Drawing Dead (44 page)

Butch went to his room. Brought out a pine box. Opened it up. Took out his gun. Started disassembling it on the coffee table.

I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

That Pandora’s box? I asked.

Butch looked up. Grunted. Went back to cleaning the gun.

Y
ES, IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT
. And yes, or no, I had no reason to believe that Louise was the kind of person who stayed up that late.
Much more the early-to-bed type. Overly controlled. Controlling. Whatever. I was quite sure she had a regimen. She was very regimented. Unless spread-eagled on a marble bathroom …

I buried the thought. Inappropriate, I told myself, at this time. Anyway, this was an emergency, if ever there was one. Well, sort of. What happened had happened. I’d already procrastinated for hours. But we couldn’t risk her finding out from some other source. The cops weren’t going to find her. But the news would get out, probably. Vegas had a high murder rate. But this one was kind of sexy. I slapped myself. Inappropriate. Newsworthy, I meant. They’d probably be all over it. Damn. I hadn’t thought of that before. It might already be all over the TV. What the fuck was wrong with my brain?

A question that was coming up way too often.

They’d fixed the Mini Cooper, put it back in the lot for me. I went to get it. It was a half-hour exercise. Go down the escalator. Present your ticket to the surly woman at the desk. Watch while she takes three phone calls, chats with her girlfriend at the next computer station. Argue about the five-dollar charge. I play here every day, you say. I’m a regular in the poker room. Wait while she calls the poker room, confirms your bona fides. This time, it works. Save five bucks. Be happy. Wait for the car jockey to bring the Mini. Another ten minutes. Watch the folks from Idaho, sad and swollen and laden with way too many suitcases for a weekend trip. They don’t speak to each other. They don’t speak at all. The Mini heaves into view. Tip the guy five bucks. Oh well, there went five bucks. It’s Vegas. What’re you gonna do?

I should’ve taken a cab.

Louise was ensconced on her couch. Her legs drawn tightly beneath her. A glass of … I wasn’t sure, something purple, in her hand. Hair nicely put up in an elegant coif. Normal, then. Ah, I recognized it: a martini glass in her hand. Containing, then, presumably … a martini. A purple martini.

To what do I owe the pleasure? she asked, about as coldly as a woman can who has recently invited you to ravage her in a public restroom.

I have some stuff I have to tell you, I said, going to the bar and pouring myself a large one.

Yes?

But now that I think of it, I said, settling into the armchair, I may need some assurances first.

What the hell are you talking about, Mr. Redman?

Ah, so it’s back to Mr. Redman.

I’m sorry, Rick. Rick. Yes. What the hell are you talking about, Rick?

I need you to believe me. I’m going to tell you some stuff. It’s not pleasant.

She gave me the Louise stare. Straight through my skull.

Shit. I should have prepared something. Like running for city council. You don’t come to a rally without a speech.

She’s dead, I said.

Louise got up quickly. Strode to the window, back erect. Stood staring out at the neon nightmare. A tiny downward tilt of her head.

Louise in mourning.

I assume, she said, I can get the details in the morning paper.

Probably. I mean, I’ll tell you everything I know …

Don’t bother.

I held my tongue. If ever there was a time for tongue holding, this was it.

Slowly, Ms. Louise Chandler turned from the window. Faced me. Black streaks of mascara irrigated her cheeks.

Jesus fuck, Rick, she said.

Yeah. I feel terrible—

Shut up!

Okay. I understand.

Just shut the fuck up. This isn’t about you.

I know, I insisted. I know. I’ll shut up. Sorry.

I don’t want you to say another fucking word, she said.

I nodded.

She went to the bar. Made herself another purple martini. Poured me another generous scotch. Handed it to me. Returned to the couch. Sipped her martini.

The mascara had dried.

We sat in silence for a long, long time. Time enough for her to make us another round of drinks. To smoke an absurd number of cigarettes.

I hadn’t known she smoked. Maybe she didn’t. But the cigarettes appeared. Some very female long slim things. Maybe they came from the minibar. I smoked some too. What the hell.

