

FISH STORIES

A Redneck Noir Mystery

Rob Loughran

Copyright Rob Loughran, 2001

Published on Smashwords by

FOUL-MOUTHED BARD BOOKS

Windsor, CA

* * *

All rights reserved

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used in reviews.

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Fish Stories © Rob Loughran, 2001

This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary; the characters are entirely fictitious and not intended to represent actual living persons.

Formatted by eBooksMade4You

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24

Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28

Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32

Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36

Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40

Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44

Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48

Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52

Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56

Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60

Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64

Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68

Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72

Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76

Chapter 77 Epilogue

* * *

For Penny, who hears all my fish stories...

I read somewhere that seventy-seven percent of all the mentally ill live in poverty. Actually, I'm more intrigued by the twenty-three percent who are apparently doing quite well for themselves.—Jerry Garcia

* * *

PROLOGUE

Wanda Marie Tounens rode her horse back to Lake Wally. She had risen before dawn and ridden, bareback and barefoot, from the lake to the base of the Sierra Nevada. Wanda Marie had worn a Walkman the entire time, but only now turned it on to listen to some Talk Radio: "Good Saturday morning this is Davis O'Kane of radio station KFLO in Nightingale, Nevada: the place God created after he'd officially run out of scenery. It's eight-O-one in the A.M. and nearing one-hundred degrees. It's so hot that on my way to work I saw a female in shorts walk up to a cop and ask him to shoot her. But let's get to today's Gossip Topic: Twins. How are twins conceived?"

"My God," said Wanda Marie as she slowed the horse to negotiate a dry creek bed, "I must help you conceive some decent topics." Using only her monogrammed leather bridle and bare heels, Wanda Marie guided the blue-black gelding with three white boots down into the creek bed. The horse and rider, scrambling up the far bank were forelit by the sun that dazzled down through the cloudless sky. She reined in the horse at the crest of the creek bed and said, "Twins. How humdrum." She listened: "Sperm, probably more like a group of fans bustling toward the beer concession at halftime of the Super Bowl than we'd care to admit, journey toward the egg. With limited motility and a brief window of viability it is a marvel that anyone is conceived. But if the sperm ever reach the egg, if the egg is healthy, if they can infiltrate the egg's nearly impenetrable layers of protection, then the co-mingling of matched chromosomes, and subsequent cell divisions will result, nine months later, in a human being. However, the odds are ninety-six out of one-thousand, in humans not taking fertility drugs, that another event will take place. No one knows how or why this event occurs. Multiple eggs? Aggressive sperm? Or the Constellation Gemini twinkling high above the conceivers? Whatever the cause, the result is magic, mythical, and maddening.

Twins."

Wanda Marie listened while wading in the shallows of Lake Wally as her horse slurped water. She settled onto a partially submerged boulder and splashed her legs in a scissors kick. Although she had never danced, Wanda Marie simply didn't care much for music, her legs were like a dancer's; lithe and strong without appearing muscular. She wore her blonde hair long, straight, and simple. Her face was oval, with a button nose. Wanda Marie was saved from being cute by a meandering two-inch scar across the tip of her chin—the result of a tumble from a small horse at an early age. She seemed like a child sitting on the rock, dwarfed by the bulk of the Sierra Nevada in the background and flanked by a horse that was oblivious to her presence. If Monet had painted her at this instant the portrait would have been titled, The Sad Little Girl.

"Everybody has known a set or two of twins; I'm the father of twin girls. Gimme a call at 762-KFLO and let's chat about twins."

Wanda Marie had been an anomaly as a child in Southern Idaho. In the area around Boise where God, America, and Apple Pie were synonymous with Large Families, she was the only-child of two only-children. She grew up with no cousins, aunts, or uncles and to this day preferred the company of horses to most people. She had never married. Until recently, she doubted she'd ever felt love for an individual. Her passion, beyond horses, was the Carib tribe of Belize. She had encountered the Carib at an early, impressionable age. Wanda Marie's father, a Cultural Anthropologist, and her mother, a Comparative Linguist had studied the last of the Northern Hemisphere's wild tribes every summer of Wanda Marie's childhood. With the miraculous ability of a child, she learned the Carib language idiomatically and automatically. She also learned to spear fish, shinny up palm trees, catch birds with her bare hands, and walk barefoot across any terrain.

"That's 762-KFLO...Toll free, of course...It's now officially one-hundred degrees, but remember folks—it's a dry heat. And we have our first caller:"

"I have a theory."

"Name, please?"

"Ah, ah, Alex. From right here in Nightingale."

"Shoot, Alex."

"Twins. Okay, Sir Francis Drake and Shakespeare were twins and, stay with me now, Sasquatch actually wrote Shakespeare's plays."

"What about the sonnets?"

"Not the poetry, man. Don't be ridiculous."

Wanda Marie adjusted the volume, scissors kicked twice, and smiled.

"Alex, how did Sasquatch learn to speak and write English?"

"Lost traders from the Hudson Bay Company who had been shipwrecked on the Northern California coast taught him. Sasquatch's textbooks were Petrarch, the Bible, and Holinshed's Chronicles. That accounts for all of Shakespeare's allusions and references: Biblical, Historical, and Classical."

"You've given this some thought."

