for Alex but would only get her blow from Vince. And she didn't date customers. Unless Vince said so.
Summer mixed two rufies into the rum and coke and hoped it would be enough. She didn't want to kill the guy. She took it into the bedroom where Vince lay on his back, his left arm inked like a boa constrictor. He sat up, took the drink and downed half in one gulp. He opened the bedside table and took out an amber vial and a small mirror. The mirror's surface was smeared. He dumped a mound of white powder on the mirror and began to chop it up with a knife. He divied it up into two lines and handed Summer a cut soda straw.
"I can't Vince. We're outta rum and tequila. I need to make a run."
Vince leaned over the lines and did them both. "More for me."
"Can I take your car?"
All anger had left him. It was party time. He reached down to his jeans on the floor and pulled out the fob. "Don't crack it up."
He finished off his rum and coke. Would the rufies overcome the coke? He'd been up for thirty-six hours running from pawn shop to storage unit, convinced he could make a fortune because he was such a great trader. He watched Pawn Stars and Storage Wars frequently and loudly. He'd visited the Pawn Stars store and made a scene when they declined to meet his price on a Civil War era pistol he'd taken in trade from some addict.
"Oh man I gotta lie down," he said.
"I'll be right back," Summer said clutching the keys tightly. She was all packed. She had four hundred dollars she'd managed to keep hidden plus another eight hundred she'd taken from Vince's wallet. This was it. Adios you flaming asshole. She would run so far and so fast he'd never find her again.
He might not even report the car as stolen. He was already on cop radar for a bust last year in the Luxor parking lot. The lot attendant spotted him doing a deal and reported him to the LVPD who swooped down and caught him with 200 hits of Oxycontin still in their pharmacy bottles. Vince side-stepped by turning in his source, an assistant pharmacist with a habit.
It was eleven p.m. Summer had come off her shift at nine. Shortly before quitting time Vince entered Dante's and saw the guy stuffing the twenty down her crotch while she played kissie-poo with the john. It was all an act. But Vince was crazy jealous.
She could only fuck the guys he chose and they were all unattractive because of his immense ego.
Well fuck that shit.
She was outta there.
She let herself quietly out of the apartment. From what she knew about rufies he would be out for at least twelve hours. Maybe forever. Summer was not a vindictive woman but Vince had brought it on himself.
She went down the stairs, out into the parking lot and beeped open the Camaro. It was a yellow and black LT 1 with over four hundred horsepower and a six speed transmission. Summer had learned to drive a stick back on the rez.
The engine snarled to life, she snicked into gear, chirped the tires and headed toward the Hoover Dam.
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Salina"
Beadles put the house on the market and sold the Bullitt. He bought a Jeep Cherokee with 85,000 miles on it. His combined legal fees came to $38,000. He owed 25. Betty agreed not to press for child support in exchange for primary custody. Beadles didn't contest her. It wasn't that he didn't love Lars. He had learned to love him.
When Lars was born Beadles' initial reaction was a certain relief that it was a boy and anxiety on the coming struggle to raise a child. Presented with the newborn in the delivery room, Beadles held the bundle in his arm and felt nothing. Certainly not love. He wondered how he got in this mess. He'd never wanted to be a parent.
Betty had always said she had no interest in children until she became pregnant. Like strapping a turbo to her self-absorption.
It took him a year to warm up to the idea.
Now he felt only relief. The last thing he needed was parental responsibility. He wondered if he had sociopathic tendencies.
The Whitfields'
Summer mixed two rufies into the rum and coke and hoped it would be enough. She didn't want to kill the guy. She took it into the bedroom where Vince lay on his back, his left arm inked like a boa constrictor. He sat up, took the drink and downed half in one gulp. He opened the bedside table and took out an amber vial and a small mirror. The mirror's surface was smeared. He dumped a mound of white powder on the mirror and began to chop it up with a knife. He divied it up into two lines and handed Summer a cut soda straw.
"I can't Vince. We're outta rum and tequila. I need to make a run."
Vince leaned over the lines and did them both. "More for me."
"Can I take your car?"
All anger had left him. It was party time. He reached down to his jeans on the floor and pulled out the fob. "Don't crack it up."
He finished off his rum and coke. Would the rufies overcome the coke? He'd been up for thirty-six hours running from pawn shop to storage unit, convinced he could make a fortune because he was such a great trader. He watched Pawn Stars and Storage Wars frequently and loudly. He'd visited the Pawn Stars store and made a scene when they declined to meet his price on a Civil War era pistol he'd taken in trade from some addict.
"Oh man I gotta lie down," he said.
"I'll be right back," Summer said clutching the keys tightly. She was all packed. She had four hundred dollars she'd managed to keep hidden plus another eight hundred she'd taken from Vince's wallet. This was it. Adios you flaming asshole. She would run so far and so fast he'd never find her again.
He might not even report the car as stolen. He was already on cop radar for a bust last year in the Luxor parking lot. The lot attendant spotted him doing a deal and reported him to the LVPD who swooped down and caught him with 200 hits of Oxycontin still in their pharmacy bottles. Vince side-stepped by turning in his source, an assistant pharmacist with a habit.
It was eleven p.m. Summer had come off her shift at nine. Shortly before quitting time Vince entered Dante's and saw the guy stuffing the twenty down her crotch while she played kissie-poo with the john. It was all an act. But Vince was crazy jealous.
She could only fuck the guys he chose and they were all unattractive because of his immense ego.
Well fuck that shit.
She was outta there.
She let herself quietly out of the apartment. From what she knew about rufies he would be out for at least twelve hours. Maybe forever. Summer was not a vindictive woman but Vince had brought it on himself.
She went down the stairs, out into the parking lot and beeped open the Camaro. It was a yellow and black LT 1 with over four hundred horsepower and a six speed transmission. Summer had learned to drive a stick back on the rez.
The engine snarled to life, she snicked into gear, chirped the tires and headed toward the Hoover Dam.
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Salina"
Beadles put the house on the market and sold the Bullitt. He bought a Jeep Cherokee with 85,000 miles on it. His combined legal fees came to $38,000. He owed 25. Betty agreed not to press for child support in exchange for primary custody. Beadles didn't contest her. It wasn't that he didn't love Lars. He had learned to love him.
When Lars was born Beadles' initial reaction was a certain relief that it was a boy and anxiety on the coming struggle to raise a child. Presented with the newborn in the delivery room, Beadles held the bundle in his arm and felt nothing. Certainly not love. He wondered how he got in this mess. He'd never wanted to be a parent.
Betty had always said she had no interest in children until she became pregnant. Like strapping a turbo to her self-absorption.
It took him a year to warm up to the idea.
Now he felt only relief. The last thing he needed was parental responsibility. He wondered if he had sociopathic tendencies.
The Whitfields'
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