There are things you don’t know, she said to me at last.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at the wall.

I’m aware of that, I said.

Another long silence. I started feeling sleepy. I shook myself, as discreetly as I could. It didn’t help. Unbearable. Imagine. Could there be anything more insensitive than falling asleep in the middle of someone’s grief?

Tell me something, she said at last. Something else. Nothing to do with …

I understand, I said.

Tell me a story, or something.

I thought for a while.

Randomness is important, I said at last.

As Rick Redman might say, she said after a pause, can you be a little more vague?

I can, but I’ll try not to be.

Thank you.

What I mean is, we’re always looking for patterns.

Yes.

It’s a fundamental part of human nature.

Also true, she said, lighting another long thin cigarette.

Which brings me back to poker.

Which doesn’t surprise me.

My point being, the ability to detect patterns is central to poker skill. Montana Joe always limps in with a medium pair in early position. You use that information. Next time he limps in early position, you don’t decide, okay, Joe has a medium pair for sure. That would be naïve. Joe, of course, limps in early position with other hands as well. But you take your knowledge of his pattern into account. In deciding your action, you increase in your calculation the probability that Joe does, in fact, have a medium pair.

I think I follow you.

It’s one small part of the picture. But illustrative.

Yes.

Now, the converse is very important too. Just as important, at least.

The converse?

Not to create patterns of your own. That others can perceive. That allow them to adjust their play to your tendencies.

I see.

So, for example, I’m always going to play a big pair—Aces, Kings,
Queens—in early position. And the abstract, mathematically correct way to play those hands in that position is to raise. But the abstract, mathematically correct way to play does not include the value—did I say value? necessity, I mean—of deception. Confusion. The ability to make your opponent draw false conclusions. Or at least, if your opponent is good enough not to tie himself to uncertain conclusions, not to give him a chance—

Or her.

—him or her a chance to identify your hand with more precision than absolutely necessary.

I see.

So, to get back to the concept, you have to find a way—at least, you have to find a way if you’re playing often or for a long period with the same players, good players, who will pick up on your tendencies—to randomize your decisions. So, the point is, in this example, you correlate your decision to some random event. You say, okay, I look down and see a big pair. I’m in early position. Most of the time, I’ll raise. Some of the time, I have to just call. Not because, if I raise, my opponent knows I have a big pair—I’ll raise with other hands too—but because, if I always raise with them, when I just call, my alert opponent will know with certainty that
I don’t have a big pair
.

I see.

So you have to randomize.

Randomize.

Yes. So I decide, say, just for an example, I’m at the World Series, near the ropes. There’s always a crowd of people behind the ropes. If, when I look over, the third guy from the left behind the ropes is wearing a black shirt, a predominantly black shirt, I’ll call. Otherwise I’ll raise.

Interesting.

More than interesting. Foolproof. Even if your opponent knows that you’re randomizing, even if he … or she … knows that you’re basing it on shirt colors, which of course they’ll have no way of knowing, they’d have to know the specific shirt color, the position of the signal person, and what the signal tells you to do, in order to take advantage of your randomizing scheme.

Okay. I think I get your point. That’s very clever.

Well, I didn’t make it up myself …

In any case, it’s very clever, but I guess the question is—

What’s it got to do with what happened to Eloise?

Yes.

I have no idea. I forgot. And anyway, I thought I wasn’t supposed to go there.

She turned her head away. Shit. I’d said the wrong thing. I hadn’t just said the wrong thing, I was supposed to tell her a story; instead, I’d been showing off. I’d babbled on forever. Lost myself in my cleverness. Lost her.

Right, she said at last.

I’m sorry.

But actually, she said slowly, I see the connection.

You do?

I do.

She didn’t elaborate. I didn’t want to ask. It was so easy to make a mistake.

Okay, she said.

Okay, I repeated.

She took my hand. Pulled me out of the chair. Guided me to the bedroom.

It didn’t seem quite right. But I wasn’t about to complain.

