Six Bad Things Part 40

--Hank? They killed Hitler. They killed my dog.

I COULD let him die. I could tell Rolf and Sid to f.u.c.k off. They have no idea where I am. I could just let them kill T, and their part in all this would be over. I mean, who is T? Just a guy I barely knew in high school. Just a crazed speed freak with a death wish anyway. Just a guy who wanted to help me protect my parents for no reason other than he misses his own.

s.h.i.+t.

And anyway.

Tim is gone.

My friend took the money and he's gone. That's clear now. And my choices are gone with him. The s.h.i.+p is sinking and it's time to get as many people off as possible.

I lie again.

I tell Sid and Rolf I know where the money is. I tell them I got Sandy to tell me where Tim is and I found him and he told me where the money is. They want to know where he is now. I tell them something they'll believe, I tell them I killed him.

They want to meet where the money is, but I tell them no chance. I tell them we'll meet someplace public, they'll let T go, and I'll take them to the money. They like that idea because it means they get the money and me. We decide to do it at the hotel. They're calling from a pay phone outside a supermarket. Sandy gives them directions and the name of the guy at the front desk. He'll set them up with a room, and then they'll call us and we'll do the swap.

After I get off the phone Sandy goes down to the front desk to pay for the extra day on our room and to tell her guy that some friends of hers will be coming in.

I make my call.

--Who the h.e.l.l are Rolf and Sid, Henry, and why are they leaving you messages?

It should have been obvious, I guess. He gave me the phone after all, so of course he has the code to retrieve all the messages Rolf and Sid left for me.

--More to the point, what are they doing talking about my money?

--Take it easy, Dylan.

--Don't. Don't even start, Henry. I have been very patient with you, treated you like a professional, and where has it gotten us? You blow off the deadlines for two progress reports, and when I investigate your absence I discover you have been receiving calls from people who seem to be trying to make a deal for my money. And who are these people? No, don't answer that because I think I know. Sid, I gather, would be the Sidney Cain the authorities are looking for, and Rolf is most likely the nameless gentleman whose sketch is now being circulated. Are these your allies, Henry? Are these the kind of subcontractors you have employed? If so, and I am certain that it is so, I can only call your judgment questionable. No, pardon me, I am being sarcastic, let me be more blunt. You're f.u.c.ked-up! You are completely f.u.c.ked-up and you are pus.h.i.+ng me and your parents very close to the f.u.c.king edge!

--I have the money, Dylan.

--Where?

--Here.

--Here being Las Vegas, if I am to believe the news reports?

--That's right.

--Well it is Friday night, Henry. Don't you think you should be rus.h.i.+ng my money to me?

--I can't --Why not?

--Because my picture is on the TV, Dylan, and I can't really travel much.

--What do you propose?

--Come and get it.

I give him the address where I plan to be and hang up.

I try to make myself see this ending with my parents still alive.

I snort two fat lines of crank to give me an edge, and eat a Perc to keep from feeling anything.

All I have to do now is kill everybody.

ROLF CALLS my cell from their room and tells me the number. I tuck the Anaconda and the 9 mm in my pants and give Sandy the keys to the Chrysler and tell her to wait here for fifteen minutes and then leave if I'm not back.

--Where?

--A lawyer, go to a lawyer and tell your story.

--And then what?

--You didn't do anything. If they're any good, they'll get you out of trouble and sell your story to Fox. So just find a good lawyer.

I open the door to go to Rolf and Sid's room.

The problem is, Sandy didn't tell her guy at the desk not to give Rolf and Sid our room number, which is why Sid is standing right outside our door, shoving his .45 in my face and forcing me back into the room.

SID STILL isn't talking to me. I open my mouth to say something, and he shakes his head, and I close it. He looks disappointed in me.

He takes my guns and makes Sandy and me lie side by side on the floor in the little s.p.a.ce between the beds. He sits in the room's only chair and watches us. Sandy is shaking. I put a hand on the back of her head.

I should have sent her to the car right after she came back up from the desk, but she took forever to get her s.h.i.+t together and get dressed. I should have known they'd have something planned. That's me, three steps behind, as usual. There's a tap on the door. Rolf. p.i.s.sed again.

He grabs me by my hair and drags me out from between the beds. Sandy whimpers and clutches at me, but Rolf yanks me free and she wriggles under one of the beds. I get to my hands and knees, crawling as he leads me around the room by my hair.

--Dude, you are so f.u.c.king lame.

--Cool it, Rolf.

--Did you just tell me to cool it?

He pulls my head back so he can see my face.

--You still think I'm a tool, don't you, dude?

He slaps me.

--You think I'm a tool, and that makes you think you can get away with this lame s.h.i.+t.

SLAP!.

--Think you can ditch us?

SLAP!.

SLAP!.

--Stop it, Rolf.

--What?

Gritting my teeth.

--Just stop, man. Be cool.

--Oh, I'm being cool, dude.

SLAP!.

--Be cool. Let's go to your room and cut T loose and then we'll get the money and.

SLAP!.

--The money, dude? Dude, you really do think I'm a tool.

SLAP!.

--Yeah, man, you come here with T and I'll take you to the money. How many times do you think you can tell the same f.u.c.king lie, dude? You're so like the boy who cried money. You tool.

SLAP!.

--Well, news flash, dude: I'm not here for the money, I'm here for you. I mean, f.u.c.k that wild goose. Your friend and the cash are gone, any a.s.shole can see that.

SLAP!.

