shit together and get dressed. I should have known they’d have something planned. That’s me, three steps behind, as usual. There’s a tap on the door. Rolf. Pissed again.
He grabs me by my hair and drags me out from between the beds. Sandy whimpers and clutches at me, but Rolf yanks me free and she wriggles under one of the beds. I get to my hands and knees, crawling as he leads me around the room by my hair.
– Dude, you are so fucking lame.
– Cool it, Rolf.
– Did you just tell me to cool it?
He pulls my head back so he can see my face.
– You still think I’m a tool, don’t you, dude?
He slaps me.
– You think I’m a tool, and that makes you think you can get away with this lame shit.
SLAP!
– Think you can ditch us?
SLAP!
SLAP!
– Stop it, Rolf.
– What?
Gritting my teeth.
– Just stop, man. Be cool.
– Oh, I’m being cool, dude.
SLAP!
– Be cool. Let’s go to your room and cut T loose and then we’ll get the money and.
SLAP!
– The money, dude? Dude, you really do think I’m a tool.
SLAP!
–
SLAP!
– Well, news flash, dude: I’m not here for the money, I’m here for you. I mean, fuck that wild goose. Your friend and the cash are gone, any asshole can see that.
SLAP!
– But you, dude? I can go two ways with you. I can use you to cut a deal with the cops. Or, dude, I chop your fucking head off for a souvenir and just run back to Mexico with the 75 K I already got. Once I’m back in Margaritaville, no one can find me. So who’s the tool now?
SLAP!
– Huh? Who’s the tool now, dude?
Rolf taps his finger hard between my eyes.
– Tool. Tool. Tool. Tool. Tool.
And his head explodes.
Sid gets off the chair, a whiff of smoke drifting from the barrel of his gun. I don’t move. I can’t. My face is pressed against the carpet, I can see Sandy under the bed. Frozen like me.
Sid takes a couple steps. He puts his foot on Rolf’s shoulder and shoves him onto his back. I can see the little hole punched though Rolf’s left eyebrow, and the big hole in the top of his head. The blood is pumping out, which means his heart must still be beating, which means he’s still alive. But I guess I knew that already because of the way his mouth is opening and closing, like a fish drowning on dry land.
Sid grabs a pillow from the bed. He places it over Rolf’s face, pushes the gun deep into it, and pulls the trigger. He takes the pillow away, looks at the hole where Rolf’s upper lip used to meet his nose, then looks at the bloodstain on the back of the pillow. He drops the pillow back on Rolf’s face and looks at me.
– Dude, you still got your buddy’s car?
I nod. He points at Sandy.
– Get the girl, dude, we gotta get out of here.
I coax Sandy out from under the bed and she huddles against the wall, staring at Sid. He opens the door. I remember something.
– Hang on, Sid.
I go to Rolf’s corpse, lift his shirt, and tear off the money belt.
– We may need this.
Sid nods.
– Yeah, dude, good thinking.
THE EL Cortez is a very cheap hotel; the walls are about as thin as you would expect. Sid did a good job deadening the sound of the second shot with that pillow, but the first one was more than loud enough. When we step into the hallway, every door on the floor slams shut simultaneously as our nosy neighbors duck back inside. Sid walks us down the hall to the fire stairs. He stays behind us, his gun in his hand, my guns in Sandy’s Adidas bag draped over his shoulder.
The fire alarm sounds as soon as we open the door to the stairs. We’re on the eighth floor; by the time we hit the fifth, a few people have started joining us on the stairs. I think about making a move in the confusion, but it will only get people hurt. Besides, I want to stay with Sandy. I want to get her out of this if I can.
We exit onto the Sixth Street sidewalk, into the middle of a crowd that has been evacuated from the casino. We walk through the mass of fixed-income seniors and hard-core lowball gamblers that inhabit the Cortez, and turn onto Fremont Street, past the main entrance to the hotel. Just as we make it onto the tarmac of the parking lot, I see two beefy security guards escorting a blue-haired woman in a nightdress. She sees us and points. One of our neighbors from the eighth floor. One of the guards lifts his walkie-talkie to his lips while the other one undoes the brass button on his blue blazer and starts to trot after us.
– Halt!
We walk around the corner of the wall that surrounds the parking lot. Sid tells us to stop. He turns and flattens against the wall. The security guard comes around the corner. Sid shoots him in the ear. Sandy screams and tries to run, but I grab her, knowing that he will shoot her down if I don’t. He takes us to the Cavalier and opens the trunk. T is inside. His wrists and ankles are bound with wire, and a gag is stuffed in his mouth. There’s more blood on his face than before, and a red-soaked pillowcase is wrapped around his calf where the crossbow bolt hit him. But he’s conscious. When the lid pops open he lunges weakly at Sid, who brushes him off.
– Get him out of there.
I reach into the trunk, wrap my arms around him, boost him on to my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and start walking to the Chrysler. Sirens are approaching. Sid makes Sandy open the trunk of the Chrysler. There’s an old
