Ask the Dice (30 page)

"You're in for a real education."

"Uh-huh. Excuse me, friend. Nature calls."

As
Ohio
nodded, I lifted up from my seat, and I squished my way by Jasmine Lady's joined knees into the aisle, and I headed up to the marked lavatory at the partition dividing coach from first class. Curious about what I'd sacrificed by saving a few dollars with my bulkhead seat, I parted the red velvet drapes hung for the upscale travelers' exclusivity and sneaked a peek inside.

The first class berth—roomy and plush—impressed me until my sight locked on the familiar egg-shaped head sitting three rows up and on my right. At first, it was a glancing resemblance, but in my world, coincidences were rare. My over-the-shoulder look scoped the glassy-eyed zombies in coach. They didn't display the slightest interest in my lavatory trip. A good many were napping, and their tipsy neighbors zonked out in boozy reveries. I cleared the part in the curtains, slipped through them, and snapped them closed tight behind me.

No flight attendants roved first class since Egg Head was its sole taker. I didn't notice any visible security cameras spying on us. The faint potpourri scent enveloped me as I prowled up the three rows and filled the seat on Egg Head's left across the aisle. Napping, he didn't sense me, peculiar since he was one of my watchful breed. He'd cultivated a pencil mustache and goatee, dyed those both and his hair ash-gray, and he wore a festive blue Hawaiian shirt. My rival figured the chintzy disguise and using the dedicated portal to the first class cabin afforded him enough cover until he could pop me. He was almost right, but almost didn't cut it.

"Bonzai, McCoy!" My greeting dripped with menace.

His eyelids flicked open, his head jolted at a quarter-turn, and his eyes ballooned to the size of pie tins. His disconcerted look was genuine enough, but I knew we were also born thespians, always quick-witted in a jam like this one was for him.

"Tommy Mack. Wow. This is a surprise."

"Is it?"

"Sure, why wouldn't it be?"

"You tell me. Why do you fly on the same 747 as me?"

Fingers interlaced in his lap twitched. "Vacation."

"Your vacation spot is off the beaten path."

"All the cheek-to-jowl tourists are a turn off. So, how's it hanging? Is Mr. Ogg well?"

McCoy, the button man from
Baltimore
, knew Mr. Ogg was a goner, blown to smithereens by his twin Claymores that I set off. McCoy knew I was a man wanted by the cops and the outfit. He probably knew I’d killed the Eze brothers while Mr. Ogg vacationed in
Montego Bay
. McCoy knew where I'd skied off. He knew too damn much, and that was hazardous to my welfare.

"As far as I know, asshole, but then I'm not Mr. Ogg's keeper."

"Why are you so bent? We've had our past differences, I know, but that was business. Here we're just talking."

"Sure, I'm a brilliant conversationalist."

He gave me a pained look. "Your professional jealousy is pathetic."

"You're nuts."

He laughed. "Here's the inside scoop, Tommy Mack. You've lost it.
Baltimore
knows it. Mr. Ogg knows it. You're a has-been who's all washed up. Retire before they take you out. Our type never makes it to old age."

"Blackhaven did."

McCoy chortled. He'd tossed back a few high altitude vodkas that dulled his reflexes. Advantage me. "Blackhaven did the brodie off the
Outer
Harbor
Bridge
. He was actually younger than me." McCoy shifted in his seat.

"Don't move another muscle."

He stiffened. "Is that a threat or warning?"

"Both. Did you put the two slugs in Gwen Ogg?"

"What? Hell, no. I never touched her."

"Liar."

"Your insults are pissing me off."

"Did
Baltimore
send you because of the Eze brothers?"

McCoy squinted at me. "Did you have something to do with their disappearance?"

I'd heard enough. It was all in the hands, and whose could grip and twist the swiftest. Mine whipped up and latched to McCoy's egg-shaped head before he could react, and I screwed it like a faucet handle. Something made of bone and gristle cracked. He sighed into a dying burp, and he fell limp, and I situated him to rest there just so in his first-class throne.

My hasty ransack through the overhead compartments scavenged a pillow, and I wedged it under his egg-shaped head. The fuzzy, red blanket I also plucked out covered his new fecal odor. First class all to himself, McCoy had nestled into an in-flight siesta. I patted down his mussed up hair to lay flat against his egg-shaped head.

"Not too shabby for a has-been who's all washed up," I told him, smiling. "Peace out, dude, as the kids like to say."

My retreat through the red velvet curtains encountered the zombies in coach still ignoring me. I hit the lavatory, drained my radiator, washed my hands, and back at my seat, I found Jasmine Lady had left, and
Ohio
was awake.

"Did I see you duck into first class?"

My smile was sheepish. "Guilty as charged. I just wanted to see how the other half flies."

"How is it?"

"Posh all the way. They scarf up all of the free bourbon,
hor d'oeuvres
, and blankets their hearts desire up there."

"Lucky bastards. Did you get chased out?"

"It didn't matter because I was done anyway."

"Say, I need a roomie to split the hotel tab with. Interested?"

"Not me," I replied. "I've already got a berth with a lady pal."

Ohio
grinned. "You're a fast operator."

"She's lived there for some time, and she’ll know the ins and outs."

"The scenery is breathtaking, but they hate our guts."

"So you've already warned me. Enjoy your stay."