S
HE CLOSED THE BEDROOM DOOR
. She turned off the lights. There remained a dim refraction, from the neon, through the windows, along the light lines, to the bedroom door, under the door. From there it diffused through the room. Tiny little photons. Enough of them bouncing, or waving, if it’s waving they do, to give me the soft outlines of an exquisite creature removing her clothes. Softly and sadly. And then mine. I didn’t have to move. She was performing the ceremony, the ritual. Whatever it was that she thought might cleanse her, me, us, of the thing that had brought me there.

Sometimes they kill the messenger. Sometimes the messenger gets something else.

I was in the bed. We were in the bed. She was beneath me, guiding me, soft and like a dream of it, better than a dream of it.

She slapped me in the face. Hard. Grabbed me by the throat. Nails.
Anger. Jesus. I was scared. This wasn’t playing. I slapped her back. Hard. She fell back.

I reached out. To say I was sorry. To comfort her.

She moaned. She arched her back.

She wanted more.

I understood.

I gave her my anger. She gave me hers. Slapping. Kicking. I grabbed her by the wrists. Held her down. Pinned her legs with mine. She growled. Snapped her teeth. I bit her shoulder. Hard. I tasted blood. The thrusting never stopped.

The climax was the end of all climaxes. The end of the world. As I knew it.

I rolled aside. She curled herself around me. Kissed my neck, my lips.

It seemed an odd way to express your grief.

But death does strange things to people.

I
TOOK A SHOWER
. Made it very hot. Cleared my head with deep, insistent breaths. When I emerged, she was there. Wrapped in a towel. I held her. She held me. We didn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say.

I left. She closed the door behind me. Very softly.

The world outside blasted the numbness away. The clangor, the call and response of the neon. The hot west wind. I got the car from the lot. I didn’t know how I got there.

I pulled out my phone. It was as automatic as walking. I dialed Butch.

What’s up? I asked.

You tell her?

Yes.

She okay?

I guess so.

You okay?

Yeah. Yes. I’ll be all right. Just give me the download.

He’d been asking around. Sometimes the asking got a little insistent. Helped with getting the answers. I could hear the pump in his voice. He liked that stuff.

He’d tracked down Brendan’s movements to a club.

Not surprised, I said.

Yeah .

What’s it called?

Don’t know. Just got the address.

Where is it?

He told me. It sounded familiar. Unpleasantly familiar.

Pick you up? I said. Or meet you there?

Naw. I got to follow something else up.

What?

Never mind. If it pans out, you’ll hear about it. Either way, we’ll hit the club after.

Whatever, man.

You’re not going there alone, he said with an edge.

It wasn’t a question.

Jesus, man, I said. Last couple times, you got your ass handed to you. I might be better off alone.

Silence.

Sorry, man, I said.

You’re not going there alone.

Okay, okay. Call me when, I don’t know, when your thing. Whatever. Why can’t I go with you on this other thing?

It’s a cop thing.

I’d be in the way.

Let’s just say your presence wouldn’t be appreciated.

Spoil the party atmosphere?

Something like that.

All right. I’ll take your word for it. But tell me, man.

What?

This club. It’s in a basement? I’ll bet it’s in a basement.

You’d have to give me three to one.

I figured. Fuck you.

Fuck you too.

I hung up. Turned around. Headed for the club.

I
T WASN’T THE
H
OLE IN THE
W
ALL
. Though it might have been described as a hole in the wall. From the outside, anyway.

This wall looked like an ordinary stone wall. The mortar crumbling between the rocks. A small iron gate. A spiral staircase leading down. The stairs were wrought iron. Black. Rusted in places. You swung open the gate. You were careful on the stairs. They were spaced more widely than ordinary stairs. You could easily fall. Get entangled in the twisted metal bars.

This again?

At the bottom was a guy. A very big guy. Another one. Must have been six foot five. He wore a black shirt. Black pants. Leather jacket. He had a bored expression. And a silver tooth.

The guy looked me over.

Turn around, he said.

He didn’t say it with any menace, any anger. He didn’t say it with much of anything.