Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [63]
Dave
P.S. Why would I quit when I’m winning? And who would agree to work with you on an almost-finished novel anyway?
CHAPTER 20
By Sunday morning Paul and Brandy were nearly laughed out, having spent Saturday going over what was true and what was part of her act. Her actual musical taste ran more Bach than rock, it turned out. On the other hand, Blazing Saddles really was her favorite movie. As for money, Brandy said she’d been getting by with online poker and some math tutoring on the side. Paul had joined in the confessional mood, revealing that he’d fallen a few units shy of his college degree. She promised not to hold it against him.
They were still in bed. “Maybe we could live on the property Terry left Lacey and me,”30 Paul speculated to the ceiling. “I could get out of the business and raise heirloom turkeys or something. You could, I don’t know, mastermind a global financial heist online.”
“Or we could move up to Eugene,” said Brandy, giving him a squeeze. “You could be the professor’s hot young husband.”
Mostly Paul was enjoying not thinking about Terry, Hart, or Mercer. After they got up she put on the Goldberg Variations and heated up the previous night’s macaroni and cheese. As they ate, he beat her at Stratego, running his string to four straight. He was 85 percent sure she wasn’t letting him win. And if she was, he could live with it.
“While we’re clearing the air, there’s one last thing I need to tell you,” Brandy announced.
“Gulp,” Paul pronounced.
“I gotta run. Every Sunday I babysit my friend Candi’s kids. We used to dance together, before we both got hurt—different pole, same song. She decided to sue the place and lost. Went broke paying her lawyer. So now she deals blackjack at Spirit Rock on weekends. Sweet girl, but not the coldest beer in the fridge. She keeps making terrible choices with men, too.”
“I’m glad you don’t have that problem,” Paul said, and kissed her good-bye.
Walter Blakey’s backyard in Emery smelled like some specific flower Paul couldn’t name.
“Fucking Raiders,” Walter said.
The first game of the season was playing on an old portable black-and-white TV on the railing of his back porch. The Broncos had just returned an interception for a touchdown.
“I just keep coming back, year after year. Ever feel like the thing that really kills you is hope?” Walter asked.
“Never quite looked at it that way,” said Paul. “But I guess I know what you mean.” He’d stopped by and introduced himself on the way back down from Tulac.
After the extra point, Paul said, “So anyway, you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.”
“I figured you’d get around to it.”
“I wanted to ask you about the WINO days,” said Paul.
“Shoot.”
“Do you remember anything weird happening around the time of my parents’ death?”
“Weird like how?”
“Like anything that made you wonder if the whole thing might not have been an accident?”
“Wow. Oh, man. . . . That period is a little blurry. We called ourselves WINO for a reason,” Walter said with a chuckle, then stopped himself. “Sorry. It’s terrible what happened to your folks.”
“That’s okay.”
“Actually, Jas—Jasmine, my ex-wife—was more into the whole WINO thing than I was. She was kind of the secretary or treasurer of the group. You probably know this already, but another couple was originally scheduled to be there that weekend. That’s what she told me, anyway.”
“Mal and Mel Sundstrom?” Paul asked.
“Sundstrom, right,” said Walter. “Me and Jas used to call them the Malmels. We could never remember which one was Mal and which was Mel. Was it Melanie or Melvin? Mallory or Malcolm? We used to crack each other up over that.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, I never heard from them after the accident. I guess the party was just over, you know? They lived out in Easternville, I think.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”
Walter