Double Blind (23 page)

“Shit, did I make it too strong?” Sam asked, starting to rise.

“No, it’s my head,” Ethan said quickly.

“Drink the water,” Sam urged him. “You need to replenish your fluids.”

Ethan saluted weakly and uncapped the water. “Forty-year-old men are not supposed to behave like I’ve been behaving. I deserve worse than this headache.”

“You’re
forty
?” Sam asked, aghast.

Ethan grunted into the water bottle. “Yes.” He sighed and put the bottle back down. “Old enough to know better.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “I mean—it’s okay, just that you don’t look it. I mean—” He blushed. “Sorry, it’s just that you were seventeen when I was born. It’s bad enough that Randy was eight and Mitch was twelve, but—” His blush deepened, and he reached for his coffee. “I’m going to shut up now.”

Ethan couldn’t help smiling. Yes, there was something about Sam Keller-Tedsoe. “It’s fine, Sam.”

“No, it’s not. I’m always putting my foot in things.” He stabbed into his cereal with his spoon, frowning. Then he sighed. “Anyway, I’m supposed to tell you from Randy that he’s going to try to get off by three, but there’s some big engine thing, and he has to stay until it’s done. Mitch went along with him to the distribution center, but he’ll be back in time to take you to Crabtree at noon.

Ethan paused as he reached for his yogurt. He’d forgotten about that. Nodding curtly, he picked up the container, peeled off the top, and began to empty the contents into the bowl. It was a very lovely, custard-like vanilla, and it was organic: a bit nicer, he admitted, than he’d even normally buy for himself, as was the granola. It was a quiet comfort, and he was grateful for it.

“Crabtree really is okay,” Sam said.

“It’s funny,” Ethan said, stirring the yogurt and granola together, “how you all seem to hate him, love him, and fear him all at once.”

“Yeah, I guess I could see how it looks like that.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “Well, I know this—Randy wouldn’t let you go see him if he thought it was going to be bad.”

Yes, but Randy was the worst of all of them, kowtowing to the man one minute and standing up to him the next. Maybe that was the secret? And then Ethan realized that’s what he had tried to do, too, and had failed miserably. But then, Randy knew Crabtree.

Biblically.
He pursed his lips, stirring his yogurt far longer than necessary. Why was he so hung up on that? Why was he jealous? Why couldn’t he put this down?

God, Crabtree was going to make him dance a jig on coals, if he didn’t figure out how to bury this by noon.

He forced himself to stop stirring and eat.

Sam, however, seemed to have abandoned his cereal and stood his spoon straight up in the milk. “Well, okay. I don’t blame you for being unhappy about it. I guess I’m mad at him, too, and Randy, and Mitch.” His blush was deep. “I guess you saw that bit with the card, for the shrink? God, I was so embarrassed. I felt like I was Mitch’s
kid.
” He pushed the bowl away, then sagged a little in his chair. “But I guess I’ve been acting like one.”

Ethan had no idea what Sam was talking about, but whatever this emotion was on his face struck a chord. He considered his words carefully before speaking. “I don’t know if this hurts or helps, but they don’t help you out in that department. They seem to treat you as if you are their fragile egg they don’t dare let break.” In fact, he realized that was nearly how Randy had described Sam. He could only imagine what Mitch’s analogy for his husband would be.

“We’re going to go and get a car in a bit. Mitch and I.” Sam sighed. “I wanted him to just teach me how to drive Randy’s truck. I
want
to drive Randy’s truck. At the very least I want to know how to drive a stick. I feel like an idiot, not knowing.” He pursed his lips. “How am I going to
not
be their stupid egg if they don’t let me fucking grow up? I don’t
want
to be their little Sunshine and their Peaches, not if it means I’m always the stupid boy! I can’t figure it out. Is it because I’m always a bottom?” He went beet red. “Sorry, TMI.”

Ethan smiled and reached for a napkin from the basket at the side of the table and wiped his lips. “What time is it right now?”

Sam leaned back in his chair and looked at the microwave on the counter. “Nine.”

An idea was buzzing in the back of Ethan’s mind. It was ridiculous, and it probably wouldn’t work, but…. He tapped his index finger against the side of his mug. “I suppose they took the truck to the center?”

