Ragged and tired, Greg gazed past Smitty’s shoulder at the mirror above the hospital room sink, staring at his reflection. He looked pretty much like the rest of the shabby gang–possibly worse–with his week’s growth of thick beard, splotchy, sunburned skin and unwashed hair. “Oh how the mighty ones fall,” he mused. The quietness of the room prompted him to ponder the sequence of events that had brought on his demise.
It’d all started innocently enough three years before at a New Orleans trade show. He’d had a few too many cocktails at the closing reception and was busy dropping a few dollars at the casino’s craps table, when a skinny blonde slid her tiny pile of chips up next to his. Lo and behold, their number came up. Attached to the blonde, Greg noticed, was a pair of long legs, a slender figure, and a gorgeous smile. Afterwards, they got together for drinks. They didn’t really do anything wrong, just a quick kiss when he won his first hundred bucks.
The whole tantalizing episode proved only to whet Greg’s appetite for more. In a way, he’d hoped that one thing would lead to another, but by the time the night was over he was five thousand dollars in the hole, the blonde was kissing some other high-stakes patsy, and he’d slunk back to his room, tail between his legs, a kicked dog who’d had his first taste of blood. He spent the night licking his wounds–and dreaming of winning the jackpot, the leggy blonde at his side. . .
The following morning he’d found his sanity restored. His five thousand dollars, however, was still long gone. Returning home, he’d sat in conference with his minister, confessed his sins–both actual and those committed ‘in his heart’–and vowed never again to set foot in a casino. The only problem was that that nasty, mesmerizing taste of blood stayed with him, and grew more appealing as the days dragged on. He’d sit in his high-rise office, looking out across the valley at the hotels and casinos reaching ever higher on the Vegas horizon. Every day, week after week, the thrill of those first few wins grew bigger in his mind. Maybe it was the kiss, a sensual reward that came with the big score at the craps table, together with the titillating, frightening flicker of hope that the blonde trophy would wind up in his hotel room that night. Maybe it was her putting her chips on his number, and the number coming up. Any way he looked at it, he’d sipped from an intoxicating cocktail, and now he was hooked–in more ways than one. He, the casino and the blonde were a threesome, his thoughts always on the lookout for more excitement.
His minister had counseled him to pray to overcome his weaknesses, and he had. Day after drawn-out day, night after miserable night, he prayed. But each time he’d allow his thoughts to wander back to the image of that captivating blonde posing under the harsh casino lights. Why hadn’t he quit when he was up two thousand, bought her a drink, and . . . no, he wasn’t going there again. He’d already been there hundreds of times in his mind.
It was the base thoughts, or perhaps the illusion of power, that finally dragged him back to the Strip, back to bondage. He was just going to check out some obscure casino, roll a few dice, blow fifty or a hundred bucks, and dispel, once and for all, the notion it could have been any different. Then he could weed the whole thing out of his mind. But, by some lucky curse, an hour later he walked out four hundred obscene dollars richer.
Of course it was chump change. Linda, his wife, hadn’t even missed the five thousand he’d lost in New Orleans. Or if she did, she hadn’t said a word about it. She was too busy spending the big bucks his Yahoo stock was bringing in. She relished having her own line of credit cards; seven to be exact. His six made thirteen between them, with four or five new offers coming in the mail every day. Skymile cards, car-rental cards, shopping-spree cards, vacation cards . . . they had them all. The new house on the edge of the country club golf course and two luxury cars in the garage were any man’s dream. But somehow it wasn’t enough. The giddiness of a simple craps game and the danger of a skinny blonde called to the animal in him.
On his way home that night, he’d swung by two other of the smaller casinos–won a little, lost a little–but no heart-stopping blondes ever scooted their chips up next to his. That’s when he decided that either the dream needed to die or it needed a fresh thrill to help maintain its luster.
The luster came in the form of a phone number. A day or two later, while looking up the number for Kitto’s Take-out, there, jumping off the page and splashing in his face, were the words Kitty’s Escort Services. On impulse, he dialed the number. “Hello, Kitty’s . . .” the sultry voice had purred. But at that moment his conscience had kicked in, almost a sense of panic, and he hurriedly hung up the phone. A second call three days later got him as far as asking if they had any tall, skinny blonde girls with beautiful smiles. They referred him to their website, and that’s when trouble started hitting the fan big time. . . .
