Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [5]
3
Old age was mean.
Valentine had discovered that a few years ago, the week he’d turned sixty. He’d gotten up one morning, and half the bones in his body felt broken. He’d tried to remember what he’d done to deserve such punishment, and realized his body was paying him back for a judo class he’d taken two days before.
A two-day-old payback. That was just plain mean.
Old age also turned cruel on Rufus right after the football field cleared out. Rufus was putting his winnings into a rented Wells Fargo truck when both legs cramped and his face turned blue. Valentine had thrown the last bag of money into the truck, then gotten his head under Rufus’s armpit, dragged him to his rental, and poured Rufus into the passenger seat.
Gloria and Zack had already left. Valentine got the rental started, and drove across the field to the break in the chain-link fence that led to the parking lot, then on to Las Vegas Boulevard. As the tires hit pavement, Rufus’s eyes snapped open.
“I need whiskey,” the old cowboy muttered.
“You need to see a doctor first.”
“Whiskey’s cheaper and it works faster.” Rufus pointed at a casino up ahead, a run-down joint called the Laughing Jackalope. “That place will do.”
“You sure?” Valentine asked.
“Yessir.”
Valentine found a space in the Jackalope’s dusty parking lot. Killing the engine, he stared at the peeling paint and decay on the building. There were three types of casinos in Las Vegas: carpet joints, sawdust joints, and toilets. The Jackalope was on the low end of the toilet scale. Opening the door, Rufus practically fell out of the car.
“See you inside,” he said.
Valentine watched Rufus lurch across the lot like a drunk on ice skates. At the front door he threw his shoulders back and snapped to attention, then marched inside.
The sound of a shot glass slamming the bar greeted Valentine upon entering the poorly lit, mirrored cocktail lounge. Rufus was at the bar, getting served. The bartender, a cross-eyed albino wearing a faded purple tuxedo shirt, held a bottle of Johnny Walker at the ready.
“Another?” the albino asked.
“I’d sure appreciate it,” Rufus replied.
The albino poured and Rufus drank. The color had returned to his cheeks, and he no longer looked ready to keel over. Wiping his lips, he glanced through an open doorway into the next room where a couple of construction workers wearing coveralls were shooting pool. Rufus pointed at the halfway mark on the shot glass.
“To there, if you don’t mind,” he said.
The albino half-filled the glass. Rufus staggered into the next room, doing his drunk act, and started baiting the construction workers. The albino placed another shot glass on the bar and filled it with whiskey.
“No thanks,” Valentine said.
“Who said it was for you?” the albino snorted.
The albino slammed the drink back, then returned the bottle to its slot on the mirrored display behind him. When he turned around, he gave Valentine a hard look.
“I remember you now,” the albino said. “You came in here a few days ago, asking a lot of questions. Your name’s Gerry, isn’t it?”
Valentine and his thirty-six-year-old son, Gerry, bore a strong physical resemblance, and the crummy bar light was a good equalizer. Gerry had been with him until a few hours ago when Valentine sent him to Atlantic City to chase down a lead. He guessed the albino was one of his son’s local sources, and said, “That’s right. How’s it going?”
“Shitty,” the albino said. “What do you want?”
“You always so warm and fuzzy?”
“Just call me Mister Fucking Sunshine.”
“You must really bring in the customers.”
“You came in, didn’t you?”
There was no use arguing with a guy like this, and Valentine decided to leave. Pulling out his wallet, he asked, “How much do I owe you?”
“Same as before,” the albino said.
“Refresh my memory.”
The albino reached into Valentine’s wallet and gingerly removed a C-note. He put his elbows on the bar in a friendly fashion and said, “You want to see the notebook? I just got the updates last night. Lots of new dealers.”
Valentine played back everything