Sam shook his head. “They rode the bikes. They’ll use any excuse to ride the bikes. Which I, of course, don’t know how to drive, either, and probably never will. Why?”

Ethan smiled. “Would you like to learn to drive a stick shift before your husband comes home?”

Sam blinked. Then grinned. “Can you?
Could
you? I mean, your head—” He blushed, hotly. “And Randy says he won’t teach me because I’ll kill his transmission.”

Oh, now they were doing this, absolutely. “You won’t. And if you do, I’ll take the blame. I’ll tell him I insisted.”

Sam’s chin came up. “No. If I screw up the truck, I’m taking the blame.”

It was that Parable of Cards itching at Sam’s brain, Ethan realized. He could hardly blame Sam—it was itching at his too. He picked up his spoon and scraped at the sides of the bowl. “Let me finish this and grab a quick shower, and then we’ll go. Try to think of somewhere with a big, empty, and long parking lot where we can practice. Somewhere not too far away.”

“Well, the distribution center would be perfect,” Sam said, “except for the fact that Randy and Mitch would come over and give us hell.”

It was tempting, very tempting to insist they go there on the basis of that alone. But Ethan nixed the idea, because he wanted Sam to do well. In fact, he’d be late to Crabtree if he had to, just to make sure Sam was rock-solid in his initial foray into stick-shift driving.

There was a raunchy joke in this somewhere, he thought, two gay men and a stick-shift lesson, but Sam didn’t look like he was in the mood for titters. He had a different light about him now, less of a cherubic glow and more of an edgy eagerness. And Ethan found he had the same edginess inside himself.

“It’ll be a very quick shower,” he insisted, rising.

“I’ll have a place for us to go by the time you’re dressed,” Sam promised, already reaching for his iPhone.

At quarter
after twelve, Sam dropped Ethan off at Herod’s Poker Room and Casino. Ethan was already late, but he didn’t care. He was far more concerned about how green Sam looked after driving through heavy traffic. Mitch had gotten caught up at the distribution center and called Sam to tell him to have Ethan take a cab. Ethan had been the one to take the call, as Sam had been driving at that particular moment. Sam had delivered Ethan to the casino, but now he had to get himself home again. Ethan lingered in the cab of the truck, taking the time to reassure his protégé.

“Sam, you can do this. You drove on the interstate and down the Strip. You’re actually a natural, and I’m not saying that just to build you up. You don’t need me in the truck with you to keep doing well.” He reached over and put his hand on Sam’s hand, which was clutching the ball of the stick-shift in a death-grip. “You’ll be fine.”

Sam nodded, still pale. “I know. I mean—I know it, but I don’t feel it yet. I just—I don’t want to have a wreck. I don’t want to mess this up when I’ve done so well. I want to drive to the distribution center and
show
them, not have to call them to say I’ve wrecked the truck.”

Ethan shook his head. “Don’t go to the center. They think I came here in a cab and that you’re at home finishing laundry. If you go there, you
will
screw up, because you’ll get nervous and lose your confidence. Just go home, and you can tell them later. It doesn’t look like you’ll be car shopping today anyway.”

Sam nodded again. Then something on the sidewalk caught his attention, and he winced. “Oh
shit,
it’s Crabtree—he came down
himself!
I’m so sorry, Ethan! I made you so late—”

Ethan shook his head, patted Sam’s hand again, and rolled down the window of the truck as Crabtree came over. The mob man was in a suit again, though this one was light-colored, and looked to be a cooler weight than the one he’d wore the night before. He had something cradled to his side, Ethan noticed, and when the gangster came over, Ethan startled, disarmed.

Crabtree was holding a kitten. A tiny, black and white splotched kitten. The cool, self-possessed explanation he was going to give the man died on his lips, and he simply stared.

Sam, however, melted. “
Oh!
Oh, my
God
, it’s so
cute
!” He started to slide over the seat, but Ethan’s arm shot out, and he pointed to the emergency brake. Sam flushed, applied the brake, then came over to the window. “Crabtree! Where did you get this?”

It was almost surreal, the way Crabtree altered when he looked down at the animal. It practically fit into his palm, and it blinked brilliant orbs of bright blue-gray eyes at Ethan. Crabtree’s face was transformed into softness and tenderness, and he stroked the kitten lovingly as he spoke.