"I've done my homework, Amigo."

"Okay, get to Shakespeare and Drake."

"They were TWINS and they had this connection, man. The TWIN connection. They knew the plays were out there, so Drake sailed to California, which was then known as New Albion, scored the plays from Sasquatch and returned to England. This solves the Stradfordian controversy as well. Shakespeare wasn't Frank Bacon or Chris Marlowe or the Earl of Essex, he was Sasquatch. Even the names are similar: Shakespeare—Sasquatch. Get it?"

"No, Alex, I don't."

"No matter. Now Queen Elizabeth, who was actually separated at birth from her fraternal twin, Sir Walter Raleigh—"

"Thanks, Alex, but we have another call. Good morning this is Davis O'Kane."

"This is your old pal Woody McGuire."

"Morning Woody."

"That last Bozo was a couple of chimichangas shy of a combination plate."

"What's your experience with twins, Woodrow?"

"I'll let you and your listeners in on a secret."

"What?"

"The most exhilarating aspect of twins, my friend, is climbing on top and riding them."

"Woody, you know what happens when you drink in the A.M. Remember those Girl Scout cookies?"

Wanda Marie stood up in the shallows and ripped off her headphones. She splashed over to her horse and nuzzled nose-to-nose enjoying the wet, cool horsehair against her face. She kissed the cream-colored patch on her gelding's face. A unique, unmistakable marking in the shape of Louisiana. "Shoot, Woody," said Wanda Marie, "you and Kaitlyn were worried about my big mouth." Wanda Marie grabbed the reins, swung herself astride, and dug her bare heels into the horse's flanks. "I've got some letters to write."

* * *

CHAPTER 1

Davis said, "Thanks for saving me last Saturday morning. Alex."

"You're welcome," said Len Arizona.

As they had every Monday lunchtime since Davis had moved back to Nightingale, the men jogged west on Sagrado Boulevard toward Sagrado State College. The Boulevard dead-ended, petering out five miles west of town at the base of a huge pile of cluttered rocks, the remnants of an 1870's silver mine. To the east it intersected with State Highway 7, connecting the town with the rest of the sparsely populated state of Nevada. Streets north of Sagrado Boulevard were named after states of the United States. After crossing Sagrado Boulevard, the streets were named after that state's flower. North Dakota Street turned into Wild Prairie Rose Avenue; Delaware Street changed into Peach Blossom Avenue; New Hampshire Street became Purple Lilac Avenue.

The men jogged easily and in silence until Len said, "So you pick your talk show topics kind of like that experiment with the chimps at the typewriters? Whatever they might type is your theme for the day?"

"Have you ever wondered how we arrived at the typewriter keyboard that we're stuck with?"

"No."

"That's a topic. Thanks, I can give the chimps a day off."

"You're serious, The History of the Typewriter Keyboard?"

Davis nodded, then eased the pace and pointed to a billboard at the junction of North Carolina Street and Flowering Dogwood Avenue. It featured a photo of Len Arizona with a cellular phone in one hand and a Paiute basket in the other. In block letters:

NIGHTINGALE'S FUTURE IS IN ARIZONA—

LEN ARIZONA FOR MAYOR!

"How about you, Candidate Arizona, sitting in with me for a show?"

"No."

The joggers turned south on Poppy Avenue. Sagrado State College loomed ahead. Convection waves blurred the outline of the mile-distant buildings. The college, built on the remains of an expired tungsten mine, overlooked most of Sagrado County.

"Why not?" asked Davis.

"Hold up," said Len. He bent to tie a shoelace on his dayglo-green Adidas. He stood, stretched and they started up the hill toward the college. "Because."

"Too dignified to get down and dirty? This is politics."

"I don't mind down and dirty politics. It's just that your show sucks."

"You are the story of the year, Len. A Paiute running for mayor of a town built on his ancestral village. C'mon?"

"No."

They reached the college's track. They stretched slowly and deliberately for five minutes, drank from a rusted water fountain, then ran three quick half-miles. Not quick like when they'd competed for the 1975 Nevada State High School Half-Mile Championship, but quick for two busy forty-somethings who only ran three or four days a week. After finishing the final half-mile they shook hands almost formally. "I got an Intro to Electronics class to teach," said Len. "You working at John Barleycorn's tonight?"

"Yeah." He crossed his right leg over his left and stretched a tight, slightly tweaked, hamstring. "It's like I'm married to that stupid restaurant."

Len backpedaled away, "That's what you get for not diversifying your investments."

"Mark Twain said, PUT all your eggs in one basket and—WATCH THAT BASKET."

I'll stop by John Barleycorn's for a beer." Len turned and ran, his voice hanging in the heat, "If I can."

"Think of it as actual campaigning."

Len waved away the suggestion and ran across the man-made-mesa toward the college.

