around, and a table like you've never seen. I think you'll find it a unique experience.”

He smiled at Johnny in such an affable way that he couldn't be denied.

“Okay, then,” Johnny said. “Where do you live?”

“The Blue Wolf,” Marty said. “ Bungalow five. You know the place?”

“Sure I do,” Johnny said. “No problem.” He looked at Marty suspiciously, but finally gave him his cell phone number.

“Perfect,” Millie said, blowing Johnny a kiss. “I'll make us a nice dinner. You're gonna love it, Johnny. Trust me.”

Johnny nodded but felt funny inside. What the fuck was going on? Were they blowing him off, hustling his ass? These two old creeps?

He'd like to follow them outside and grab that bankroll. But maybe . . . maybe this way would be better. He'd get inside their home. No telling what kind of valuable stuff they'd have in there. Artwork and rugs, all kinds of stuff he could boost. Yeah, this could be just the beginning.

It was going to work out fine.

“I trust you both,” he said. “Just make sure you call me.”

“Fine, John,” Marty said. “We both look forward to it. Bye now.”

The two oldsters smiled and headed out of the pool room. Johnny

smiled, then hit the cue ball into the eight and drove it deep into the

corner pocket.

Just like the ace he was.

Chapter Twenty-one

Phil was hanging out at the bar looking for trim when it occurred to him that this Blue Wolf joint wasn't a hangout type of place. What he needed was to take a class, like yoga, or meditation. That's where all the broads would be. Of course.

(Meanwhile he kept thinking of Dee Dee, out again with Ziko, probably doing some kind of Kama Sutra thing with him. God, it made him want to break the little fuck's head like a melon.)

He picked a schedule up at the front desk. There was Pilates in an hour. He knew all about that. He'd been doing it for the last five years, before he sold out and retired. Supposed to improve your core strength. But he noticed that a lot of the women who did it weren't very feminine. They were superaggressive business execs, probably ate men for lunch. So Pilates was out. What else did they offer? Oh, here's one. Kundalini Expression: The Art of Zen Sitting.

That should be easy, and maybe there would be some cute chicks in the class.

Phil headed into the Crystal Desert Room. That was clever, the way they turned the desert idea—a bunch of cactus and fucking sand—into
a crystal desert, like it was the magical seat of all learning. Sort of what he used to do in his old business days. Give a shithole a good name and watch the folks come running.

His place was called the Evergreen Retirement Community. He'd hired a local hack artist who had painted pictures of big strong evergreen trees with some attractive old people wearing sweaters tied around their waists, holding golf clubs and tennis racquets. He had insisted that they have stunning white teeth and attractive, muscular builds—unlike the real old folks who lived in the snake pit of a building. Most of the denizens of Evergreen were hugely obese old slobs who spent all day eating Twinkies and pounding down the swill he served at dinner. That was another of his gimmicks. “All you can eat” at dinner hour. He got the food cut-rate from a wholesale “meal maker” in Hamilton, Ohio. Third-rate hams, second-rate chickens, and half-dead veggies, and since he bought these “gourmet delights” in bulk he was able to practically give away the food. Of course, he made it up on the exorbitant prices he charged for the condos and the two-bedroom “villas” he sold to the old folks. Between that and the money he soaked them for on their private insurance, he was raking in the dough. The old-folks business was really terrific back in Ohio, but he had to admit it was even slicker down here in the Southwest. Here they not only soaked you for the rooms and booze but they had the phony spiritual thing going as well. What's more, the people who worked here almost seemed to believe it.

Once in the classroom, Phil soon found what he was looking for, a really cute blonde from Sacramento. Her name was Annie. She was in her forties, had the most adorable Doris Day nose, and a really nice figure. She seemed like a real nice girl, too. She told him all about her
husband who had died suddenly last winter of a heart attack while snowmobiling up in Seattle. Perfect.

They sat next to each other in the lotus position—well, Phil was
sort of in
the lotus position—and he thought they had a real vibe going.

The Zen master was a Japanese guy. There seemed to be as many Japs here as Mexes. Guess the crystal desert just lent itself to any fantasy you wanted to lay on it. American Indians, Mexicans, Japs. Ain't it funny that in America all the losers are mystics? After you kill about a million of them you sentimentalize the rest.

Anyway, the guy's name was Sensei Larry. Come to think of it, he might have been Japanese-Indian; they had all kinds of mutts down here.

He was very serious and spoke in a flower-soft voice about getting to the core of oneself by breathing in and out and getting the chakras, which were in your back, to rise up.

During the whole “sit,” Phil kept stealing little peeks at Annie, who was breathing in deeply. Oh, what nice breasts she had!

She smiled at him once and whispered, “Take this seriously, Phil. You'll learn a lot about yourself.”

Well, why the hell not, Phil thought. He'd get into the breathing and holding his back erect and maybe he would have some kind of mystical vision. He could be as spiritual as the next asshole.

He breathed in deeply seven times as instructed, and let it out slowly. Waiting, waiting for a vision. What would it be? A flower? A many-petaled flower that showed the, uh . . . many-petaled layers of existence? Or some kind of mystical animal? A jaguar? A peacock? A prancing caterpillar?

Phil listened to Sensei Larry's voice, low and reassuring. He knew for sure he was going to see something, something he could share with Annie to show her he was a sensitive guy, and pretty soon she'd be sucking his cock like a cheerleader under the stands at halftime.

The thing to do is keep the eyes closed and concentrate on seeing the void. No, not seeing it,
becoming
it. He'd read enough Zen books back in college to get it. You had to not see it, because then you were, like, not
in it.
The way to be
in it
was to
be it.

You were not a viewer, you were the view, or some bullshit like that.

Phil scrunched up his eyes and tried, really tried (knowing that he shouldn't be trying but come on!) to become the void, or whatever, and see (no, not see,
be)
the many-petaled rose.

He felt his knee killing him from back when he played football. He felt his heart beating way too fast and wondered if anyone had ever dropped dead trying too hard to relax.

He just bet they had. (Or, even worse, maybe he would be the first!)

He shut his eyes harder, practically squashing his eyeballs.

He had to get it right.

Had to see, be nothing.

He rocked back and forth a little now, chanting a makeshift mantra (Go, Buckeyes, Go!), and trying to lose all self-consciousness, and lo and behold he began to have a vision in his third eye. At least he thought it was his third eye. That was what the other meditators were always talking about around Blue Wolf. How do you stimulate the third eye? How do you make it see, really see? How did the ancient Babylonians do it? How did they get the old third eye going, flashing amazing visions of a world past ours, the third eye that Hitler had sought as well, the third eye that could show you . . . show you . . . well, Phil wasn't quite sure what it could show you, but something really great and way beyond having biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans in Ohio.