– No.
He nods.
– We will go detail the car now, and then we will shop.
WE STAND IN the air-conditioned waiting room and watch through the window as the Mexican kids detail my ’91 Cutlass Calais. Branko takes a sip from the cup of coffee he got at the mini-mart next door.
– Such an ugly car.
– You said I should get something unassuming.
– Yes, but this?
He angles his cup at the Olds.
– This is a piece of crap.
– It’s a fast piece of crap.
He nods, giving my piece of crap its due.
They let me have a car when I was moved out of the Suites. Branko said it should be unassuming, reliable and fast. I clicked online and came up with a few options and we drove around to look at them. The Olds was a steal; a midsize, 2.3 four-banger with the Quad 442 performance package that cranks the horsepower over two hundred. The guy who owned it got it as part of his parents’ estate and had no idea what he had. Fifty thousand original miles and we got it for under three thousand dollars.
The guy I’m picking up is a kid, a kid with a lot of money. Branko is concerned the kid won’t think the car is cool enough. It’s an ugly car, boxy and generic, aggressively uncool.
– You want to lend me your car?
Knowing he never lets anyone drive his car.
He drains his coffee.
– No. No one may drive my car.
Branko is a Toyota fanatic. Every year he pants over the new Camry, and every year he’s behind the wheel of the new model by Christmas.
– Fine. Wouldn’t want to drive that crap-box anyway.
He crumples his coffee cup and tosses it in the trash.
– Not a crap-box. Most reliable car on the road. My Camry will never break down. Safer than Volvo, and half the price. And
Branko used to have a Volvo. It broke down while he was on the way to a job. He got there late. In the meantime someone had tipped the guy off. The guy was waiting for Branko when Branko came in the door. Things turned out OK, for Branko. But after that he swore off Volvos and pledged fidelity to Toyota.
The Mexican kids are waving their chamois over the red paint of the Olds. Branko and I slip on our sunglasses and push out the door into 100 degrees. If there was the slightest humidity in the air I’d sweat my clothes through by the time we reach the car. Instead, all the moisture is sucked from my body and into the atmosphere. Branko makes a show of looking the car over for any fingerprints or flecks of dry wax caught in the edges of the trim. I take a twenty from my pocket and hand it to the crew-boss and stir my finger in a little circle, letting him know to share the tip with his boys. Then I climb in the car, start the engine and blast the A/C.
THE GUY COMING to town likes to gamble. And he has money. That’s why David has taken an interest. All I’m supposed to do is pick him up, drive him wherever he wants to go, keep him out of trouble, and act tough.
Branko takes a black jacket from the rack and hands it to me. I take the jacket off its hanger.
– Act tough?
– To make an impression.
– So?
– Tough. Say little. Look at everyone. Wear your sunglasses inside.
I shrug into the jacket and Branko looks me over.
– This will do.
We’ve only been in the mall for thirty minutes, but already I have three new shirts, some black Levi’s that actually fit, a pair of black shoes, and now the jacket. We head for the register and I pull a roll of bills from my pocket. Branko pushes my hand down.
– Business expense.
He takes out a billfold, I pile the clothes on the counter, and he lays plastic next to them. The name on the card is Fred Durben. I don’t know who Fred is. Could be he’s a guy who handed his cards over in lieu of cash. Now he spends his sleeping hours having nightmares about the waste being laid to his credit rating; his waking hours a worse nightmare of watching the red-marked bills pile up. Could be he’s a guy who never existed, just a name with a credit history and this one account. Could be he’s in a hole in the desert, could be he’s in several holes in the desert. All I know for certain is that the card isn’t hot. If it belongs to a dead body, it’s a body that’s never been found and will never be missed. Branko would never trade in hot plastic. As it is, he’ll probably clip the thing into a hundred pieces when he gets home, and drop each piece into a separate storm drain.
The cashier slides Branko the receipt and he signs it with a scrawl that might say Fred Durben, but that most certainly looks nothing like the signature he uses when he signs his real name. If he has a real name anymore. I pick up the bags and we head for the parking lot.
WE BUZZ UP the parkway into North Las Vegas.
– You have money?
– Some.
– How much?
– About eight hundred.
Branko pulls out the billfold again and produces a thick slab of cash. He thumbs through the bills, careful to count each one, peeling apart the new ones that have stuck together. It’s a nice lump of cash, but not ostentatious, not for Vegas anyway. Having counted the money, he evenly divides it and hands half to me. I fold mine and tuck it into my back pocket.
– Pay for everything that is not gambling. Do not offer, do not ask. Just pay.
– Everything?
– You pay for food, drinks, strippers and whores.
Because what else is there to buy in Vegas?
– What if he hits the shops and wants a Rolex or something?
– He will not want to shop. He will want to gamble.
– OK. Where’s his room?
– No room. He is here to party like a rock star and be on a flight in the morning.
He looks back out the window. I tap the rim of the steering wheel in x-time. Branko looks at the finger and then at me. I make an effort to stop tapping. I succeed, but it isn’t easy. He points at the finger that I have to force to be still.
– David talked to you about this job?
– Yeah.
– He told you it is important?
– Yeah.
– He told you how important?
– Yeah, Branko, I get it. The kid is worth a lot of money and David wants his cut. He wants the kid not to be fucked with and he wants him impressed so that he’ll use David’s bookies. Got it.
– He told you how important this job is for you?
The finger taps a couple times. I stop it. Branko doesn’t talk business with me. He talks detail. Where, when, who and how much to hurt them. But he doesn’t talk business.
– He said some things.
– My friend.
I flinch.