Davis crossed his left foot over his right, and stretched his opposite hamstring. He stood, uncrossed his legs and said, "Sonuvabitch, I'm getting too old to run in this heat." Wiping his face with the sopped tail of his Sagrado Silverpanners t-shirt, he surveyed the tidy, isolated, and torrid township of Nightingale. Businesses dotted Sagrado Boulevard: a 7-11, radio station KFLO, Le Bistro restaurant, and the large but understated—for Nevada's new, Theme Casino Standards—Ode to a Nightingale Casino. Directly across from the casino were the TRAINTOWN! amusement park and the Sagrado Silverpanners baseball stadium. Further east were the horsetrack and golf course. The United States Geological Survey field laboratory stood, fenced and official, sandwiched between the police station and the Calvada Ecumenical Church of Meditation. The Calvada E. C. of M. was noted for its billboard that featured the Thought for the Day. Today's thought:

TIME ENGRaVES OUR FACEs WITH ALL THE TEARS WE HAVE NOT SHED

In cul-de-sacs, tidy houses sprang up colorful and in clumps, like spring's desert wildflowers. Davis' restaurant, John Barleycorn's, sat alone in its immense dirt parking lot at the southeastern edge of town, like a schoolyard bully who hadn't been invited to play.

He jogged down Poppy Avenue, wincing as his knees worked as shock absorbers. He crossed Sagrado Boulevard and started up California Avenue, stopping in front of a Spanish style ranch house. The low single-story house looked not only windswept, but aerodynamic. Manzanita, leathery-leafed ceanothus, and purple-blooming hebe decorated the front yard. The pretense of a lawn had been abandoned long ago; the drought resistant shrubs shaded natural sand and rock. Davis walked to the front door and rang the bell twice.

He waited, then rang again.

Davis walked to the side of the house and unlocked a faded and weathered wooden gate. He entered a groomed rock garden with twelve broomsticks jammed into the ground. Mounted on each broomstick was a carved Carib ceremonial mask.

Although each mask featured a face that portrayed a completely different emotion—fear, ecstasy, pride, anger—they appeared related. That was the intention of the Carib artisans who carved these faces.

The same but different.

Conformity versus individuality.

The sacred and the profane.

Davis approached a triangle-eyed, gape-mouthed black mask and inserted three fingers into the ample oral cavity. This is where Wanda Marie Tounens, for the last month, had left the keys to her house for Davis.

He needed the keys because even if she were home, Wanda Marie rarely answered the door or telephone. She distrusted the phone companies—all of them, no matter how recent or hip or empowered they were—and communicated with notes and letters handwritten in lower case. She rarely posted a letter for the U.S.P.S. to deliver. She'd deliver them herself on foot or horseback.

Four weeks ago, Sunday, Wanda Marie and Davis closed the bar at John Barleycorn's. It had been a protracted and frantic double shift for both of them. After two drinks, Wanda Marie said, "Come home with me."

It wasn't a question.

Davis said, "Sure."

Wanda Marie's three-bedroom house on California Street had been designed as a retirement home in the early 1950's before most of what is now Nightingale existed. The slate-roofed house stood in the center of a two-acre lot; flanked by a stand of cottonwoods. The trees' roots sipped from the same underground spring that provided well water for the house. In the Spanish architectural tradition every room, like spokes, emanated from the central, open-air patio. A Realtor would be certain to showcase the house to a prospective buyer by featuring the central patio.

This is exactly how Davis and Wanda Marie on that Sunday four weeks ago proceeded.

Fully-clothed, but barefoot and eager they entered the patio from the kitchen's sliding glass door. Beneath one of the three-potted-palm-trees on the patio, Wanda Marie shed four-fifths of her clothing and removed all of his. With the languid, unhurried motions of newfound lovers who know they have all night to explore and probe; to discern and discover, they kissed and nibbled and fondled for what seemed an hour. Then they opened another sliding door and crossed the threshold of what would have been a TV room had Wanda Marie owned a television. Inside, she cast off the remaining twenty percent of her clothing while he flipped on a tiny clock radio and dialed in KFLO's Sunday Night Blues with Dirk. Then, to Elmore James' "Tool Bag Boogie", Wanda Marie dialed in Davis.

"Oh my," said he.

"Oh my, yes," said she.

Three songs later Davis, still dialed in, stood and carried Wanda Marie back to the patio. Beneath the fragile spring moon they reclined, leisurely, onto the still-warm-blue-imported-from-Mexico-tiles of the patio and boogied together for three more songs. Then they unhitched and entered, through yet another glass slider, Wanda Marie's bedroom where they re-coupled.

"Oh oh."

"Ah ah."

"Grunt grunt."

"Squirm squirm."

And after a nap, an encore in tangled and fragrant sheets:

"Oh oh."

"Ah ah."

"Grunt grunt."

"Squirm squirm."

"Snore snore snore."

The following three Sunday nights they worked together, Davis and Wanda Marie withdrew to the quaint old house on California Street. He had been dropping by occasionally during the week, usually—as today—during a run. After knocking, he'd let himself in with the key in the mask—Davis couldn't believe Wanda Marie refused to answer her door—and continue his aerobic workout, albeit much more intimately and agreeably than with Len Arizona.

But the hotter the sex, the more distant, almost non-communicative Wanda Marie became. Last night Davis had given Wanda Marie one of those greeting cards with a young boy and girl dressed in campy, oversized adult clothing. Inside was a poem that Davis had written:

My eyes fall shut and I retreat into

The dream-mirror of my waking life:

I dream and taste your love.

You are the silent part of me I

Haven't the depth or courage to contain...