We didn't speak again until the 747 landed on schedule, and he shook my hand using a firm double-pump and parting nod, and I never saw
Ohio
again. I dug out my counterfeit passport from my carry-on bag, glancing at the closed red velvet drapes. McCoy wouldn't be deplaning with us. The local authorities wouldn't bust their humps to manhunt and arrest his killer.

Down here they hated us big, ugly Americans. I realized we'd have to book another fleet 747 out of here as soon as possible. The
Baltimore
outfit knew which flight McCoy and I had taken from Dulles, and sticking around was dangerous.

"Thank you for flying with us, sir," said the flight attendant as I approached the 747's coach-only portal. "Call again, please. We appreciate your business."

I smiled back at her, replaying the memory of when I’d left the flight attendant Bunnie Ziplow as a stiff in our motel crib.
Whoa, Tommy Mack. Stop right there. That tripe is left buried in your past. You’re turning over a new leaf.
My stroll out of the 747 into the tropical sunshine was as a remade man.

T
ommy Mack Zane is defunct. Nobody has seen him in ages. His landline phone just rings, and rings. Nobody picks up. The collection agencies have dispatched their aces to his split-level, but they’ve met with no success. His phone sits by the crushed pack of
Blue
Castles
, film noir DVD, and the .22 snub-nose on his nightstand. The bundled newspapers the Vietnamese carrier in her van pitches out at each dawn clutter up the mouth to his driveway.

Tommy Mack's empty split-level echoes like a deserted abbey. The sales flyers advertising asphalt repaving, tree surgery, and gutter replacements are left chinked inside his door. The con artists lean their thumbs on his door chimes, but nobody is at home. The fiber optic cable salesperson has stopped by several times but to no avail. His TV left running 24/7 shows the film noirs, but nobody sits on the couch to view them.

Every so often, the dark suits driving their navy blue sedans prowl by the split-level. At times, they brake and sit idling by the mailbox, fuming for a chance to blow out his brains. But he's gone. Bratty school kids traipse across his unkempt lawn, a shortcut to their bus stop. On Friday and Saturday nights the older kids throw their beer cans and used condoms into his azaleas. The meter reader tech drops by and wands his gadget, but the gas meter hasn't changed very much. The life pulse in
Old
Yvor
City
churns on but without Tommy Mack.

He's left town.

A
lec Snell, 26, formerly of
Logan
's Circle,
Washington
,
D.C.
, was the one I let get away. I'd given her a second lease on life, and now she's returned the favor. You see, we kept in touch. Our emails had evolved from friendly into something profounder. I met up with her after I abandoned
Old
Yvor
City
. She no longer goes by Alec, and I also assumed a new face and name. The master forger I know arranged it all for us. Following D. Noble's advice, we haggled a package deal with a defrocked plastic surgeon formerly of
Beverly Hills
and now based in San Miguel de Allende, México. He works out of an adobe office on a side street.

I can't disclose our present location, only that we've sampled a half-dozen of them, and this one feels the most like a keeper. I will admit I keep a couple of Claymore mines rigged up to protect our cottage. Prowlers beware. I watch what I eat, and I also don't mess around with guns. That's all done. My skin allergy from fondling gun metal still breaks out. That's not to say I don't keep my head on a swivel, and we're not popping the cork on the bubbly over our successful escape just yet. Moreover, our share of problems crop up while living in our tropical haven.

"Money," says Alec. "We're almost down to the felt."

"'Down to the felt'." I scoff at her. "Hell, you talk like they do now."

"They?"

"I mean the card sharks."

"The casino pays off better than my painting cityscapes ever did."

"But evidently not enough."

"I've got another beef, too."

"So speak, sugar. I'm all ears."

"My name is Alec. I like it, so I'll go by Alec."

"Whoa, I don't know about doing that."

"And you're Tommy Mack. I like it, so I'll call you Tommy Mack."

"What's wrong with our aliases? You helped me pick them out."

She ignores me. "I'm just getting warmed up."

I almost stretch my eyes to the ceiling, but I just smile. She's a peach, my peach.

"I want to get us a cat for companionship."

"Done."

"I want to fly off to
Paris
."

"Not the remotest chance in Hades."

Alec shrugs. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

"Grab your purse and let's go watch the shrimp trawlers chug into port."

"Not this evening, Tommy Mack. I've got a migraine."

"So, we'll stay in, and you can rest."

"I like that better. Now, get naked, you stud."

"What? Again? You're wearing me down to a shadow."

"You love it."

I so do even to her favorite music, the nauseating grinds of Ravel's
Boléro.
Hey, I've learned the subtle art of compromise.
I also get my jazz fixes. The good, old stuff, not the glitzy drivel they fob off as jazz today. Brubeck, Getz, and Bird made this a tour stop. All the clubs fizzled out by my father's generation. Par for the course, I was born too late. I'm plugged in and dig the jazz from the ear buds to my MP3 player. I also quit smoking the Blue Castles the same day I heard from Esquire. Hermes and he got married in a progressive state where it's now legal. Danny served as an usher. Relieved and ecstatic, I emailed them back our kudos.

Some nights I bivouac on the sofa—not because Alec and I had a row. We never bicker to that extreme. My dream life has taken control, its vivid starkness hectoring me to thrash out at my inner demons. She says I kick and jab her under the bed sheets. The fresh bruises on her arms and legs prove it. So, I apologize, but I can't stop. Dreaming keeps my sanity in the pink, or as much as I can clutch to it there.