The Best Bad Dream (22 page)

Holy shit, Kevin thought. Time to make a move.

He lashed out at Vicki, knocking the gun to one side. The gun went off and he heard James Hastings scream.

There was a brief second when they both looked at James to see what had happened. The bullet had passed though his left forearm. Blood streamed down his overcoat.

“You little bastard,” James said, and reached down to grab the gun but Kevin kicked it away, knocked him over, and ran out the bedroom door.

He ran down the steps toward the front door but it was locked from the inside. With a key.

He heard James screaming at him from upstairs and he headed to the back of the house. His lacrosse stick was in the kitchen and he picked it up as he went by and out the back door.

He was running through the yard for the gate when he heard James come outside.

Kevin dove behind a tangle of bushes and watched as James came toward him, the gun in his hand.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he said. “C’mon. It was just a little joke we were playing on you.”

Kevin held his breath. A little joke. Yeah, real funny, motherfucker.

He reached down and felt a rock in the dirt. He dug it out with his hands.

James was getting closer, looking around in the moonlit garden. Kevin could see the blood dripping down his left arm and hand. The gun was in his right hand.

“C’mon,” James said again. “Come back in and we’ll all have a little drink and a few laughs. Really.”

Kevin picked up a handful of pebbles, said a small prayer, and threw them to the left, near the garage.

James turned, aimed his gun there, and as he did Kevin got up with the rock in his lacrosse stick.

He aimed it at James’s head and flung it exactly as he would a lacrosse ball. The rock sailed through the air and crashed into the back of James’s skull.

There was a crunching sound and James fell down in his garden, his eyes still open.

Kevin ran to him and grabbed the gun. He felt for James’s pulse. It was beating steadily, but James wasn’t going anywhere for quite a while.

He found her in the house, lying under the quilt with the steak knife sitting on the table next to her.

She looked up at him and smiled.

“It was going to be so beautiful,” she said. “If you were a little more objective, even you could see that. Besides, no matter what you say now, I know you would have laughed at me. The young hate the old.”

Kevin reached down and picked up the cell phone. He dialed 911. She started to get up but he shook his head.

“You leave that bed, you fucking die,” he said.

It wasn’t his voice that said it, it was his dad’s. She didn’t move a muscle until the LAPD showed up at the front door.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Johnny stood by the bright blue door of Marty’s condo. Looks as though it was hand painted, probably by the old broad Millie Millwood, he thought. Yeah, Johnny had seen those hand-painted doors before, in Provence. These old boho types always liked to think of themselves not just as Americans but as “citizens of the world.” Boy, that just pissed Johnny off. What the hell was wrong with America? Not a goddamned thing. Where else could a guy like him flourish like he did? He loved his country and he hated those old boho assholes who ran around talking about cheese and wine and fucking baguettes! Oh, no, a loaf of Wonder Bread wasn’t good enough for them. They had to eat a freaking baguette. Fags! And what was wrong with French’s mustard? Not a goddamned thing, but the Martys and Millies of the world had to eat Grey Poupon, and special mustards made with some kind of rare fucking mustard seed that probably came from Arle and was pissed on by van Gogh or something. Well, fuck them. Fuck all of them.

Asswipes.

He rang the doorbell, waited, and seconds later Marty let him in.

“Hello, John,” Marty said, smiling. “You look particularly well tonight.”

“Thanks, Martster,” Johnny said, turning on the charm. “You’re looking very sharp yourself, man.”

Actually, John thought, Marty did look pretty good, considering he was ripe for a permanent rest in a coffin. The old man had some color in his cheeks and his blue eyes were clear and focused.

Of course, the fact that he wore an absurd boho-type ascot, circa 1925 Paris, made him seem more than faintly ridiculous. And what was with the maroon velvet smoking jacket? He looked like some character out of an old detective novel Johnny’s mother used to pretend to read while covering her face with Noxzema and smoking Camels in the hundred-degree D.C. backyard heat.

From behind Marty emerged Millie, dressed in her vintage Victorian black lace number with a real blood rose corsage. Christ, Johnny thought as he stepped inside, they were doing the Addams Family. Where the fuck were Lurch and Cousin Itt?

