[This is chapter 5 in an ongoing work of fiction. To see chapter 4, click here: https://whathappenstous.wordpress.com/2017/06/28/55-las-vegas-days/%5D
There was a Russian oil executive’s son. Then there was a South African who had something to do with diamond mines. Then there was a New York investment banker. It didn’t really matter what they did. What was important was that they were all loaded.
Evan played the part. Over weeks, he began to understand the fields that Anthony Hopkins ploughs. And David Haselhof. And Donald Trump, too. Evan had two selves, and he had to keep track of where they were at all times. It was like they were tethered to each other by elastic. Sometimes the selves were one person, but at other times, his real self stepped outside and watched the other one play the part. Sometimes Evan watched it lie. But the nub of lying was that he had to lie from truth. Otherwise, suspicion would fester like a sore, and was liable to be fatal. There’s a beautiful state park in Washington called Deception Pass, a beautiful bridge that stretches over a lovely forest and beach, and whenever he had to deceive, Evan said to himself: I’m driving over Deception Pass again.
“Where’d you go to school?” the investment banker asked.
“Dropped out of Princeton.”
“I mean before that.”
“Oh. Prep school in New Hampshire.”
“Oh, my kid goes there. Kid from my first marriage, before I discovered I wasn’t a breeder. Did you like it?”
Evan stepped outside of himself and watched his other self panic. He had done the research, but he didn’t want to get into too much detail.
“Hated it. Hated the teachers, hated the kids. It would be great if I never ever thought about it again. Ever.”
That shut him up. Only gradually did his two selves veer together again. Hate was great misdirection.
The investment banker loved male strippers, which made the dirty work easy. Sometimes he disappeared into a bedroom with one. Over eight straight evenings, John took $2.4 million from the guy, and without protestation. Evan decided not spend his share. He was saving for a down payment on a house, but was unclear how he would do that in cash.
With that kind of green stacked onto the table, John needed a bodyguard, too. He was a muscled guy with hard eyes who called himself Pancho Villa.
“I know this is a stupid question,” Evan said between games, “but is that your real name?”
“Let me tell you a little piece of wisdom you never learned in college,” Pancho said. “Never use your real name.”
The young Russian brought in his own security, which John told him was an FSB officer. The mark himself was so impatient that it was easy, but then Evan turned around too soon during a deck switch. Evan looked at him. Their eyes met, and then Evan looked away, at the FSB guy, whose eyes he also met, and so in desperation, he looked out the window. He began to sweat. Russian eyes were scary because Evan didn’t know where they were coming from. They seemed frighteningly unsentimental. He looked over at John, whose eyes were averted but who was still looking. Evan thought about what he knew about Russia, that they were an alcoholic society, that they had been ruled for years by gangsters masquerading as communists, and now, gangsters masquerading as democrats, that they had been undergoing a brain drain for years and that natural selection had probably taken its toll. They were such a corrupt society that they had to deal with loser American millionaires like Mr. Orange Hair.
A long minute passed. The bodyguard looked away. Eventually, it became clear that the Russian was drunk. He had seen something, but he didn’t see, the brain being a funny thing.
I’m thinking too much about my mistakes, Evan thought.
Almost everything is going right.
Over Deception Pass, almost isn’t good enough.
It was a challenge that he hadn’t expected, where to store his cash. Evan wasn’t going to fall into the trap of spending it all. He had self-control. He knew that about himself. After five weeks, he had bought a new car, but it was a two-year-old bargain, an Acura, nothing fancy. On game nights, he would roll up to the house in some red racecar that he’d picked up from Pancho’s garage, and then afterwards, drive it back to the garage. As soon as he could after a long game, he would take Kara out and blow a few hundred on a great evening—dinner, dancing, a penthouse room somewhere, sweating on top of her, hands gripping her wrists, iced Champagne in bed after, club sandwiches and Truffle French fries for two, the works.
