car, stretch my legs, arch my back, and I see him coming down the stairs toward me. The stress of the day is worse than I thought. I’m seeing things, until Harry looks at me and says: “What took you guys so long?”
Inside, Harry and I head to the bar. I’m strung out like a wet noodle, sitting on one of the stools while the bartender makes a margarita and pours it into a glass the size of a tropical fish tank. I usually stick with wine or beer. Today I make an exception. Harry is on the stool next to me.
“He didn’t tell you I was coming down?”
“Not a word.”
“Probably got busy and forgot. He told me he only thought about it at the last minute.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came down to see if I could help,” he says. “I’ve been worried.”
“What about?”
“The conversation we had. The one about you getting killed and me getting on with life.”
I look at him but don’t say anything.
“I thought about it. And well, it might not be as easy as I thought. Besides, if anything happened to you, I’d have to divide up everything in the partnership and deal with Sarah. She’d skin me.”
I smile at this, nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. “So when did you come down?”
“This afternoon. Adam called.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“We didn’t get in until after three in the morning.”
“It wasn’t that late when he called. Time difference I suppose. Still, he got me outta bed. Said the plane had to go back to San Diego, to deliver one of the other partners on a quick flight somewhere early this morning. That it would be coming back down here this afternoon. He asked me if I wanted to take a ride. I had nothing up on Friday. So here I am. Adam had a car pick me up at the airport.
I suck some margarita through a straw, feeling the tequila score my stomach like etching acid. I remember now why I stopped drinking the hard stuff.
“I think Adam lives in a different world from the rest of us,” he says. “What did you think of the plane?”
“Forget it. It’s not in our budget.”
“We could park it and live in it,” he says. “Use it as a flying office. I think I could get used to it.” Harry as part of the jet set. “It might take a while, like an acquired taste. You know. Fly around some. Go to Bimini. Las Vegas.”
“You don’t even know where Bimini is,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but the pilot could find it,” he says. “You don’t think these executives give ’em coordinates when they get on board, do you? No, they just tell ’em they wanna go, drop a load on a crap table someplace, and an hour later they’re in Reno at the Mapes…”
“Harry.”
“What?”
“The Mapes was torn down two decades ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. They’re in Las Vegas at the MGM. Use your imagination. Speak of the devil,” says Harry.
Before I turn on the stool, Harry is up. “Adam. Want to tell you that plane is nice.”
“You liked the ride?”
“What’s not to like?”
Tolt is shaking his hand. He has changed, put on a pair of slacks and a clean shirt, wearing sandals and looking comfortable and relaxed.
“Glad you could make it.” Adam’s voice is back to a normal tone.
“Yes, he did.” I swing around on the stool and look at Adam.
“What’s with you?” he says. “I thought it would be a nice surprise. The plane was coming back empty. We were getting near the weekend. Why should we have all the fun?”
“He’s right,” says Harry. “In fact, I think I’m gonna have one of those.” He points at the fish bowl in front of me on the bar.
“Why not? Bring a margarita for my friend here,” says Adam.
“How was your flight?” He and Harry head for one of the tables.
Adam is one of those luminaries who floats through life buoyed by the ether of his own celebrity. I suspect the fact that he lost control in front of me has injured his sense of divinity. He latches onto Harry, and they stroll to the table to talk about airplanes and the finer trappings of private flight.
“Bring your drink and join us,” says Adam.
“In a minute.” I notice Herman coming in the door heading my way.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Getting shitfaced,” I tell him.
“Good to know one of us knows what’s he doin’. Fuckin’ Vesuvius still spoutin’ lava?” Herman’s talking about Adam.
“I think it’s gone dormant for the moment.”
“So why don’t we eat and get it over with, so I can be accused and go back to my room?” he says.
“To get the bulletin on that, you’ll have to talk to the tour director.” I nod toward the booth.
“Who’s he talkin’ to?”
“My partner.”
“What’s he doin’ here?”
“I don’t know. Adam’s full of surprises. Take a load off. Sit down. Have a drink.”
“Hey man, not me. I’m on duty. I don’t do that. Uh-uh. That’s all I need. Man report me for drinkin’ on duty, the mood he’s in. Get my ass fired, be flippin’ burgers back in Lubbock by Monday.”
“Few minutes ago, you were ready to quit. Besides, I thought you said you were from Detroit.”
“Way of Lubbock,” he says. “ ’At’s when I lost my scholarship. Fucked up my knee and ended up down here.”
“Football?”
“Uh-huh.” Herman steals a furtive glance toward the booth, making sure it’s safe to talk. “Fire-breathin’ shithead scorched all the hair off the backa my neck. Lucky I didn’t take us head-on into one those scuba-flippin’ taco-tenders comin’ the other way with all their shit up top. He be lookin’ like jaws about now, fuckin’ metal tank stickin’ outta his head.”
“Where’s Julio?”
“He’s hidin’ out. Be down in a minute. You notice there ain’t no courtesy bar in the room and no vending machines. This place looks like a fuckin’ tomb. Off season,” he says. He reaches over and grabs a handful of bar napkins from the waitress station, since there is no waitress on duty, and wipes beads of sweat from his forehead and neck, and drops them all wet and rung out on the bar.
“We ain’t had nothin’ to eat since breakfast. No lunch, no supper. Contract says we get a break every two hours. You seen any fuckin’ breaks?”
“Take a break. Have a drink.” A drink might calm him down. I’m afraid if Adam opens his mouth again, given Herman’s mood, he might find the big man’s foot in it.
“You tryin’ to get my ass in trouble, man? Besides, I wanna eat. I’ll drink later when it cools down. That shit ain’t good for you in the heat.” Herman’s obsession at the moment is his empty stomach. I can hear it growling.
The bartender comes over to clean up the pile of napkins Herman has left on the bar, and Herman starts complaining to him about his constitutional right of access to a vending machine.
“No hablo ingles.”
“Yeah. I bet you’d talk some fuckin’ English if I slapped a fifty on the bar and told you to put a round of drinks up.”
“Que?”