The condo was something right out of the Gilded Age. The chairs were all ancient, cane-backed babies, and the walls seemed to be papered in some kind of crushed velvet. It was so absurd. They had come all this way to Santa Fe only to re-create a lame version of nineteenth-century fucking Paris.

Johnny didn’t know enough about history or interior decoration (a fag hobby) to be able to tell the difference, but the important thing as far as he was concerned was it wasn’t now, and it wasn’t American.

They were a couple of phony old assholes and deserved what he was going to give them.

But this gig might be a tad more complicated than he had figured. They had invited a bunch of their friends, lamesters of all kinds. People who looked seven-eighths dead.

“Johnny, we’d like to introduce you to the people who are known as the council. All of these people have been civic leaders in Santa Fe
for many years. This is Alex Williams, the president of the Blue Wolf council. Alex has been one of the great patrons of the local O’Keeffe Museum.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Johnny said, looking at the old stick figure who thrust out an awkward, veiny hand.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Williams said in a friendly baritone.

Johnny took the man’s hand and pressed it tightly. And he was more than a little surprised when the old man squeezed his hand back. Really squeezed it. God, the old bastard was strong as hell.

“Over here,” Millie said, “we want you to meet Don Dietz.”

Johnny turned around to meet the next guest and was shocked to see an amazingly overweight man with an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth. He gave Johnny a thumbs-up as Millie listed his many contributions to the city’s well-being.

“He kept the powers that be—the others powers that be, that is—from turning the city into one giant strip mall,” Millie said.

“Way to go, dude,” Johnny said, backing away from the grotesque figure as fast as possible.

The rest of the guests were equally distinguished and equally worn-out looking.

There was a guy named Russell who was trussed up in a back brace. And there was Sally Amoros, a once beautiful blonde opera singer who was all hunched over due to osteoporosis. And there was some guy named Desmond, who was apparently a comptroller but who made sure to tell Johnny that he only had one real leg, having lost the other one to diabetes. And there were more: a woman named Helena who had a crushed hand, a guy with an eye patch, and another woman named Suzanne Lutz, who had a tumor sticking out of her neck. Some of these people were on the council and others were on some fund-raising committee called “the choosers,” whatever that was.

God, what a group of freaks. Johnny looked around and it was all he could do not to break into hysterical laughter. (Or was it a scream? He wasn’t quite sure.)

Being in a room of old, totally beat-to-shit people set his heart beating and his mind racing.

Wouldn’t it be fun to get a flamethrower and incinerate the whole lot of them?

Finally, he could stand the tension building inside him no longer.

“Hey, Marty,” he called out. “We ready to play?”

“Of course we are,” Marty responded in his most affable voice.

“What’re the stakes?” Johnny asked, taking out his newly stolen cue.

“That’s strictly up to you,” Marty said, smiling.

“All right, dude,” Johnny said. “How about three hundred a game? For starters.”

“Fine,” Marty said. “Three hundred it is. Follow me.”

Chapter Thirty

Phil headed down the hallway to Annie’s condo door. He had already forgotten all about Dee Dee. It was kind of amazing. Soon he’d get his hip operation and he’d be a new man. Hell, he was still young, and he could hire lawyers that would keep her from getting one red cent.

He’d keep all the money from the business, and he’d be available for women who appreciated him, great-looking pert-breasted women like Annie.

But not just Annie. Oh, no. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He was going to have many women, the more the merrier. White women, Indian women, Chinese women, Thai women—oh, man, just the thought of Thai women—every kind of woman he could imagine. Because he was going to travel, seek out all kinds of new sexual adventures.

To hell with one woman. To hell with all that “I thee wed” crap.

He was going to be a swinging dude!

And he was starting right fucking now, baby!

He rang the doorbell to Room 101. Inside he could hear Sinatra singing “Young at Heart.” Perfect, ‘cause that’s what he was going to be from now on.

Young at heart, baby. You bet!

The door opened and there was Annie. Dressed in a tight sweater and skinny jeans, she looked like a million bucks.

