Terry has stopped screaming. I look. Rolf is bent over, his arms wrapped around Ron’s waist in a bear hug while Ron brings the butt of the gun down on his back, trying to break the hold. Sid is rising, dropping the jagged, bloody neck of the champagne bottle as he reaches for one of the two others. Dale is motionless on the floor, shards of glass sticking out of his scalp and neck. Hitler is looking at me. He has released Terry and is standing on his chest looking at me as I try to free T.
I stand up. Hitler takes a step toward me, gingerly placing his wounded leg down, and then lifting it into the air and holding it there. I take a step away from T, and Hitler takes a step closer.
Ron has beaten Rolf down to his knees, but Rolf refuses to let go. Too late, Ron realizes someone is coming at him from the side, and Sid’s bottle arcs toward him before he can bring the shotgun around. The bottle splinters against his face, the gun goes off, one of the silk-covered lamps explodes, Hitler flinches and blinks, and I turn and run.
The door next to the bathroom is open. I lunge through it, spin, see Hitler running at me, and slam the door closed just as he crashes into it. The force of two two-hundred-pound bodies colliding sends us both hurtling backward. I hit a wall and watch him scrabble on the bare wood floor of the hall and come back at me. I kick the door and it bangs closed and latches as he piles into it, cracking the lower half, and starts trying to dig through it.
I turn and get only a glimpse of a big brass bed with a leather jacket draped on one of the posts and bloodstains on the sheets. I tear across the room to where Sandy is climbing out the window with an Adidas bag around her shoulders. She’s crying and trying to pull the bag loose from where it’s gotten caught on the window lock, and doesn’t know I’m in the room until I yank the bag’s strap free and shove her out the window to fall a few feet into the flower garden outside. I get one foot on the sill, then dive back into the room, grab the jacket from the bedpost, and jump out the window.
Sandy is still picking herself up. I hook the bag strap and start dragging her after me as I head for the path that runs to the front of the house. Sandy screams and tries to pull free. I wrench her to me, wrap my left arm around her neck, and lock my hand over her mouth. She struggles and scratches at my arm and I give her a hard shake, still pulling her along.
– Sandy. Stop it. You’ll die if you don’t stop. You’ll die.
She stops, but I keep her in the headlock, my hand over her mouth. We round the side of the house and start down the short path to the gate that opens onto the driveway. I stop at the back door and peek through a gap in the curtains.
It’s awful.
Dale is still immobile, unconscious or dead. Ron is on his back, rolling from side to side, his face covered with both hands, blood streaming from between his fingers. Terry is still alive and has somehow gotten himself flipped over, inching himself toward the front door, leaving a snail-trail of blood in his wake.
Sid has recovered his .45 and is standing over Ron, watching him writhe. He starts to raise his foot. Rolf has Ron’s shotgun and is pointing it up the hallway. T has come to and is holding his hand in the air, out toward Rolf, warding him off. Hitler is barking in the hall.
I start to look away, but I’m too late and I see it all. Sid’s foot coming down on Ron’s face. Rolf pulling the trigger. The blast that was deafening in the small room is just a muffled pop out here.
Hitler stops barking and T screams and struggles to pull his leg free of the arrow holding him prisoner. That’s all I can take.
I haul Sandy to the gate and look over it. Nothing. A quiet street, everyone at work or inside resting up for a late shift. I push the gate open and start down the drive toward T’s Chrysler, holding his jacket collar in my teeth, feeling at the pockets until I find the keys. I walk around the car, open the driver’s side door, and shove Sandy inside, pushing her ahead of me into the passenger seat. She pulls the door handle and tries to climb out. I grab at her and get a handful of hair, pull her in, and get the door closed. I let go of her hair.
– They’re killing people in there, the guys I came with are killing people. We have to go. You have to go with me.
She doesn’t move, so I go to stick the key in the ignition and miss. I try again and miss again and grab hold of my shaking right hand with my shaking left hand and manage to guide the key home. I start the car, over-revving, and drop the gearshift into drive as the front door of Sandy’s house flies open and Sid and Rolf run out.
Sandy screams and I jam my foot down. The tires spin and smoke and we fishtail away from the curb as they run to the sidewalk. I straighten the car out and we’re in the middle of the street, speeding away. I look back and see Sid pointing his gun at us and Rolf grabbing him and pulling him back up toward the house before he can shoot.
And we turn the corner and drive away, the trail of blood behind me stretched longer still.
WHEN I was a kid and I’d do something stupid, Dad would sit me down and ask me, “What were you thinking?” I’d shrug and say, “I dunno.” He’d nod and put a hand on my shoulder and say, “You weren’t thinking, were you?” And I’d say, “No, I wasn’t.” He’d tell me he knew I wasn’t thinking, because he knew I was a smart kid and if I stopped and thought things through, I’d do the smart thing. All I had to do was stop and think and I’d do the smart thing. Always.
How am I doing now, Dad?
I DRIVE us back to Boulder Highway, take a left, drive up the road, and pull into the first parking lot I see: The Boulder Station Hotel. I park the Chrysler near the other cars in the lot, leave the engine running, and reach under Sandy’s seat. The plastic bag snags on something and I give it a yank and it tears and the guns and the boxes of ammo spill out onto the floor next to Sandy’s feet. She gives a little shriek at the sight of the guns and pulls her feet up onto her seat as if the footwell were full of spiders. I flip the cylinder open on the Anaconda, pop open the box of Magnum shells, and start to load the revolver. My hands are still shaking, it’s hard to get the rounds in their chambers, but I manage. I close the cylinder and turn around in my seat and look out at the highway through the back window. I give it a couple minutes and see no sign of Rolf and Sid chasing us. I turn around.
Oh, my God. Oh please, Jesus. I close my eyes and see Terry crawling, trailing blood. Oh, Jesus, what have I done? I open my eyes and see the gun in my hand and raise it and press the barrel against my forehead.
– Jesus, oh, Jesus. Make it stop, please make it stop.
– Nonononononono.
Sandy is pressed against the passenger door, still in her kimono, blood still trickling from her mouth, staring at me, as I’m getting ready to kill myself. I pull the gun away from my head and drop it in the back-seat.
– It’s OK.
– Nonono.
– It’s OK, Sandy. It’s over. It’s OK.
I touch her. She closes her eyes.
– Sandy.
She whines.
– Sandy.
She opens one eye, like a kid who’s watching a horror movie and doesn’t want to see too much of the scary stuff.
– I’m not gonna hurt you.
I reach in my pocket and take out a pill.
– Take this. It’ll help.
– I TOLD you, Terry’s my boss, my dealer. And kind of my manager.
Oh, Christ.
– Your pimp, Sandy?
– No! My
We’re still in the parking lot at Boulder Station, but the Perc has Sandy mellowed out. She’s in the backseat changing into clothes from her bag.
– I’m not a total cliche, Wade. He, he knows people at the big casinos, and I want to dance in a show, and he was helping me. He got me an audition at Bally’s for
