was a change in her tone that told me she did in fact mean it this time around. ‘What are you going to do? Stay in Vegas?’
‘No, think I’ll head home tomorrow.’
‘If you want to see a show, I can get free tickets to Celine Dion . . .’
Celine Dion? ‘Thanks. Think I’ll pass,’ I said. ‘I’m just gonna hang around the pit here at Bally’s, drink too much and lose all my money.’
There was a pause. I imagined a smile flickering briefly on Alabama’s lips.
‘Hey, if you’re ever in DC, look me up,’ I said.
‘I will, Vin . . . Bye.’
The call ended. I hooked the cell under my chin, retrieved from my wallet the card Sugar had given me. I dialed and an automated voice answered: ‘The number you have reached is not in service. Please check the number and dial again.’
I took the advice but got the same result. Sugar’s phone number was a dead end. Maybe it had never been connected. I hadn’t dialed it before now so I couldn’t be sure either way, not without getting official about it. I gave a mental shrug. Sugar didn’t strike me as the reliable type. Maybe that’s what she did – blew in, blew a lucky special agent when she could find one, and blew out. I went to the machine that turns Ben Franklin into Abe Lincolns, stuffed the wad of cash in my pocket and went off to play the slots via the bar for a single malt.
The Sleeping Beauties were calling me, those magical bells a seductive lure. The theme here was that Ms Beauty was waiting for Prince Charming to come along and roll a row of kisses so that she could be awakened from her slumber and, presumably, shower the lucky royal with riches. Those magic-dust twinkles I’d been hearing almost everywhere since I arrived greeted my bills as the slot gobbled them up.
I won fifty-five bucks and lost ninety. Maybe I wasn’t charming enough. It took me another six hours and a forgotten number of single malts to lose the four hundred I had in my pocket. I was hunting for a Ulysses S. Grant – I was sure I still had one on me – when fingers grabbed my arm and spun me around. It was Alabama, I think. I peered at her through my Glen Keith glasses. Yes, it was her. I recognized those red eyes.
‘Been looking for you. You’re drunk,’ she said.
‘An’ you’re Ala . . . Alababama,’ I slurred. ‘Whuz up?’
‘They found Randy.’
‘What time’s it?’ I squinted at my Seiko.
‘One in the morning. I got a call from your police friend a couple of hours ago. He left a message.’
I took out my cell, which had inadvertently been switched to mute. There were three missed calls, one from Bozey several hours ago and two recent ones from Alabama. There was also a text from the detective. I read the message. Sweetwater fnd. Not good. Call me 2mara.
‘They want me to go to Australia and . . . and . . .’ She brought her hand to her face and cried behind it. I did my best to sober up while she got herself under control. ‘They want me to go and identify the remains.’
Remains . Bozey was right – not good.
The news had sobered me up a little. She leaned forward against me. I put my arms around her, her face hot and wet against my neck, and rubbed her back gently. ‘Can you go?’ she asked.
‘Go where?’
‘I can’t do it. I don’t want to go; don’t want to see him. I’ll pay your expenses. Please, can you go?’
To Australia? ‘What about relatives, next of kin?’ I asked.
‘Randy didn’t have any. He was alone in the world.’ I felt her body shudder, wracked with mostly silent sobs.
So the guy was like me: no living relatives. That wasn’t so tragic, and there were advantages – no awkward Christmases, no irrelevant birthday presents to buy or receive or regift.
‘I want to remember him the way he was. You met him. You can sign the forms.’
I wasn’t so keen, and I wasn’t so sure my signature would be accepted, not being Randy’s spouse or next of kin. Did he have any tattoos or scars? And
‘No, think I’ll head home tomorrow.’
‘If you want to see a show, I can get free tickets to Celine Dion . . .’
Celine Dion? ‘Thanks. Think I’ll pass,’ I said. ‘I’m just gonna hang around the pit here at Bally’s, drink too much and lose all my money.’
There was a pause. I imagined a smile flickering briefly on Alabama’s lips.
‘Hey, if you’re ever in DC, look me up,’ I said.
‘I will, Vin . . . Bye.’
The call ended. I hooked the cell under my chin, retrieved from my wallet the card Sugar had given me. I dialed and an automated voice answered: ‘The number you have reached is not in service. Please check the number and dial again.’
I took the advice but got the same result. Sugar’s phone number was a dead end. Maybe it had never been connected. I hadn’t dialed it before now so I couldn’t be sure either way, not without getting official about it. I gave a mental shrug. Sugar didn’t strike me as the reliable type. Maybe that’s what she did – blew in, blew a lucky special agent when she could find one, and blew out. I went to the machine that turns Ben Franklin into Abe Lincolns, stuffed the wad of cash in my pocket and went off to play the slots via the bar for a single malt.
The Sleeping Beauties were calling me, those magical bells a seductive lure. The theme here was that Ms Beauty was waiting for Prince Charming to come along and roll a row of kisses so that she could be awakened from her slumber and, presumably, shower the lucky royal with riches. Those magic-dust twinkles I’d been hearing almost everywhere since I arrived greeted my bills as the slot gobbled them up.
I won fifty-five bucks and lost ninety. Maybe I wasn’t charming enough. It took me another six hours and a forgotten number of single malts to lose the four hundred I had in my pocket. I was hunting for a Ulysses S. Grant – I was sure I still had one on me – when fingers grabbed my arm and spun me around. It was Alabama, I think. I peered at her through my Glen Keith glasses. Yes, it was her. I recognized those red eyes.
‘Been looking for you. You’re drunk,’ she said.
‘An’ you’re Ala . . . Alababama,’ I slurred. ‘Whuz up?’
‘They found Randy.’
‘What time’s it?’ I squinted at my Seiko.
‘One in the morning. I got a call from your police friend a couple of hours ago. He left a message.’
I took out my cell, which had inadvertently been switched to mute. There were three missed calls, one from Bozey several hours ago and two recent ones from Alabama. There was also a text from the detective. I read the message. Sweetwater fnd. Not good. Call me 2mara.
‘They want me to go to Australia and . . . and . . .’ She brought her hand to her face and cried behind it. I did my best to sober up while she got herself under control. ‘They want me to go and identify the remains.’
Remains . Bozey was right – not good.
The news had sobered me up a little. She leaned forward against me. I put my arms around her, her face hot and wet against my neck, and rubbed her back gently. ‘Can you go?’ she asked.
‘Go where?’
‘I can’t do it. I don’t want to go; don’t want to see him. I’ll pay your expenses. Please, can you go?’
To Australia? ‘What about relatives, next of kin?’ I asked.
‘Randy didn’t have any. He was alone in the world.’ I felt her body shudder, wracked with mostly silent sobs.
So the guy was like me: no living relatives. That wasn’t so tragic, and there were advantages – no awkward Christmases, no irrelevant birthday presents to buy or receive or regift.
‘I want to remember him the way he was. You met him. You can sign the forms.’
I wasn’t so keen, and I wasn’t so sure my signature would be accepted, not being Randy’s spouse or next of kin. Did he have any tattoos or scars? And
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