“Behind the dumpster. I couldn’t find a sign of the mother, though I have someone looking.” He stroked the cat again, then glanced up at Ethan. “Do you like cats?”

And it was funny, because Crabtree was still all soft and downy because of the kitten, but this question might as well been asked by a fire-breathing dragon. A dragon who was at this moment a smiling dragon, asking Ethan if he liked baby dragons.

But the threat wasn’t necessary. Ethan looked down at the cat again, a smile tugging at his lips. “I had one when I was young. I haven’t since.” He started to reach out the window, then paused and glanced up at Crabtree. “May I?”

“Please,” Crabtree said, beaming.

The kitten’s fur was dirty, and it looked undernourished. It was not, Ethan realized, as young as he’d thought. It was just that small. But it was warm and soft, and it made Ethan melt a little too.

“I apologize for being late,” Ethan said, tickling the kitten under the chin, smiling as its eyes went shut, and it began to purr. “I was teaching Sam how to drive Randy’s truck.”

“I drove on the Strip!” Sam declared, then blushed and tried to temper his enthusiasm. “I mean, I did okay, I think.”

“He did very well for his first time with a manual transmission,” Ethan said.

“I’m sure he did.” Crabtree stroked the back of the cat’s head. “I’m surprised, though, that the other Mr. Keller-Tedsoe didn’t insist on giving that lesson himself.”

“He didn’t offer, so I did,” Ethan said, and waited for Crabtree to chuckle or make a snide comment.

He didn’t. If anything, he looked pleased. “A good reason to be tardy, then. And it allowed me to find this angel, so we will cede this game to Fate, who always knows our needs better than we do.” He stepped back onto the curb. “But now I do have need of your services, Mr. Ellison, and I’m sure Sam has much to do as well.”

“Crabtree?” Sam called, leaning over again. “If—if you see Mitch, or Randy, don’t tell them, please? I want—” He lifted his chin a bit. “I want to tell them myself.”

“Of course.” Crabtree inclined his head in acknowledgment, and then Ethan exited, and they stood together on the curb watching as Sam somewhat lurchingly drove away.

“That was well done,” Crabtree said, when the truck had disappeared around the corner. He stroked the kitten’s fur but kept his eyes on the place where Sam’s truck had been. “They love him, but they do smother him. They see him as something between saint and angel, the magic boy who brought them back together. And that’s the trouble. He’s been a man for some time now, but they keep nudging him back to boy, and after a while, he’ll just stay there. It’s not good for him.”

Ethan was only vaguely aware of what Crabtree was talking about, but he understood the concept, and he nodded. But he also tucked his hands into his pockets, needing the gesture for some kind of grounding.

Crabtree, in lecture mode now, kept talking. “They think they’re making life easier for him by sheltering him. But they’re really not thinking of him, just themselves. They’re sheltering him the way they wish someone had sheltered them.” He looked down at the kitten and smiled. “It’s good to have love and protection. But at some point we need to go out into the cold world and see how we do. You did well by giving him that space.”

Here Ethan thought he’d been giving Sam an overdue driving lesson and rubbing Randy’s nose playfully in the dirt. He didn’t doubt Crabtree was right, but thinking about it like that made everything so heavy. “Are you some sort of wandering casino oracle?” he asked.

Crabtree chuckled. “Former family counselor. And not a good one, I’m afraid. They revoked my license.”

“Oh?” Ethan said, aware of the dangerous waters full of sharks. He decided the best course was to move as little as possible.

“Yes. They do that, when you sleep with your clients.” Crabtree gave an only mildly apologetic shrug. “Emotionally vulnerable and hairy men. Every man has his Achilles’ heel, and that one is mine.”

“And kittens,” Ethan added. He reached over to stroke the kitten again. “She truly is beautiful. When she’s cleaned up, she’ll break hearts.” He glanced up at Crabtree. “Will you keep her?”

