respect most of the time.'
Luis's drink was spent. He waved the bartender over for another. 'You sure I can't get you one, or another Heineken, Peter?'
Mark declined. 'I've got to take off soon.'
'You play the tables?' Luis asked.
'Yeah, I play blackjack sometimes,' Mark answered.
'I don't like that game so much. I like the slots. But I'm a flight attendant, man, so I gotta watch out. What I do is limit myself to fifty bucks. I blow through that, I'm like done.' He tensed a little then asked, 'You bet big?'
'Sometimes.'
Another margarita was served up. Luis seemed overtly nervous now and licked his lips to keep them moist. He took his wallet out and paid for his drinks with Visa. The wallet was slim but stuffed, and his New York driver's license slid out with the credit card. He absently let the license sit on the bar and placed his wallet over it and took a large gulp of his fresh margarita.
'So, Peter,' he said finally. 'You feel like betting big on me tonight?'
Mark didn't understand the question. It disoriented him. 'I don't know what you mean.'
Luis let his hand move across the polished wood until his pinky touched Mark's hand ever so slightly. 'You said you never saw what the rooms here look like. I could show you what mine looks like.'
Mark felt faint. There was a legitimate chance he was going to pass out, fall right off the bar stool like a drunk in a slapstick. He could feel his heart start to pound and his breathing become rapid and shallow. His chest felt like it was mummy-wrapped. He straightened his spine and pulled his hand away, sputtering, 'You think I-'
'Hey, man, I'm sorry. I thought, you know, that maybe you dug guys. It's no big deal.' Then, almost under his breath, 'Anyway, my boyfriend, John, would be happy I struck out.'
No big deal? Mark thought violently. No fucking big deal! Hey, asshole, this is a major big deal, you fucking faggot! I don't want to hear about your fucking boyfriend! Leave me the fuck alone! This broadside blared inside his head as a cascade of visceral sensations piled on, dizziness, rising nausea, full-blown panic. He didn't think he'd be able to stand up and walk away without hitting the ground. The sounds of the restaurant and casino disappeared; he could only hear thumping in his chest.
Luis seemed alarmed by Mark's wide eyes and crazy stare. 'Hey, man, chill, you know. You're a nice guy. I don't want to stress you out. I'm just going to hit the john, then we can just talk. Forget about the room thing. Cool?'
Mark didn't respond. He sat motionless trying to get his body under control. Luis grabbed his wallet and said, 'Be right back. Watch my drink, okay?' He lightly patted Mark's back and tried to sound soothing. 'Chill, okay?'
Mark watched as Luis disappeared around the corner, his slender hips packed tightly into his slacks. The sight distilled all his emotions into one: rage. His temperature soared. His temples burned. He tried to cool himself by chugging the rest of his cold beer.
After a few moments he thought he might be able to stand and he gingerly tried out his legs. So far, so good. His knees held. He wanted to leave fast, without a trace, so he hastily threw a twenty down on the bar, then another ten to make sure. The second bill landed on a card. It was Luis's license. Mark looked around then furtively picked it up. Luis Camacho 189 Minnieford Avenue, City Island, New York 10464 Date of birth 1-12-77
He threw it back down on the bar and almost ran out. There was no need to write it down. It was already memorized.
After he left the Luxor, he drove home to his subdivision on a quiet six-unit cul-de-sac. The patio house was a pleasant off-white stucco with an orange tile roof. It sat on a small plot with rug-sized lawns. The backyard had a deck off the kitchen and a privacy fence for sunbathing. The interior was decorated with a bachelor's insouciance. When he was in the private sector earning a big high-tech salary in Menlo Park, he'd purchased expensive contemporary furniture for a modern apartment, minimalist pieces with sharp angles and splashes of primary colors. That same furniture in a Spanish-style ranch looked off, like rancid food. It was a soulless interior almost completely devoid of art, ornaments, and personalized touches.
Mark couldn't find a comfortable spot. He felt raw, his emotions a roiling acid bath. He tried to watch TV but after a few minutes turned it off in disgust. He picked up a magazine then threw it down on the coffee table, sending it sliding into a small framed photograph, which toppled. He picked it up and looked at it: the freshman roommates, twenty-fifth reunion. Zeckendorf's wife had it framed and sent it as a memento.
He wasn't sure why he had displayed it. These people meant nothing to him now. In fact, he'd despised them once. Especially Dinnerstein, his personal tormentor, who turned the ordinary traumas of being a socially backward freshman into exquisite torture with his constant ridicule and opprobrium. Zeckendorf wasn't much better. Will had been different from the others, but in a way he wound up being more disappointing.
In the photo, Mark stood woodenly, faking a smile, with Will's big arm over his shoulder. Will Piper, golden boy. Mark had spent the entire freshman year enviously watching how easily things came to him-women, friends, good times. Will always displayed a gentlemanly grace, even to him. When Dinnerstein and Zeckendorf ganged up on him, Will would defuse them with a joke or bat them away with his bear paw of a hand. For months he had fantasized that Will would ask to room with him sophomore year so he could continue to bask in his reflected glory. Then in the spring, right before midterms, something happened.
He had been in bed one night, trying to sleep. His three roommates were in the common room, drinking beer and playing music too loudly. In frustration, he shouted through the door, 'Hey, you fuckers, I've got an exam tomorrow!'
'Did the dipshit call us fuckers?' Dinnerstein asked the others.
'I believe he did,' Zeckendorf confirmed.
'Need to do something about that,' Dinnerstein fumed.
Will turned the stereo down. 'Leave him alone.'
An hour later the three of them were beyond drunk: loose-jointed, room-heaving, inebriated-the kind of state where bad ideas seem good.
Dinnerstein had a roll of duct tape in his hand and was sneaking into Mark's bedroom. Mark was a heavy sleeper and he and Zeckendorf had no problem taping him to the top bunk, looping the film around and around until he looked like a mummy. Will watched from the doorway in a stupor, a stupid grin on his face, but did nothing to stop them.
When they were satisfied with their handiwork, they kept on drinking and laughing in the common room until they crashed out on the floor.
The next morning, when Will opened the bedroom door, Mark was cocooned to the bed, immobile in a gray wrap. Tears were streaming down his red face. He turned his head to Will. There was hatred and betrayal in his eyes. 'I missed my exam.' Then, 'I peed myself.'
Will cut the tape away with a Swiss Army knife and Mark heard him mutter a thick apology through his hangover, but the two of them never spoke again.
Will had gone on to fame and renown doing admirable things, while he had labored a lifetime in obscurity. Now, he remembered what Dinnerstein had said about Will that night in Cambridge: the most successful profiler of serial killers in history. The man. Infallible. What could people say about him? He clenched his eyelids tightly.
The darkness triggered something. Ideas started forming, and given the speed of his mind, they were forming quickly. As fast as the ideas crystallized, another part of his brain tried to melt them so they would wash away harmlessly.
He shook his head so vigorously it hurt, a dull, pounding pain. It was a primitive impulse, something a very young child might have done to shake evil things out of his head. Stop thinking these thoughts!
'Stop it now!'
Shocked, he stood up, realizing he had just shouted out loud.
He went outside onto the deck to calm himself by scanning the night sky. But it was unseasonably cool and swarms of wispy clouds obscured the constellations. He retreated to the kitchen, where he drank another beer while sitting uncomfortably at the dinette on a high-backed chair. The more he tried to squelch his mind, the more he left himself open to swirling feelings of anger and disgust rising like brackish floodwater.
Day from hell, he thought. Fucking day from hell.