It was Sound who dragged Greg back from his memories. “Look he’s waking up!”
Eddie opened one puffy eye, the other being too swollen to budge. The groggy old fighter eyed the horde of hazy faces, groaned, then lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Mitch pulled up to the main lobby of Three Queens and parked his car in the ten-minute zone. A young pimple-faced valet scampered from the front door to meet him. “Sir, I need to ask you to move. That space is reserved for a guest of Mr. Domenico’s.”
Already standing outside the car, Mitch responded, “Maybe I’m his guest.”
“Are you Mr. Wilson?” Mitch nodded. “So sorry, sir. If you’ll let me take your keys, I can park your car.”
“What’s wrong with where it’s at?”
“Nothing, sir, I’ve just been instructed to treat you extra good.”
Mitch wasn’t at all that keen on accepting any favors from Vinnie. “Then leave me and the car alone.” He reached for the front door.
“Now you wouldn’t want me to lose my job, would you?” the young man replied. “No charge, no tips.” He stuck out his hand, palm up.
Mitch looked the kid in the eye. He was serious. “You’d lose your job?”
“It’s only my second day.”
Mitch reached in his pocket and tossed him the keys.
The young valet grinned. “Thanks, man–I mean, sir. I’ll take good care of it.”
At the elevator Mitch dialed 2113. Vinnie picked up. “Mitch, glad you came.” Mitch stepped into the elevator and glowered up at the camera in the upper corner. The lights in the panel blinked to twelve, the highest number, but didn’t stop until the floor above that. When its doors parted, Mitch stepped out onto a plush white mat of carpet that blanketed the expansive penthouse office. Vinnie pushed back on his white leather executive chair and stood to greet his guest.
Modern art adorned the walls. Luxurious, all-white couches and chrome-and-glass tables rested on leopard-skin throw rugs, each facing inward where a large-screen digital computer sat mounted in a see-through glass desk. Miscellaneous tables and bookstands were scattered in odd locations around the room. On them stood nude figurines, cast in bronze.
“Welcome,” Vinnie said, smiling. “So you had a change of heart. Take a seat.” He pointed to an over-stuffed easy chair. “What can I get you to drink?” Sophistication and Vinnie’s tough-guy attitude and Jersey accent didn’t make for much of a match.
“Nothing, thanks,” Mitch said, a little terse.
“A hot spring day in the desert and you ain’t thirsty?”
“I don’t drink.”
“A man with self control. . . . How’s about a soda?”
“Pepsi.”
Vinnie pulled two sodas from the wet-bar fridge and took a seat on the couch across from Mitch. “The glass shows every little thing,” he said, placing a Three Queens coaster on the coffee table. “Now, how can I help you?”
“You mentioned something about a job the other day . . .”
“Right. Offered good money, generous perks.”
“The offer still open?”
“Yeah, the job’s still available, but deals change. Little thing called supply and demand. Or better yet, leverage. From what I hear, Mike’s shop is closin’ down.”
“Guess so.”
Vinnie smiled. “Tough break, kid.”
Mitch decided the clown was having too much fun and steered the subject away from compensation. “What kind of equipment do you have?”
“The best. Just upgraded the place a year ago. Wanna see it?”
“Before considering a job I always take a long look at the working conditions.”
“Good. I like a man to know exactly what he’s gettin’into.” Both men stood and Vinnie drew his suit coat from the back of his desk chair.
Greg wandered from Eddie’s room to find a place to rest from his all-night rescue. The Alley Team, at the insistence of the head nurse of the unit, had placed Nurse in the empty bed next to Eddie’s. One of the orderlies who frequently came by the room to check on Eddie seemed more interested in Nurse and the Alley Team than in his patient.
Leaning his head against the wall, Greg’s thoughts once more began to drift. The website. I never should have looked at it.
Sure enough, Kitty’s site had featured a long-legged, skinny blonde. She wasn’t nearly as stunning as the girl in New Orleans, but it didn’t take long for his fantasy to replace the mythical face and dazzling smile with one he could actually look at. “Rayna” was her chatroom name, and boy did she know her stuff, all the right buttons to push to keep him coming back for more. His computer romps were listed as “professional services” on his credit cards, and Greg made sure he was always the one to pay the bills.
By that time Linda was basking in their wealth and had joined several clubs and women’s groups, while still faithfully serving on the PTA. She remained active in her church as well, even as Greg’s activity dwindled.
