Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [89]
She holds her hands up like she’s about to deliver a dual karate chop. She’s a big hand-talker, Sandy is.
—But! This one day I show up and everybody is there. All the delivery guys are in there, the ones I know and the ones I don’t know. Terry, the boss, he’s not even really a boss, he’s just a dealer who pays us a commission to make these deliveries, but we call him a boss. But Terry, he’s been making us all stay until everybody is there, except Tim. And that’s when he asks if anyone has seen him around. And it looked to me like Terry did it that way so he could watch everyone all together when he asked, to see if anyone looked at each other, like they maybe knew something they weren’t telling. But no one did. And that’s pretty much it.
She peels her lips away from her teeth and grinds her molars.
—Shit, T, this is serious stuff.
I shake my head.
—So, wait, but where’s Tim?
—Hell if I know.
—That’s, that’s all you?
—For now. I tried to get ahold of Terry, you know, see if anything had popped up, but he ain’t around. I can try him in the morning, I mean after the sun comes up. But.
She shrugs.
—But, what was the last time someone saw him?
She slaps her forehead.
—Oh, shit. Right. Well, maybe Saturday because Tim always takes Sunday off and Monday was when he was missing, but that’s not what I was gonna. This other guy! I forgot to tell you.
—What other?
—Hang ooooon. OK, this other guy was in there, in the office I guess, this morning, when I went in for my pickup, and I heard him talking to Terry a little, and I think I heard him say Tim’s name, and then he left.
—Who was he?
—Well! At first, I thought the guy was a cop collecting a payoff because he was in a suit, but then when the guy left I heard him say good-bye and he can’t have been a cop, because of he had a Russian accent.
My heart jackhammers. I could say it’s just the speed. But I’d be lying.
I WALK out of the stall. At the sink, I splash water on my face and inhale, sucking it into my nose to ease the chemical burn from the bump I just did. I look in the mirror and there I am: Stetson pulled low, sunglasses still on, skin waxy and drawn under my Mexico tan, jaw muscles flexing as I grind my teeth. I turn off the sink and walk out of the bathroom, water still dripping from my moustache.
Coming out of the tiled calm of the bathroom, I am hit by the ceaseless wave of slots racket. Gding-gding-gding, punctuated by the occasional mechanical cry, “Wheel of Fortune!” or the chang-chang of a nickel machine paying out. My heart leaps arhythmically in my chest, trying to match time with the din. I freeze.
Where am I? I stand in place and turn in a slow circle and look around the Western-themed casino. I see a sign. Sam’s Town Gambling Hall. Oh, right. Sam’s Town. This is the place Sandy wanted to hang while . . . While? We’re waiting for something. For . . .
—Where have you been, baby?
Sandy grabs me from behind and wraps her arms around me, I rotate within her grasp, feeling our bodies slide against each other, and put my hands on her hips.
—Got me.
She smiles, puts a finger on the bridge of my sunglasses and pushes them down. She looks at my eyes.
—Oh, baby, you are tweaked aren’t you?
—Got me.
She laughs.
—Well, hand it over, it’s mama’s turn.
I dig in my pocket for the bindle T gave me and pass it to her. She points at the tables.
—T’s right over there.
And she walks toward the bathrooms. I turn and find T at a ten-dollar craps table.
—T, what are we doing here, man?
He tosses a chip onto the table.
—All the hards, heavy on the eight.
I stand next to him at the table, watching the multicolored chips dance across the green felt, shuttled by the croupiers. I put my hand on his sleeve.
—I mean, this is bad, I shouldn’t be out.
The roller tosses the dice. A croupier calls them.
—Seven! Craps!
T’s chips are raked from the table. He looks at me.
—We’re waiting for the call.
—What call?
He shakes his