Wanda Marie said, "Thanks for the note."

"It's a poem. It ain't Robert Frost, but at least I'm trying."

"Trying what? If simple, uncomplicated, but extremely passionate sex doesn't do it for you maybe we should, you know, stop squealing like pot-bellied pigs every Sunday."

Davis wasn't wounded so much as befuddled. He had driven back to John Barleycorn's to close up and set the alarms. Sitting alone in the bar, after midnight, sipping lukewarm black coffee he decided that at this point in his life he desired exactly what he and Wanda Marie shared.

No poems.

No promises.

No problems.

He also realized he needed this liaison, this dalliance, this sexually-fueled-non-relationship.

And today he stood, in blue nylon shorts and a sweaty Silverpanners' t-shirt, waggling his fingers in the Carib mask's maw, like a dentist grappling for leverage on an impacted bicuspid.

No keys.

Davis said, "Sonuvabitch."

* * *

CHAPTER 2

"I've called Wanda Marie twice. No answer," said Jeff.

"She wouldn't miss a shift without calling," said Davis. "Who's the on-call bartender?"

"Zenny."

Davis motioned at the coffeepot. "Do you think we'll need two bartenders tonight?"

Jeff slowly re-filled the coffee cup from a height of two feet; only a tiny globule of coffee dribbled onto the bar. "Probably not, but I'm tired of working alone." He replaced the coffeepot and began assembling two Bloody Marys. John Barleycorn's featured two specialty drinks. A from-scratch Bloody Mary and a Paiute Pony. The Pony was an after-dinner drink concocted of cheap brandy, Kahlua, Bailey's Irish Cream, white Crème-de-Cacao and about an ounce-and-a-half of coffee.

"Call Zenny," said Davis. "No sense invoking Murphy's Law."

"Calling Zenny is invoking Murphy's Law." He added tomato juice and black pepper to horseradish and Worcestershire. He held a strongman's pose: biceps bulging, triceps tight, forearms flexed, with the juice and pepper shaker poised over the glasses as if lifting them were one of Hercules' twelve labors.

Davis shook his head. "Just try to get someone in here. Bob. Arty. Cecelia. Anyone."

"Right after I make these, Boss." With a balletetic flourish, he concluded the performance.

Davis cringed at the word Boss and sipped his coffee. He kept his hair cropped close, almost Marine Corps short. Fifteen years ago, aged twenty-six, he had once considered dyeing his prematurely graying hair. He drove specifically to the store for a bottle of Grecian Formula and ended up tossing items in his basket—rice, teabags, dishwashing liquid, Eskimo Pies—like a teenager buying school supplies to cover his first purchase of condoms. But he decided that gray hair is better than no hair and returned all the items to the shelf.

Except the Eskimo Pies.

Since then his hair had grayed, then whitened, but hadn't thinned at all. It clung profuse, white, and cut close to the skin, like a bathing cap on a synchronized swimmer. He watched Jeff garnish the two Bloody Marys with pickled green beans and serve them to two Sagrado State College coeds. One dressed in hot pink shorts and tubetop. The other in an identical canary yellow ensemble.

"There you are, Ladies," said Jeff. "Hey Boss?"

"What?" Davis stared directly at the lassies. Step-aerobic lean and tanned to a honey-wholewheat-bagel-brown, they perched lightly on their barstools, arching their backs just enough to display their seamless shorts to best advantage.

"Can we say these little lovelies' first round is on the house?" Jeff leaned forward, flexed again, and smiled a healthy, even-toothed smile that would have been perfect if his teeth weren't Post-it-Note yellow.

Hot Pink removed her green bean garnish, made-eye contact with Davis, and lick-lap-licked the pod clean. "Yum," she said. "Yum, yum, yummy."

"Now there's a radio topic. The human mating ritual. The lines are open at 762-KFLO," said Davis.

Canary Yellow smiled her pert and perfectly Chiclet-white smile, exposing teeth that earned some orthodontist a down payment on a Lake Tahoe chalet. Framed by pouty, heart-shaped lips the combination belonged on the cover of Popular Narcissist.

Davis just hoped she wouldn't try to speak.

"What's your name?" asked Jeff.

"Joan," said Canary Yellow.

"What an amazing coincidence," said Davis.

"What's tha-at?" asked Joan and Hot Pink in sing-song, two-part harmony.

"My wife, the mother of my children, has green eyes. Her name is Joan, we drank Bloody Marys on our first date, and the year we fell in love she had a figure much like yours."

"Then," said Joan, "the drinks are free?"

"Jeff," said Davis, "charge 'em double."

The girls' bottom lips protruded into sultry pouts: a Darwinian response as essential to their survival as a groundhog scurrying into his burrow after spying a hawk.

"That's tightass," said Jeff.

Davis raised his coffee cup in a toast. "Just funnin' with you ladies. Enjoy your complimentary John Barleycorn's cocktails."

"Thank you," said Joan. She plucked a business card out of a purse that looked like a zippered Dijon pear. "This is for you."

Davis read, "Joan and Cyndy present MAMMOGRAMS! For Birthdays or Bachelor Parties!!! I'm almost afraid to ask."

Cyndy said, "We're relatively new in town, there is so much competition for businesses like this in Reno and Sparks."