Soon the Yahoo stock, like most other technology stocks, was riding the roller-coaster wave of up-and-down gains and losses. His broker assured him it was only temporary, to just hang in there and ride it out. But shortly blue chip prices began dropping and he had to lay off several key positions. Through it all, his boss assured him that his own job would not be affected. That’s when the strange sequence of calls had started. At first he’d dismissed them simply as mistaken identity. No, he didn’t live on La Jolla Avenue, and never had. . . .
During one of his chatroom forays, Greg had mentioned to Rayna about his New Orleans fantasy. It was she who’d suggested they give it a try. They could meet at the little-known Three Queens, shoot a few craps, and see if there was any chemistry. If only she’d known what kind of chemistry would be unleashed. . . . If Greg’s wife had only known. Indeed, when he was with her, he found himself constantly thinking of Rayna. Too many times he pushed his luck, until finally he pushed it right over the edge . . .
“Excuse me. Excuse me, sir, you can’t sleep in here. Sir!”
Greg’s eyes opened. A square-jawed nurse was shaking his leg. “What?” He sat up and dusted the visions from his head.
“You can’t sleep here,” the nurse frowned, her jowls quaking. “This is a hospital waiting room, not a YMCA. I need to ask you to leave. There’s a policy against loitering on hospital premises . . .”
“I’m not loitering. I’m . . . I’m here visiting a friend.”
“Come on; up you go.” The brawny nurse tugged at Greg’s threadbare shirt until he was on his feet. “Don’t give me any trouble, or I’ll call security. . . .” Her hand on his shoulder, she guided him in the direction of the elevators. “Come on now, out, out, out!” She pressed the ‘Down’ button.
He hobbled into the elevator and slouched against the wall, abandoned. His legs felt rubbery; his eyes sunken and hollow from lack of sleep. When the elevator jarred to a stop on the main floor, the throng waiting to enter the elevator parted to let him out. Neither nurse, orderly or visitor wanted to be within ten feet of him. The stares and snickers were arrows piercing his splintered soul.
The sun beat down unmercifully on the side of the old building. Painted on its brick facade were the faded and peeling words “Carson Body Works,” named for the street it was housed on–the same street as Eddie’s Gym, Kitty’s Escort Services, American Bio Medical, and half a dozen other fronts. Carson Street ran one block south of Bridger, both of which shared the alley with the parking structure of Three Queens.
The two men halted in front of the metal door. Vinnie punched in its security code. “Can’t be too careful these days,” he remarked as his thumb entered a second code into the alarm keypad. “I don’t come here much. Matter of fact, after you start work you won’t see me here again. See, I plan on making you the head man. Your name’ll even appear on the lease. I’m just the landlord, far as you’re concerned.”
The spacious shop was clean and mostly empty, excepting the equipment, which, at first glance, appeared top-of-the-line. “I thought you had a few employees.”
“Had a hard time keeping it rented, but I never once tried to run the place. Bought the equipment from the original owner; brought it up to standards and leased it as a package.”
“You said you’d pay a salary.”“I’ll supply enough referral work for the shop to make money. The rest’ll be up to you.”
“I’m going to need some help, and some additional tools.”
“Your call. What’d you have in mind?”
“Mike. He’s closing shop. I don’t see any frame equipment here . . .”
“Haven’t had much need for it–nor do I see any need for a second-rate body man. My work’s strictly restoration.”
Mitch swallowed. “I need it–and him.” He lowered his chin and swallowed again, trying to keep his voice modulated. “He could get the shop set up while I’m out of town at vocational finals.”
“Oh, yeah, the competition.” Vinnie pursed his lips and nodded in thought. “Bino told me you was a real hot-shot at state. Where’d you learn it?”
“An old man I know. . . . Now about the frame equipment and Mike.”
Vinnie thrust his hands in his suit-pant pockets and momentarily turned his back. Then he wheeled and faced Mitch, smiling. “I think it’ll work out fine. I’ll make you both part of the contract. Why don’t you give Mike a call and have him come down. Phone’s on the back wall. . . . Listen, I got a little business to see to. When he gets here, the two of youse look around and see if he likes the place. We’ll finish up when I get back.” He turned towards the exit. “Oh.” He spun back around. “Take a look at the paint booth. The best money can buy. I’ll show you how it works later.” With that, Vinnie walked out, slamming the heavy door behind him.