One night, John built a game around a Midwestern bakery millionaire’s son. He was impeccably handsome, like Ryan Reynolds but without the kind eyes. Evan stared at him for a while from a distance, deconstructed his look, and finally concluded that he wasn’t really gorgeous, after all, that it was mostly just a construct built on expensive tailoring and careful dermatology, like Ivanka. The guy called over Kara and asked for a Quaalude or two, which John had conveniently stocked up on, and Evan realized it was going to be an easy evening. There were two other guys at the table who liked to dream big but didn’t have the deep pockets to back them up, classic losers.
Around midnight, during a break in the action, Evan walked up to Baptiste in the other room.
“Rum and Coke, hold the rum,” Evan said.
“Hey listen, she turned me down,” Baptiste said, fixing the drink.
“S’what it is.”
“I’m sorry about that, bro.”
“But I got a fix for it.”
Baptiste opened his palm, and there were two pills in it.
“What is it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Baptiste said with a grin.
“What is it?”
“Let’s just say I bought it from one of Bill Cosby’s friends.”
Evan’s first self was red-faced and fuming, but his presentation self remained quiet and mildly amused. Baptiste was cool, too, smiling the widest disgusting smile that had ever been disgustingly smiled. Evan turned and looked out the window at nothing. It was nothing, his public self was saying, she was just a silly bitch.
When the morning dawned, the bakery heir’s cell phone woke him up and he staggered back to the game. Soon, the table was swimming in a cloud of smoke and their sweaty clothes stank of tobacco. Kara pushed Sex on the Beaches hard on bakery asshole and he dug himself further and further into the hole. To amuse himself, Evan rolled a half-dollar on the backs of his fingers. It seemed like a smart-ass thing to do, something he might have learned from the bad boys at Exeter.
At 9:30 am, the two losers were in the other room with a couple strippers while the bakery boy was passed out on the sofa from too many hookers and Stolichnaya. Evan looked at the kid’s face. It was like seeing track marks on him, a face full of affluence and pampering, pink cheeks and perfect hair. He didn’t feel sorry for him at all. The kid had never had a day’s struggle in his life, that much was clear. Growing up, Evan had had to save up for magic, tricks that cost $15 and $20 and each purchase felt like you were sacrificing something for it, a pound of flesh or something, but this guy could have bought Magic City, Inc., with his weekly allowance. He was pissing it away. Evan had no sympathy for bladder problems like that. He didn’t know if it was affluenza or self-destruction or just a urinary infection, but Evan wove these moments into a narrative, like what he was doing was kind of like, not exactly like, but in a way like class warfare, like Karl Marx or FDR or Bernie Sanders. He was doing a good deed.
“I wann’ sleep for coupla hours.”
“What about coming back tomorrow night?” John asked.
“Naw, sleep for coupla hours.”
“You guys up for that?”
The other two guys had been eyeing the scion’s cash all night and morning.
“If he can take it, I can take it.”
“I’m with him.”
While bakery scion slept, Evan closed his eyes in one of the bedrooms. It was a gorgeous high bed with a beautiful bedspread. It yawned before him. Four hours later, he woke up to discover that he worked his way under the sheets fully clothed and still wearing shoes. The sheets were fabulous.
“I never had a son,” he heard John say.
Evan looked up and spotted John in the doorway eyeing him, he didn’t know for how long he had been doing it. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked at him more closely.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Hate kids. They steal your life away. There are a few I’d like to have killed, Jesus. But even so, it’s nice to have somebody grown who knows what the score is. Somebody who’s blood. Somebody who isn’t a fucking round roast. And somebody who can muck cards, if the occasion arises. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“From books and other guys.”
“Not from your father.”
“I’d like to meet those other guys.”
“It took me ten years or more.”
“No denying you got a talent. You don’t take after your Mom, that’s for sure. She was devoid of talent, even in the kitchen. Hell, she could burn water.”
“She’s never been a good cook.”
“Listen, we’re going to do see how deep we can bury this guy, all right? Wake up and suit up.”
Evan sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes again. Taking after people was a naval to gaze into. It was like having a twin, like looking into a mirror and seeing something familiar, or even something that you hated. It was like Kara and Kendra wrestling with each other. Evan had John’s knowing grin, but he didn’t know whether that was venality or physiology. A knowing grin seemed to be an iceberg, with seven-eighths under the water.