Joan said, "If you ever need—"

"We've got trouble," said Chris. Still carrying a serving platter and tongs, the waiter limped up to the bar.

"Duty calls, Ladies," said Davis. He turned to Chris, "What's up?"

"The plump woman in booth twelve."

"How plump?"

He stroked his meager goatee. "She's a colossus."

"That's Mrs Daltrey." He tugged on his blue-and-black string tie with the pewter bulls' head stay. "The last time it nearly came to a wrestling match. And she'd punt my derrière across the room." Davis slurped his black coffee and left the empty cup on the bar. He walked through John Barleycorn's cocktail lounge and into the expansive, red-carpeted dining room. Wooden booths lined the walls. Oversized, lacquered, hatch-cover tables reflected the light from the two dozen hanging, wagon wheel light fixtures. He smiled his Calm But Concerned smile and approached, vigilant, the lady on booth twelve. She wore a Hawaiian print muumuu and held out a John Barleycorn's steak fry to a diminutive, red-haired child. "Good evening, Mrs Daltrey, I—"

She said, "I ordered goddam ribs with no goddam sauce and a hot goddam artichoke."

"Do you always swear like that in front of the child?"

"Bite me, Dick Cheese. I ordered goddam ribs with no goddam sauce and a hot goddam artichoke." Her voice was strained; Davis wondered if it were a result of the way her bulk had been wedged into the booth. Much like a mother condor feeding a condorette she pushed another steak fry into her daughter's face. "Davis we go through this every time I'm here, you goddam wannabe-entrepreneur. When Woody McGuire ran this place it sure as horseshit was different, by Christ. You can't even cook ribs with no sauce."

"You know all our ribs are sauced, Mrs Daltrey. They are marinated, saturated, inundated with sauce."

"Horseshit on you. I ordered ribs with no sauce and I communicated that order, goddam explicitly, to that gimp waiter."

"I'll take care of the ribs, but if you refer to my waiter Chris as a gimp, you're excommunicated."

The red-haired child swallowed and said, "His nametag said his name was Zenny."

"The waiter's name is Chris," said Davis.

Mrs Daltrey dismissed that byte of information with a wave of an insulated arm. Her flaccid dewflap of an underarm vibrated like Jello pudding after she'd completed the gesture. Davis shifted his weight and ground the heels of his size fifteen black-and-tan cowboy boots into the rust-red carpet. "Observe," she ran a finger across the rack and inserted a turkey-baster of a finger into her mouth with a moist, popping sound.

"I understand," said Davis. "No sauce."

He gathered up the offending foodstuffs, retreated through the dining room and handed the lady's food to Chris, who'd been watching from the salad bar. The waiter followed Davis who bypassed the grill and advanced on the dishwashers' table. Davis gestured to the silver-and-black Hobart and said, "Carlos? Con permiso?"

Carlos del Valle-Inclán said, "Por favor, jefe." The six-foot five Cuban defector stepped back from the machine and cracked his knuckles. "But please to speak Inglés to me. I must learn."

Davis nodded and jerked open the dishwasher in mid-cycle. He yanked out a rack of steaming plates, each with a smiling John Barleycorn's bull logo. He motioned at an empty dishrack; Chris loaded the ribs and artichoke aboard. John Barleycorn's manager slid the food into the dishwasher and pressed START.

"What are you doing?" said Carlos.

"Just trying to keep the customers satisfied."

"Oh."

"The final rinse might even kill some bacteria," Chris stroked his goatee.

"Chris, why are you wearing Zenny's nametag?"

"I lost mine. He's got a boxful of these behind the bar."

"Why?"

"He swears if he wears one for more than three days it steals a portion of his quintessence."

"He might be right."

Chris nodded. "I heard your show Saturday morning."

"Yeah?"

"It really sucked. I mean usually it's bad, but you blew chunks this week."

"Thanks."

"You should try some shock-jock tactics. Attack people. Challenge them. Twins? You think that one up on your lonesome?"

"Yes, I did."

"Run a couple of shows on the mayoral election. Rooster Rudd versus Lenny Arizona? The Redneck versus the Homeboy? They'd pick you up nationally for that controversy."

Davis fiddled with his string tie.

Seventy-three silent seconds later the machine signaled the cycle's completion with a muted, steamy, mechanical fart. Davis opened the Hobart and extracted the ribs and artichoke. The sauceless ribs, with glossy white veins of fat, glistened in the industrial glare of the kitchen. The artichoke steamed, smelling faintly of chlorine. "Offer these to Mrs Daltrey."

"Sure," said Chris.

"How many boxes of Girl Scout cookies do we have thawed out?"

"None, but there's still twenty or thirty cases in the freezer."

"If she's not happy, give her and Little Orphan Annie a case of Peanut Butter Crunchies."

"Got it, Boss."

"Don't call me that. It's depressing."

"Okay, Davis." Chris skidded a little on the wet floor.

"And Chris, don't forget to smile." He turned to Carlos, "Gra—Thank you."

"No problems." He resumed his post and said, "Loco Norte Americanos."

Davis trailed Chris back into the dining room. He watched the lanky college student, Sophomore at Sagrado State, re-serve the lady on booth twelve. She inspected, sniffed, nibbled, then bit into the sauceless ribs.