“Hey, there, Phil,” she said. “Come on in.”

He walked inside and saw a bunch of other guests hanging out, talking animatedly. They were eating caviar and drinking champagne from a wet bar that was in the corner across the room.

Annie made eyes at Phil and he felt the delicious sliver of sexual longing throughout his body.

This, he thought, was more like it.

“This is great,” Phil said. “Fantastic.”

She kissed him on the cheek, a lingering kiss that gave him chills down his neck.

“Have some champagne,” she said. “Then there are some guests I want you to meet.”

She led him toward the bar. There was a very pretty barmaid, part Mexican, named Sylvia. A barmaid who smiled at him in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Hell, he thought. He was as attractive as ever.

Unlike that guy over in the corner. The old guy with so many rings of flesh hanging off his neck that he looked like one of those redwood trees. Each ring must stand for twenty years, which, from the look of him, would make him at least 150 years old.

And the woman he was with? She looked like a weed in a dress.

Why, the two of them reminded him of so many people he used to, well, best not to think about all that.

The lawsuits, and the anger, and the half-crazed relatives coming to harass him . . .

No, best to have this lovely glass of Perrier-Jouët and think about now . . . now and the future.

All that old-folks unpleasantness was in the past.

As his shrink had told him just last month, before he and Dee Dee had won a prize to come down to Blue Wolf for a week, all expenses paid, he had survived the serious ugliness and was a happy, happy man.

He drank the bubbly and smiled. Yes, sir, this was going to be quite a night.

Now Annie was refilling his glass, and Phil started to protest but then thought better of it. Why not? Why the hell not?

Annie smiled at him. God, she had a bright, white-toothed grin.

Phil hadn’t really noticed it before, but her teeth actually glowed with good health.

It was pretty incredible. You couldn’t tell just what the hell age she was. She might have had some work done, as they said, but he couldn’t be sure.

Not that he was at all against her if she had. Who wanted to look old, like the two ancient geeks in the corner who were still looking over and smiling at him, like they were in love with him or something . . . Or was it more than that? Those smiles seemed almost knowing. Yeah, isn’t that what they called it in books? “Knowing smiles.”

But that was ridiculous. What could those two old crocks know anyway?

Nada. Nothing. Zero.

He walked into the other room and started meeting people.

Young, attractive people. Annie’s friends. Some great-looking women, too.

This was his new scene. No question about it. Youth, vigor, and action.

That was what the new Philly was all about.

Chapter Thirty-one

Johnny had to admit that the game room was awesome, all oak and brass. And the table was terrific, deep green felt that looked like a summer lawn on a great estate.

Johnny could scarcely believe his luck. It was as though the table had been invented expressly for him.

All his fears of losing to the old crock vanished and he played the best games of his life.

Playing straight pool he ran the first ten balls, and when Marty missed on a tough corner shot, he ran fifteen more. Marty stood by sort of clucking to himself like an old rooster. “Well, well, my boy. Quite a good shot. Didn’t play quite this way last time, sonny.” Etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.

He reduced the old goof to babblemania in no time. The wizened old bird seemed to have lost all his confidence as he missed shot after shot.

Within an hour or so Johnny had won back all he had lost and was pressing on with his bets.

“Let’s move it up to five Benjamins,” Johnny said.

“That’s steep, John,” Marty responded.

“Can’t handle it, Martman?”

Johnny laughed and downed his fourth Chopin vodka, felt it kick in with the Vicodin he’d just swallowed. A fine mixture. He was a well-tuned Porsche 911, and he was cruising down a twisty road but he couldn’t crash if he tried. He was in the groove, baby. He was the man!

“Okay,” Marty said. “I’ll give her a whirl.”

Johnny laughed out loud. The guy sounded like some old prospector now. A Model T? I’ll give her a whirl? Yep, by crackie. I mean, who was this dude? Mr. Europe, or some old gulch rat? Johnny laughed as he shot and made another amazing banker.

“How’d you like that one, Martkowski?”

“Loved it, son. Bet you can handle just about anything.”