--But you, dude? I can go two ways with you. I can use you to cut a deal with the cops. Or, dude, I chop your f.u.c.king head off for a souvenir and just run back to Mexico with the 75 K I already got. Once I'm back in Margaritaville, no one can find me. So who's the tool now?

SLAP!.

--Huh? Who's the tool now, dude?

Rolf taps his finger hard between my eyes.

--Tool. Tool. Tool. Tool. Tool.

And his head explodes.

Sid gets off the chair, a whiff of smoke drifting from the barrel of his gun. I don't move. I can't. My face is pressed against the carpet, I can see Sandy under the bed. Frozen like me.

Sid takes a couple steps. He puts his foot on Rolf's shoulder and shoves him onto his back. I can see the little hole punched though Rolf's left eyebrow, and the big hole in the top of his head. The blood is pumping out, which means his heart must still be beating, which means he's still alive. But I guess I knew that already because of the way his mouth is opening and closing, like a fish drowning on dry land.

Sid grabs a pillow from the bed. He places it over Rolf's face, pushes the gun deep into it, and pulls the trigger. He takes the pillow away, looks at the hole where Rolf's upper lip used to meet his nose, then looks at the bloodstain on the back of the pillow. He drops the pillow back on Rolf's face and looks at me.

--Dude, you still got your buddy's car?

I nod. He points at Sandy.

--Get the girl, dude, we gotta get out of here.

I coax Sandy out from under the bed and she huddles against the wall, staring at Sid. He opens the door. I remember something.

--Hang on, Sid.

I go to Rolf's corpse, lift his s.h.i.+rt, and tear off the money belt.

--We may need this.

Sid nods.

--Yeah, dude, good thinking.

THE EL Cortez is a very cheap hotel; the walls are about as thin as you would expect. Sid did a good job deadening the sound of the second shot with that pillow, but the first one was more than loud enough. When we step into the hallway, every door on the floor slams shut simultaneously as our nosy neighbors duck back inside. Sid walks us down the hall to the fire stairs. He stays behind us, his gun in his hand, my guns in Sandy's Adidas bag draped over his shoulder.

The fire alarm sounds as soon as we open the door to the stairs. We're on the eighth floor; by the time we hit the fifth, a few people have started joining us on the stairs. I think about making a move in the confusion, but it will only get people hurt. Besides, I want to stay with Sandy. I want to get her out of this if I can.

We exit onto the Sixth Street sidewalk, into the middle of a crowd that has been evacuated from the casino. We walk through the ma.s.s of fixed-income seniors and hard-core lowball gamblers that inhabit the Cortez, and turn onto Fremont Street, past the main entrance to the hotel. Just as we make it onto the tarmac of the parking lot, I see two beefy security guards escorting a blue-haired woman in a nightdress. She sees us and points. One of our neighbors from the eighth floor. One of the guards lifts his walkie-talkie to his lips while the other one undoes the bra.s.s b.u.t.ton on his blue blazer and starts to trot after us.

--Halt!

We walk around the corner of the wall that surrounds the parking lot. Sid tells us to stop. He turns and flattens against the wall. The security guard comes around the corner. Sid shoots him in the ear. Sandy screams and tries to run, but I grab her, knowing that he will shoot her down if I don't. He takes us to the Cavalier and opens the trunk. T is inside. His wrists and ankles are bound with wire, and a gag is stuffed in his mouth. There's more blood on his face than before, and a red-soaked pillowcase is wrapped around his calf where the crossbow bolt hit him. But he's conscious. When the lid pops open he lunges weakly at Sid, who brushes him off.

--Get him out of there.

I reach into the trunk, wrap my arms around him, boost him on to my shoulder in a fireman's carry and start walking to the Chrysler. Sirens are approaching. Sid makes Sandy open the trunk of the Chrysler. There's an old blanket inside, probably Hitler's. I lay T on top of it. His left eye is swollen shut and his right has blood in it, but he's looking at me, seeing me. The gag is made out of duct tape sealed across something stuffed in his mouth. His nose is swollen and clogged with blood. He's slowly suffocating. I look at Sid.

--I'm taking his gag off.

I rip the tape away before he can stop me, but he doesn't seem to care. He watches me, studying my moves. I pry a blood-slimed piece of cloth from T's mouth. He chokes and grabs my hand and hisses.

--Save me.

Sid pushes Sandy at the trunk.

--Her too.

She tries to take a step back, shaking her head from side to side, her hair flailing the air. I pull her to me and slip my arm under her legs, lifting her as if to take her across a threshold, and deposit her next to T. Her eyes are huge. She's trying to say something; another scream will burst from her mouth in a moment. I slam the lid closed, m.u.f.fling her cry and cutting off T's guttural pleas.

Sid hands me the keys and we get in, me behind the wheel, him beside me, holding his gun. We pull out of the lot, away from the El Cortez, as emergency vehicles arrive. I catch a glimpse of the other security guard kneeling next to his dead partner, and then we are back on the Boulder Highway.

Sid wants a hideout.

--Dude, twenty-four hours of cruising around in that Cavalier? Talk about ill s.h.i.+t. Don't want to be on the road in a stolen car, don't want to risk trying to steal a new one. Don't want to park too long in one place and have people being all, Hey, what's with the two dudes sitting around in that car for so long? So cruise, park, call you, leave another message, cruise some more. And talk about golden tickets? Finding your cell number written on T's hand? Huge. I mean, dude, that's the only reason he's alive. I mean, if we didn't have a way of talking to you and threatening to kill him? What would be the point, right? So it all worked out. But if I don't get to sit still for a few hours, I'm gonna freak. Also, dude, like you probably noticed this by now, but I totally reek.