Davis entered the bar.

Before perching on his barstool, he surveyed John Barleycorn's Cantina. The cocktail lounge was the size of a regulation basketball court. Four big-screen televisions, like icons in a Buddhist temple, faced the four points of the compass. CNN, ESPN, ESPN 2, and VH1 broadcast, respectively, golf, Sportscenter, College Baseball, and Rod Stewart Unplugged. "The only time I want to see Rod Stewart unplugged," said Davis, "is if he's on life support."

Peter Trane, sitting alone at the end of the bar, stared up at the Mississippi State-Stanford game. He sipped his coke, "What'd you say?"

"Nothing."

"Sure sounded like something." Peter wore a long-sleeved t-shirt festooned with red-and-gold GO ARISONA! buttons.

"How can you drive a taxi in that shirt?"

"Driving's easy," said Peter. "The hard part would be should my father see me in this shirt. I truly believe he'd break both my arms."

Though it seemed nearly empty there were thirty-seven people seated and drinking. "I'm gonna squeeze an hors d'oeurves table in here," said Davis, again to no one in particular. "With salty snacks. Keep 'em thirsty." He sat and gazed down the bar. Jeff was crafting another round of Bloody Marys for Joan and Cyndy. Davis resolved, from now on, to only buy drinks for the blemished, bloated, frumpy, and bow-legged.

Chris jogged into the bar, "Big trouble this time."

"The Rib Queen?"

"The Health Department."

"Inspector Grimes?"

"Yeah. When did they start working nights?"

"He's been working for months trying to shut us down. Tell the esteemed inspector I'll be a moment, then clean the employee restrooms."

"I'm afraid to use the employee restrooms."

"I'll owe you one." Davis stood and unconsciously yanked at his string tie.

"Let me guest host your radio show."

"Communications major, right?"

"I graduate this January."

"No."

Chris crossed his arms and watched a Stanford batter take a called third strike.

"Next Saturday?"

"This Wednesday," said Chris. "Wednesday or the inspector sees the potties in their natural, fecund, untamed, and unsanitized state."

"Deal."

Chris nodded and left, his limp more pronounced by his haste. Davis slid from the barstool and strolled toward the dining room. He paused at three tables to shake hands with patrons; inquire about the food and service.

Buying enough time for Chris to mop the employee johns.

Davis helped a busboy clear and set a table. After two more Public Relations Stops he reached Inspector Grimes and greeted him with a brusque nod. The pair no longer even engaged in the pretense of shaking hands. "Where do we start this week?"

"If you'd attend to the violations there wouldn't be a surprise inspection every week."

"When you drop by every week, Grimes, it ceases to be surprising."

Grimes, lean as an extra from Schindler's List dressed in white denim trousers, a short-sleeved white shirt with a dark blue tie and clunky black wing-tips.

Davis would have wagered two-grand that the tie was a clip-on.

Grimes said, "Let's get started."

"Shoot."

"First, the matter of using staples to affix notices to bulletin boards."

"We now use scotch tape. Can't run the risk of serving our discerning clientele staple foods."

"The Health Department does not consider foreign substances in foods amusing." He massaged the tip of his freckled nose, dangerously close to the nostrils.

"What's next on that list?"

"All frozen foodstuffs must be stored six-inches off the floor; not on the floor."

Chris nodded at Davis as he scurried through the dining room with a mop and bucket. "I installed racks in the freezer last week." Davis remembered the argument he'd had with Mauro when the bill for seven-hundred and twenty-seven dollars arrived.

"Show me the racks—and if they're up to code—I won't close you down." He swiped at his nose again.

"Right this way." Davis led the white-clad inspector through the kitchen. He unlocked the thickly insulated freezer door and swung it open. Pallets of corn-on-the-cob and hamburger loomed to the left. To the right were twenty-six cases of assorted Girl Scout cookies and twelve five-gallon tubs of vanilla ice cream, all stacked and organized on the newly installed freezer racks. Straight ahead, laid out on the pre-portioned-fresh-frozen-fourteen-ounce-genuine-Australian-rock-lobster-tails, was Wanda Marie Tounens. The bartender's arms were folded neatly across her stomach, like a praying schoolgirl. Wanda Marie's John Barleycorn's uniform was dusted with frost; her blonde hair, frozen into stalactites, glistened.

Inspector Grimes studied poor dead Wanda Marie and said, "Catch of the Day, I suppose?"

And that's when Davis hit him.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

John Barleycorn's Steak House occupied a windowless, twelve-thousand square foot building in the center of a huge dirt parking lot. Like an oversized metal mantis, an abandoned well-digging derrick stood gaunt and solitary in the southeast corner of the unpaved parking expanse. The restaurant's menu consisted of steak, lobster, steak, lamb, steak, ribs, and steak: salad, bread and BBQ beans included with every meal. The restaurant's employees were mostly students from Sagrado State College. Its clientele consisted of two castes: tourists and hard-drinking, blue-collar, lower-middle-income locals who thought that Tipping was a city in China.