Mitch made the call, thoughts of how to get his tail out of the ugly mess he was in far out-weighing his recent domestic squabble.
The Bible resting on her tummy slipped to the floor with a thud. “Mitch? Is that you?” she called out in a sleepy voice. The reading had lulled her into a peaceful Sunday afternoon nap. She stirred again. “Mitch?” Sitting up and massaging at her kinked neck, a stretch and a yawn brought her the rest of the way to her feet. After checking the garage to see if the Escort was back, she looked at the time. Four o’ clock. I’ve been asleep three hours.
It wasn’t like Mitch to be gone so long without phoning her. Something’s going on. She reflected on the situation. Money pressures . . . short temper . . . he took my car . . . and now he’s going on a trip. She smiled. “That’s it!” Mitch’s problems weren’t money-related. To him, money wasn’t that big a deal–only a slight irritant. But he’d never been on an airplane before. That was it–he was afraid of flying! Often he’d make subtle comments about the dangers involved. An airplane, after all, “is just a machine,” he’d say, “a pile of nuts and bolts put together by an underpaid mechanic and flown by an overworked pilot.” There were just “too many things that could go wrong up there. . . .”
With the exception of a few butterflies just before their wedding, Stephanie had never seen her husband afraid of anything. The thought of having children, him going back to school, their renting a house in a terrible neighborhood–he’d never batted an eye. He’d taken on rusty old jalopies that should have been cut up for scrap and made them look like new. Dogs, the local gangs, even going to the state competition . . . they didn’t bother him in the least.
But in getting ready for the trip Mitch had been considerably more antsy, even finicky. He’d moved out the GTO, given her her own garage door opener, had constantly warned her about Al Kostecki. They all related to the trip. She knew a little about psychology and human behavior from her freshman year of college. Mitch, having lost his father, was feeling a bit of separation anxiety. It has to be that, she decided, a renewed spring in her step.
From the hospital’s main lobby Greg made his way out the door and found a quiet spot in the courtyard, where he lay under a tree. He relaxed the muscles in his face. An hour or two snooze is just what the doctor ordered. Besides, he’d never even officially met Eddie. His being there might only serve to confuse the old man when he did wake up.
He stared up at the leaves fluttering in the dry, desert wind. Ninety degrees was almost tolerable in the shade, but the scorching summer, just around the corner–that’s when it would get miserable. So far Greg had found being homeless less work than being employed. He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured his children. Devin, a fourth grader, had been looking forward to his summer vacation. He dreaded going back each fall. On the contrary, Larine, his eight-year-old, never wanted school to end. She drank it up. She particularly loved reading, which was probably a result of Linda’s hour of bedtime stories each night.
What a woman , he thought. How on earth could I have done what I did to her and the kids? It was just last summer, ten months earlier. He’d parked behind Three Queens and entered through the back. Rayna would recognize him by his khaki slacks and light green golf shirt. He’d never been so scared in his life. He’d tried to wrestle his wedding band from his ring finger just minutes before–to no avail. Then his trembling, sweaty hands clutched a stack of ten-dollar chips. As per plan, he sauntered over to one of the craps table and leaned over to place his bet . . .
The noise from the children’s psych ward filled the quiet courtyard, adding a suitably riotous backdrop to Greg’s daydream. “Ten dollars on 13.” The bet was lost. He’d stepped to another table. “Twenty on 13.”
“A hundred on thirteen,” a soft voice cooed. He could almost feel the sumptuous heat at his side . . .
“I told you, no loitering on hospital premises.” Greg felt the brunt of a sharp kick on the bottom of his heel. “This is the same stinkin’ bum I kicked off the fifth floor.” This time the square-jawed nurse was accompanied by a security guard, who bent to help Greg to his feet.
“Come on, buddy. Let me help you out,” the guard said in a tone much more forgiving than that of the nurse.
“Wash your hands after you touch him,” sneered the nurse as Greg was escorted from the courtyard. “You never can tell what he might have.”
The old guard’s grip slackened on Greg’s arm. “The woman’s a witch. Don’t know why they keep her around,” he whispered. “I can’t imagine she helps those poor kids none, either. Look, buddy, help me out a little and try to stay away the next twelve hours while she’s on shift. It’ll make both our lives easier.”