Maybe I hold back like that, Evan thought, splashing water onto his face and looking into the mirror. Or maybe holding back is a reason to go to hell, too.
When they all knocked off at 3 pm, Evan sidled up to Kara.
“Don’t drink anything that Baptiste gives you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just promise me.”
“I promise. But why?”
“Have you taken any drinks from him last night or today?”
“Just hemlock,” she said with a grin.
“All righty, then.”
“Just water. Only water.”
“Come crash at my place.”
“What, you want us to babysit your cash?”
“Something like that.”
Evan started walking away, and then it dawned on Kara.
“What, you mean Baptiste….”
Their eyes met. She got it.
Three weeks later, Evan showed up for a game with a Brazilian soccer star’s brother. Strangely, Pancho Villa wasn’t there to greet him, so he just walked in the front door, saw that the front room was empty, and then walked into the other room to get a Diet Coke at the bar. He stopped. Stared at a prop dummy hanging from the ceiling. One of Baptiste’s practical jokes. It was hanging from a strong reinforced trestle that held up a heavy curtain. From the neck. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.
Evan called John’s cell phone. He discovered that he was out of breath when he talked.
“Where are you?” Evan finally managed to utter.
“Hardware store. Why?”
“Listen, you better get to the house fast. There’s a body hanging behind the bar.”
“You’re at the house?”
There was a long pause.
“What the fuck are you doing at the house?” John finally said.
“We got a game tonight.”
“I texted everybody. The game’s off.”
“My phone’s been off.”
“I told you never to turn your fucking phone off.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Don’t contradict me. Get the fuck out of there. Now.”
John hung up on him. Evan looked down and stared at the phone. One self wanted to follow orders, but his other self wanted one last look. The tension between the two made his heart beat like he was a scared bird or something.
He said to get the fuck out of there.
Nobody will know.
This isn’t going to end well.
Everything will be fine.
It took him a minute or two, but Evan floated over to the bar again. Looked at the body closely. It was a strange feeling. He wasn’t used to seeing bodies dangling next to him. It was an intense feeling, like his other self, the innocent self that believed everything would be all right, were hanging up there. Then he looked more closely. Somehow, something wasn’t right. He moved behind the body. Suddenly, he noticed. The hands were handcuffed behind him. He drifted back in front to look at the face, which was tilted upwards so far that he couldn’t be sure. But he knew.
The newspaper reported that Baptiste’s body had been found in his studio apartment in Henderson. Death certificate said the same thing. Inquest revealed that Baptiste had been depressed for years and was taking medication for it, that a pharmacopeia of illicit drugs had been discovered in his apartment, and that he had been selling them to junior high schoolers. As if.
The games went on, though, no big deal. Money kept flowing like a dirty river. Kara kept serving drinks and drugs. The new bartender had the unlikely name of Boaz von Diebenkorn, a smiley Austrian chap with bad teeth. After introductions, Evan wandered away, but John caught up with him.
“Tough about Baptiste.”
Evan looked at John, straight at him, even though he was afraid to, and there was something in his eyes that Evan had seen before but hadn’t correctly identified. He hadn’t realized how malignant it was. The first time he had seen it, it was roguish and charming, like Bogie, the lone wolf with a heart of gold, but now, it was like the pretty mask had been torn off and it was a wolf underneath and Evan tried his best to act like a good boy, I won’t tell, I won’t rat, don’t kill me, tethered by a thread above Deception Pass.
“Do I need to ask the question?” John said in a low voice.
“Okay, listen to me closely.”
John raised his finger sternly in front of Evan’s eyes. It was as good as waving a hunting knife.
“You. Don’t. Steal. From. A mark. The bakery guy was passed out and it was an easy roll, just a few thousand, but that wasn’t Baptiste’s juice, baby, it was mine.”
[This is chapter 5 in an ongoing work of fiction. Chapter 6 is here: ]