The building, constructed of roughly hewn redwood inside and out, looked like the box a space shuttle would arrive in. John Barleycorn's bartenders poured potent drinks and the bar was always busy; the dining room always crowded. There were no tablecloths and mis-matched silverware. Original owner Woody McGuire's logic: Hell, I never ate off a tablecloth in my life, that's why God invented goddam plates. John Barleycorn's, currently in its eleventh year of operation, was one step away from devolving into an industrial cafeteria. Ironic, because Woody's idea for the steak house came to him while working in the industrial cafeteria located inside the California State Penitentiary, Lompoc.

A City of Nightingale police car driven by Officer Brisco—lights flashing—and an ambulance were leaving John Barleycorn's dirt parking lot. Officer Yurri Brisco had taken less than an hour to tag, bag, and remove the glacial Wanda Marie. The presence of a corpse in the restaurant didn't seem to affect anyone's appetite. If anything the nearly frozen, lifeless body added intrigue and interest to the smoky taste of the mesquite grilled steaks. During that fifty-seven minute interval, the local gendarme had questioned all the employees, Grimes, and a few of the customers. It was 7:30 when the cop left. It was 7:33 when Davis dialed Umberto Ciccarelli's unlisted number in Las Vegas.

"Umberto?"

"Speak."

Davis cleared his throat, "We have a problem."

"Speak."

"We had a corpse in the restaurant tonight."

"Was Barbara working?" Umberto always spoke slowly and precisely. The barest hint of his sibilant Florentine accent could only be detected when he pronounced words ending in s: Business-ah, Jesus-ah, Motherfucking IRS-ah.

"A real corpse. A dead body. Our bartender, Wanda Marie was found dead."

"Porco Dio. Where?"

"In the walk-in. On top of the lobster tails."

"This is the stuff of tragedy. A waste. It makes-ah me think of the fragility of life—"

"A tragedy of—"

"—and the fact I never got to plug her."

"Umberto—"

"I'm too old for politeness. She was a beautiful girl and I'd have enjoyed her warmth a time or too."

"I'm closing early tonight."

"No you're not."

"One of our employees, Umberto, was found dead in our freezer. We had the cops here."

"Did those child-molesting pigs-ah drink any coffee?"

"He—singular—didn't drink any coffee."

"Good. Now you stay open. To eleven. Like usual."

"You are truly a heartless sonuvabitch."

"Grazie."

Davis could imagine Umberto running his right hand through his perfectly dyed and slicked black hair.

"Davis-ah," said Signore Ciccarelli, "would it help if I jetted up there? It takes only forty-seven minutes."

"No. It really wouldn't help."

"Open to eleven."

Davis gently replaced the receiver, "Sonuvabitch."

Wanda Marie never missed an installment of KFLO's The Davis O'Kane Show; that was probably what started it between her and Davis. They possessed that easy and necessary commonality that makes conversation effortless. The worse the show was—the more strained and stupid and profane the callers became—the more Wanda Marie enjoyed it. She was his number one fan; and remained so even after they'd been to bed. Davis knew they had the chemistry for something special but last night, after she'd called his poem a note, he decided to respect her wishes for maintaining the relationship as it was.

And now, she was dead.

He attempted to examine what he felt. Shock? Grief? Loss? Regret?

Davis settled on Monumental Confusion and entered the bar.

John Barleycorn's cocktail lounge roiled with activity. Customers, half waiting to be seated, half sipping after dinner drinks, conversed in what added up to a mild roar. Jeff frantically poured drinks for the waiters to carry into the dining room. At the other end of the bar, Bob, wearing a brand new handkerchief plaid shirt, opened two Heinekens and handed them to a golfer dressed like a pimp from Compton. Davis removed his brown corduroy manager's jacket and stepped behind the bar. "Thanks for coming in, Bob."

"I don't work at the lab until midnight, the Nuclear Magnetic Resonance equipment isn't free until them." Bob pointed to the next customer in line, "Shoot."

"Gin-n-tonic, double," said a heavy-lidded, bleary lady who needed to be introduced to Betty Ford and associates.

Bob poured the drink precisely, with a minimum of motion. "Three bucks."

While she fumbled in a stained canvas purse Bob pointed to the next person in line, "Shoot."

"Four margaritas. Gold," said a pocked and wrinkled lady who looked like a female version of Manuel Noriega.

Bob grabbed the bottle of tequila and Davis the triple sec. Into a blenderful of ice they poured the booze, added limejuice, and flicked on the blender. While it clicked and whirred they each salted two glasses and added lime wedges. Davis switched off the blender and Bob poured.

"You two work like Tom Cruise and that other guy in Cocktail," said Señora Noriega.

"Tom Cruise is a fag," said Bob. "Sixteen bucks, lady."

She placed a twenty on the bar as Davis handed her the tray of margaritas. "Where'd you two meet?"

"In utero," said Bob.

"Huh?"

"We're twins," said Davis.

She gaped at the brothers O'Kane. Brown-eyed Bob stood a head shorter than blue-eyed Davis. Marathon man Davis' thin frame contrasted Bob's stocky and sturdy linebacker's build. Bob's size ten feet were dwarfed by Davis' size fifteen EE's. Bob's raven black hair curled wildly. "Sure," she said, "I see the resemblance now. Your eyelashes are the same length."

