Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [82]
Rodeo. I’ve heard that before.
—Rodeo?
—The NFR, man. National Finals Ro-day-o. Ten days of broncs and bulls, man. Big business for me, that’s why I was out so late last night. I tell ya, those cowboys are bigger speed freaks than the strippers. I’m making bank over at the Mack Center and hanging around the Frontier.
—Rodeo. Got it.
I get up, walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. The hat covers my hair and the brim leaves my face in deep shadows. T may be on to something.
I walk back out to the living room. T is in the kitchenette tossing beers into the fridge with freakish precision and speed. He looks over his shoulder at me.
—Well?
I sit back on the couch.
—Yeah, it works.
—Shit yeah right it works.
He takes a last beer from one of the cases, tosses it high in the air, hops to his feet, kicks the fridge door closed, and catches the beer.
—Ye-haw!
He grins at me, waxy skin sheened with speed-sweat, eyes popping and dark ringed. Jesus, did he sleep at all? He cracks the beer open and guzzles half of it. Then he hunts through the pile of shopping bags and grabs one with something heavy sagging the bottom.
—Got these for you, too.
He upends the bag and the contents bang onto the coffee table. Two boxes.
9 mm.
.44 Magnum.
T STARTED going gray in high school, so he’s been dyeing his hair since he was twenty. He uses a set of clippers to shave my beard, leaving a long drooping cowboy ’stache down to my chin, and sideburns to my earlobes. I wash my hair and he combs in the same black dye he uses himself, then does the moustache, burns, and my eyebrows. He speed-raps the whole time, giving me a rundown on his life in Vegas, a detailed Godzilla filmography, and his top-ten porn-star list.
I rinse and wash and dry and go in to the spare room and put on my cowboy gear: BVDs, Levis, wife-beater, clean white socks, pointy-toed boots, pearl snap shirt, black leather belt with a big silver buckle, and the hat. It all fits. I step out of the room and T takes a long look at me.
—Bad. Ass. You’re like Sam Elliot and Greg Allman’s secret love child.
I look in the mirror. Badass.
I’VE REMEMBERED Tim’s address. It’s a wonder what a little sleep and medication will do for a concussion. We park in front of a stucco fourplex on King’s Way, me and T up front and Hitler in the back. T kills the engine and the headlights.
—This is it.
I look up and down the block. It’s a street full of driveways that lead into apartment complexes. Only Tim’s building and a couple others front the street itself. I look at T.
—Kind of early. Maybe we should come back later, when people are asleep.
T shrugs.
—It’s a 24/7 town, man. Doesn’t really matter what time it is. But the good news is, people pretty much mind their own business.
—OK, OK. You, uh . . .
—Wait here?
—Yeah. You wait here and . . .
—Honk if someone shows?
—Yeah, that’s good.
—Yeah. That Xanax still cooking? You seem a little out of it. You want something to give you an edge?
No, no more pills.
—No, no, I’m cool. I mean, I’m mellow. I’m just not exactly sure what to do. Can you, if I can’t get in, can you pick the lock?
T looks at me sideways.
—Shit, man, I’m a dealer, not a thief.
I don’t want to bring the guns. I don’t want to bring them, but I know I should. So I split the difference. I leave them in the plastic grocery bag with the ammo, tucked under the passenger seat of T’s car. I feel safer without them.
Tim’s apartment is #4, upper right corner. I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell. I ring it again. And one last time. There’s a kitchen window. I push on it and it slides open, unlocked. Great, Timmy. I look up and down the empty street, and boost myself through the window.
I land on the kitchen counter, my hat tumbles to the floor, and I slide after it. I get to my feet and turn on the lights. The kitchen has one of those pass-through counters that opens on to a small living room. The living room has a sliding glass door that opens on a tiny balcony. There are two bar stools at the pass-through.