Alex emerges in a hotel bathrobe. Her face is different—ruddier, less porcelain. She’s a farm girl, just in from watering the stock. Has she put on makeup or removed some?
“You’ve really made this place your own,” I say.
“I always try to warm things up a little. I miss my own bedroom, my stuff. I think we all do.”
I don’t comment. I let her think I’m human too.
“Take off those silly boots,” she says. “Sit down.”
The question is always how far to strip, how quickly. There must be books on this, with clever tips. I go down to my T-shirt and boxers, then peel the shirt off. No complaints, no stares.
“Lie down on the bed, on your stomach. I’ll massage you. Your body’s one big knot.”
She kneels and straddles my hips and strokes my neck. She twists the point of one knuckle in a sore spot. “The muscles store memories,” she says. She’s right. I’m carrying five-year-old Julie on my shoulders so she can see the sights at the State Fair. I head for the tent where the Ice Man is displayed—a wonder my father assures me is a rip-off, an animal hide or a taxidermied monkey. I buy two tickets, mount a few low steps, stand behind a partition, and look down. The frosty block of ice obscures the details, but it’s a body, wrinkled, dark, and hairy, curled on its side like a newborn calf. Convincing. Julie’s hands squeeze my skull and I feel a drip. She’s weeping. I twist to leave, but she holds me. My neck is wet. “It’s a her,” she says. “It’s a girl. They killed a girl.”
“Tender here?” Alex says.
“It is.”
“You’re shaky. Maybe this isn’t our night tonight.”
“I’m fine. My little sister trained as a masseuse.”
“Don’t flinch. I’m on an important pressure point.”
“She worked at the Minneapolis Athletic Club. She lasted a week. A man tried to assault her—the CFO of a major retail shoe chain. The cops threw away her complaint.”
“Where’s all this coming from?”
“My sister gave massages, I’m getting one. Does everything have to come from somewhere?”
“No.” She rocks a thumb in the spaces between my vertebrae. No memories there, just pain. A thousand plane seats.
“I followed you, Ryan. You mentioned this hotel. I was about to call your room tonight. Psycho, huh?”
“I’ve done those things myself.”
“Mostly I hoped we’d talk,” she says. “Just talk. I feel like your speech in Texas started something—a conversation. You haven’t heard my half, though. I took what you said there to heart. I lived it, Ryan. I wanted to tell you what happened, what I learned. I didn’t realize how tired we’d be. Too bad.”
“Not our evening.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I gambled too long.”
“A little bit. It’s fine. You’re running. You’re tense. It’s natural.”
“It’s a problem. My ex said I had a problem.” I let her rub me. “Where will you be on Thursday?”
“Home. Salt Lake.”
Las Vegas—she could fly there in an hour. I’d have to cancel my date for Thursday dinner, but I’ve been thinking of canceling it anyway. Milla Searle is her name. She’s a talent manager; she handles a string of casino magic acts. We were stranded together in Spokane last spring during an all-night blizzard that closed the airport and forced us to sleep on the Compass Club’s bare floor beside the big TV. It was a wartime romance—the huddled refugees, the bottled water passed out by the airline, the flashing blue lights of the snowplows through the windows. When our paths crossed again in Phoenix a month later, we reminisced for an hour about the storm, then fell silent. Nothing else in common.
“I want you to meet me in Las Vegas Thursday. I’ll fly you in. We’ll see a show. No gambling. We’ll be rested, we’ll talk. I have the whole night free.”
Alex lets go of me. I want her back. I reach around and touch her through the robe. She guides my fingers across her hip, no further.
“I saw your itinerary on your HandStar. I already checked on fares,” she says. “That scares you.”
“You sit next to someone you like, you have to act. People move fast. They’ll get away from you.”
Alex squeezes my hand and returns it to my side, then bears down on the base of my neck with open palms. “When you terminate someone, does that depress you, Ryan?”
“What’s depressing is getting used to it.”
“Do you wonder about the people afterwards?”
“You learn to try not to. You learn to trick your mind.”
She digs in with her thumbs again. Hurts, but may be good for me.
“You learn to leapfrog. Mentally.”
“Relax.”
six
