accomplices will be, is being… this is Special Agent Willis Tate and he’ll be briefing, answering questions about the, the hunt.
Sheriff Reyes steps aside and a man in his forties steps up to the mikes. He has a slight potbelly and a shiny bald bullet head and wears steel-rimmed glasses and a government suit. He opens his mouth to talk and Rolf mutes the sound.
– This guy. He started showing up last night. Up. Tight. Reyes is cool, like he’s your favorite shop teacher or a mellow uncle. He makes me feel safe. But, dude, this guy makes me feel oppressed, you know? Like, knowing he’s running around with his cronies makes me feel like I’m not even a citizen in this country.
Special Agent Tate speaks into the microphones. He makes a gesture toward Reyes, nods his head, and then turns back to the reporters and starts to read from a prepared document.
I point at the TV.
– We should be listening to this.
Rolf waves his hand.
– Dude, he’s just all, blah blah blah, jurisdiction, blah, good work of local authorities, blah, nobody panic ’cause I’m in charge now, blah.
Tate indicates a video monitor behind him and the camera zooms in on it. The image is fuzzy; a TV image of a TV image of a bad photo, but it’s still easy to recognize Sid in his driver’s license picture.
SID STARES at the picture of himself on the TV. After a few moments, they pull back to the shot of Tate talking at the podium, then cut back to the studio, then to a graphic showing an outline of Nevada with a series of concentric circles centered on Las Vegas. Something swirls up out of the dot that represents Vegas. It resolves into my NYC booking photo and is followed by another swirl that becomes Sid’s photo. Then letters are smashed down below them one by one, as if by a giant, red-inked typewriter: WANTED. And cut to an antacid commercial.
I look at Sid. He looks at me. And nods his head, like some suspicion he has long held has at last been proven true.
Rolf stands up.
– And on that note, dudes, I’ll be using the can.
He heads off down the hall.
Sid and I sit next to each other, the TV still on, silently trying to sell us things. He reaches across me for the remote, picks it up, and turns the TV off.
He pulls his gun from his waistband. It’s an older model Colt .45, a Gold Cup target pistol. It’s a good gun, accurate and powerful, not the kind of thing you get off the street, but a tool you buy because you know its quality. He sets it on the coffee table and stares at the floor, elbows on knees, head hanging.
– I thought about what you said, about killing people being wrong. And, dude, it’s not like I don’t know that. I know people are, like, all sacred and life is a special thing. A gift? It doesn’t have to be from God or anything, it can just be that life is this gift from the universe and it’s special because, as far as we know, there isn’t any more of it, so it’s really, really rare. And what you do with your life? What you
I look at the gun. I could make a grab for it. Grab the gun while Sid is listless, his eyes on the floor. I’ll have to shoot Sid. Grab the gun, shoot Sid in the top of his head, run down the hall, and shoot Rolf while he’s still trying to get his pants up from around his ankles. I know what it looks like when people get shot, what it feels like to shoot them. I have experience with sudden violence. And violence is like anything else, the more you do it, the more you get used to it. And the better you are at it. I could make the grab and kill them both. But I don’t. Because I think I’m gonna need them.
Also, I’m afraid of Sid.
ROLF IS just coming out of the john when the phone rings again. He runs down the hall and stands in the middle of the living room. Sid picks up his gun and tucks it back in his pants. I flip the phone open and look at the clock. It’s about forty-five minutes since the first call.
– Wade?
– Hey, Sandy.
– Hey, hey look.
– Where’s T?
– Oh, baby, he passed out. You really should have come over.
I think about T while I listen to her light a cigarette. I try to imagine him passing out with anything but an elephant tranquilizer stuck in his neck. Not likely. Sandy exhales.
– You still could, you know, come over and party.
I light my own cigarette and say nothing. Her voice drops to a whisper.
– How’s that sound, a little private party?
I take a drag and jet smoke from my nostrils. Rolf has joined Sid on the couch. They sit there watching me as I pace back and forth across the tiny living room.
– What happened to your boss, that guy Terry?
– He, you know, I told him you wanted to meet later so he’s not coming by for awhile. So what about it?
– Weeell, you know I want to, but I still don’t have any wheels.
There’s a pause and a rustle, like maybe she’s covering the mouthpiece.
– I could come and get you.
I keep my mouth shut, listening. I can still hear Hitler’s nonstop barking. I flick some ash onto the carpet.
– You know what, baby, that’s great, but I still think it’s a bad call. I’m so wasted I’d probably just conk out right next to T. What time is your guy gonna show?
– Uh, well.
Another muffled rustle.
– Around twelve.
I bend over and stub my cigarette out in T’s overflowing ashtray.
– No, that’s still too early. I really need to crash.
– I, well, baby that’s up to you, but I don’t think he.
– No problem, I want to talk to the guy, but if we can’t do it later.
– No. I. When? I can probably.
– Just, you know, a little after six, maybe.
– OK, I’ll need to.
– Hey, what’s your address, anyway?
– Um, I.
I snap my fingers at Rolf and make little writing gestures in the air. He digs through the back issues of
– What was that, Sandy?
– Um, 262 Jewel Avenue.
– 262 Jewel Ave. Got it.
I watch as Rolf writes the address in the whiteness of a naked thigh on one of the magazine’s covers.
– But, Wade, I should really talk to.
– No problem, I’ll be there right around six and Terry will either be there or he won’t.
Rolf is holding up his hand trying to get my attention.
– Gotta go, baby.
