Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [96]
I think about our meet with Sandy at the strip club. After we talked she put the call in to her boss, this Terry guy. She said she left a message, that he’d call back. But she could have talked to him, told him there were guys looking for Tim. And he could have told her what to do: string us along, keep us out waiting for a call, keep us drinking and blowing crank. And then she just about begged us to come and party at her place. And she told T she didn’t want him to bring Hitler.
Someone was waiting at her house when she got home with T. At least two guys who work for Terry. Or maybe two Russian gangsters reneging on their deal with Dylan and coming after me for the money. Take your pick.
So I’ll go over to Sandy’s and walk into whatever trap is waiting for me, because she’s still the only lead I have on Timmy. But I’ll bring Sid and Rolf with me.
Whoever’s waiting over there won’t be ready for Rolf and Sid. Nobody is ready for Rolf and Sid. I just need to be ready, ready to grab T when the shooting starts.
I close my eyes.
The chemicals in my body are still fighting a pitched battle. My heart leaps and starts like a faulty engine.
I open my eyes.
They feel dry, almost cracked. My tongue is swollen and rough and my whole mouth is seared from inhaling smoke. I’ll never be able to sleep.
I close my eyes.
And am swallowed whole by jungle, darkness, and nightmares.
I JOLT awake, covered in sweat. The scream sitting at the back of my mouth. I bite it and swallow it back down.
Sid is sitting on the edge of the foam pad, holding my arm. He’s changed into a pair of T’s black Levis and a pink bowling shirt with the name Al embroidered over the breast pocket. He releases my arm.
—Sorry to wake you, dude. You were totally having a nightmare.
I pull the blanket up to cover my body. He looks at me.
—You OK now?
I nod. He gets up. I tilt my chin at him.
—Nice threads.
He looks down at himself and tugs at the loose waist of the jeans.
—Yeah. They’re a little big. Anyway, dude’s taste is not mine, but I need some kind of disguise, I guess. I got some shades in my pack and a bandana I can like tie like a do-rag?
I nod.
He points at my cowboy hat sitting on the edge of T’s desk.
—I get the cowboy thing, dude. I didn’t when we saw you, but then I saw all the other cowboys at the strip club and remembered the signs for the rodeo. Good call.
—Not my idea.
—Good one, anyway.
The sun is shining brightly through the hall window.
—What time is it? Can I catch a few more Zs?
—It’s early, but you better get up, dude. We have some shit to figure out.
I nod. He steps to the door, stops, looks back at me.
—I know what that’s like, dude, nightmares. If you ever want to talk, or.
He shrugs once. And leaves the room.
Sid was so high-strung when I met him at the motel in Barstow that I assumed that was what he was like. I was wrong. This is the real Sid; shy, pensive, glum. He was up at the motel because of what had happened in the strawberry field. He was up from killing Deputy Fischer. But the high has worn off. He’ll be wanting that high again. Soon.
I get up and dress.
WE HAVE a new car.
I peek out the living room window and see one of the most fabulously nondescript automobiles ever manufactured. I turn to Rolf.
—Chevy Cavalier?
—I know, dude, but it’s not like I was looking for style. I needed something easy to rob.
—Where’d you get it?
—I hopped one of those CAT buses and rode over to UNLV. Got it out of the parking lot.
—Gas?
—Dude, I’m not a fucking amateur. I stopped by a Shell and filled it up and checked the oil and shit.
—What happened to the car you boosted last night?
Sid looks up from the TV. As promised, he has tied a red and white bandana over his head and is wearing chrome-finish sunglasses that fit his face tightly, like a pair of welding goggles.
—The cops will be looking at stolen car reports from anywhere near where we dumped the Westy. That thing is no good