The look that crossed Crabtree’s face was devastating. “No, that isn’t possible.” He looked down at the cat, but the misery was still visible, and deep. “Perhaps one day, if I retire out of the city. But—” He stroked the cat, the very gesture a sign of his regret. “It’s no secret that I love cats. It’s one of the jokes they make of me. And you see, when you’re a man who has made as many enemies as I have, you don’t keep vulnerable loved ones around you. Not unless you have a stronger stomach than I do.”

“Oh.” Ethan didn’t have any idea what to say to this, and he wasn’t sure there really was anything appropriate. He looked at the cat and at the gangster, thought about Crabtree’s passion for the animals and the number he must have seen killed to put them off so far from him, and he couldn’t help it. He bled for Crabtree. “I’m sorry, but that’s simply terrible,” he said at last. “I’m very sorry.”

Crabtree, however, simply looked slightly surprised and a little amused. “She needs a name at the very least. If I take her to a shelter unnamed, they’ll name her something ridiculous like Patches. Nothing’s coming to my mind, though. Care to take a stab?”

Ethan didn’t have the first idea about naming cats—his as a child had, in fact, been named Spotty—but when he opened his mouth to say so, he looked down at the cat and said instead, “Salomé.”

Crabtree laughed, a loud, bowl-full-of-jelly laugh. “Well done! Salomé it is.” He lifted her up and kissed the top of her head. “Darling, let’s go to my office, and when you’re ready, we’ll order up John the Baptist’s head for you on a platter.”

They didn’t head for the main entrance, but instead entered through a side door. Nodding to security as they passed, Crabtree, cradling Salomé against his chest, led Ethan out into the casino. But they lingered along the side, almost in the shadows. There was an odd, nostalgic look on the gangster’s face as he surveyed the scene before him. Ethan waited, certain there was another speech coming up.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“There was a golden age of Las Vegas,” Crabtree said. “In the fifties and sixties this city was full of movie stars and singers, and people came from all over the country to see them and be seen with them. You could come to Vegas from Scranton and rub elbows with Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr.” He smiled, but it was a grim smile. “Of course, Sammy Davis, Jr. couldn’t stay at the hotel where he performed. He hung out at places like the Moulin Rouge, because that was where the colored people went in Vegas.”

Ethan recoiled, then caught himself and shook his head. “You’re making that up.”

“Sadly, I’m not,” Crabtree replied with disdain. He stroked the kitten some more. “That got fixed eventually, but by then the golden age was over. By the seventies, this place was a joke. It was sleazy and cheesy, and it was a place you came to die, not be a king.” He sighed. “And sadly, that’s when this place was built. Oh, Billy was so sure it would bring everyone back, because he would do it
right
—and I think he could have, in another ten years. Herod’s just hit the world at the wrong time. It wasn’t ready for him. And now he’s gone, and there’s just his spoiled rotten little shit of a son. Billy Junior is never going to turn this place around. In the deck of life, Billy is a ten. He thinks he’s a face card, but he isn’t. And he’s never going to change. Not enough to save this place.”

Crabtree shifted the kitten to his elbow and reached out to pat the side of the archway they stood beneath. “Billy Senior gave it glitz and glamour, and he gave it all the old elements: a showroom that doubled as a restaurant, but there hasn’t been a show in there in ages. He paved the entrance to the door to the old fountain that stood by the elevator in plush red carpet and called it the Grand Path. He added a hotel, but it hasn’t been updated, and it’s nothing but a fleabag now. He even, in his day, put the poker tables up front. Because he loved poker, and he wanted his place to be known as
the
poker place. He died just before the renaissance in poker came about, when it was such a craze that it was on cable. All he saw was the corporate cats take over, turning the Strip into a fucking Disneyland. Now everything is big and fat and bloated. We urged everyone to come here on their credit cards and stay in executive suites on their credit cards and shop on their credit cards and gamble with the money they refinanced from their third home mortgage. We stopped drawing in the simple crowd of people with money and made everyone a king. It’s a nice sentiment, but it isn’t realistic. Not everyone can be a king. We need to rediscover simple pleasures. We need to love to play, not love to spend. We need to make our money in the poker rake and in the spill-over of people who play the tables after. We need to draw them in with cheap entertainment and free drinks so that they have more money to gamble. We need real leadership again, not teams of lawyers and corporate interests. We need to be a town, a community, not a nest of crooks and liars.”