"What a shift," said Jeff. He poured a shot of Drambuie for Davis and himself. "Where'd Bob disappear to?"

"He's at the USGS lab," said Davis.

"That's right," said Jeff. "Dem bones, dem bones."

"Rocks."

"What's he get paid for that scientific shit?"

Davis shrugged, "Not much, he still works here."

"What's he looking for anywho?"

"I don't know." Davis smiled and slowly poured the liqueur into the dregs of his coffee, careful not to spill on the spreadsheet he had unfurled on the bar. "The only time he speaks to me is at work."

"Why?" Jeff refilled his shot glass.

"For a reason not even that bottle is deep enough for."

"I gotta get me a real job." Jeff gulped his Drambuie and reached for a beer chaser. "This restaurant business is killing me."

"One dead bartender a night is enough, Jeff."

Jeff drained his beer. "Jesus, dead in the freezer."

"Dead. Yes." Davis stared at Jeff until the bartender looked away. Manager O'Kane didn't trust the thirty-two year old bartender from San Diego with the perfect tan and faultless résumé who just happened to move to the high Nevada desert. Davis thought, at first, that he was a plant—a spy—from Umberto's operation, but Jeff stole just a little too much money from the till to work for Mister Ciccarelli.

"I'm outta here," said Jeff.

"How about stocking the beer cooler?"

"I'll be in early tomorrow for that, Boss. I got a hot date tonight."

"Who's the lucky girl?"

"Remember those coeds? Right before Grimes showed?"

"The Mammogram Girls."

"Joan and Cyndy." Jeff smiled. "Later."

"Much later."

Davis sipped his Drambuie and coffee while checking the bar register tape against the booze totals on the waiters' checks. The bar percentages had been off five to seven percent for the last three months. Jeff dipped a little too heavily to work for Umberto, but not heavily enough to cause a dent that big. If there were rings on the register tape that didn't show up on checks, the waiters were forgetting to charge for the drinks. Or they were charging separately for the booze and keeping the money.

Or the waiters were drinking for free.

Or the waiters and all their friends were drinking for free.

Or a combination of all three.

A nice, new modern computer system to replace the outdated cash registers and handwritten checks would solve the problem. But Umberto couldn't launder money when every penny was accounted for electronically; they needed the nooks and nests and niches of this outmoded bookkeeping system.

"Too much for one night." He strolled through the empty, cavernous, smoke-smelling building switching off lights. In the kitchen, he noticed that the produce man had left the cherry tomatoes out, the fry cook hadn't turned off the deep fryer, and the dishwashers hadn't drained the grease trap. He checked the broiler room and saw that the cooks hadn't scraped or burned off the grills. This happened every time Davis had to tend bar and wasn't available to oversee the closing procedures.

He held his hand over the grill. Although filthy, it was still hot enough to cook a steak for Freddy. He popped a sirloin onto the grill. When the steak was charred-medium-rare Davis wrapped it in aluminum foil and exited through the rear of the building. Davis held the steak in his left hand as he locked the doors on John Barleycorn's private fleet of taxis with his right. When Woody McGuire opened the restaurant the first thing he did is purchase three station wagons. He painted them brown-and-white, installed bulls' horns on the hoods and had John Barleycorn's motto emblazoned on the side:

YOU CAN'T BEAT OUR MEAT!

Woody was dead-set against drunk driving and these Ford station wagons, free of charge, would taxi any drunken patron anywhere in Sagrado County. The additional sales from the third, fourth, fifth, and twelfth cocktails that customers wouldn't ordinarily drink, paid for the taxis and perpetually on-call drivers many times over. Woody used to have three drivers sitting around playing poker, now they were down to one driver, Peter Trane. Davis left the third taxi unlocked and tossed the steak onto the driver's seat. He reentered the steak house, checked the alarm, the lock on the walk-in freezer and thought of Wanda Marie.

He shivered slightly and turned off the lights in the kitchen.

* * *

CHAPTER 4

She waited on the couch for Davis. She still wore her skirt, but she had removed her underwear. Pretending to sleep, her legs spread slightly, the table lamp illuminated the firm, tanned flesh of her inner thighs. Davis clattered his car keys noisily onto the coffee table and bent to wake her. Like a bigmouth bass hitting a lure she snagged Davis' string tie and pulled him down on top of her. Her sinewy legs wrapped around his waist like amorous vicegrips. Her hands ripped at the front of his shirt. Like a lamprey she attached her lips to his. Her tongue scoured plaque from his teeth.

"Take me, Davis," she said.

"Hey—"

"I want you. I've been watching Sex in the City and Red Shoe Diaries, Davis. The plots are contrived, but they make me wet. Feel."

"Let me go."

"Penetrate me." Her fingernails raked his chest. She bit his neck.

"Ow."

She slipped her left hand beneath Davis' belt and groped. "You can't tell me you don't want my tight pulsating—"

"I can't. Sonuvabitch. Lemme go."

"Do me. Take me."

"You're the babysitter, Lisa."

"I'm a woman, Davis. And I know you watch me sunbathing naked in my backyard. This body is only seventeen; but it's a woman's body."

Despite the threat of Lisa's large, ex-Marine father and a possible jail sentence, Davis started plumping up like a Ballpark frank on a hibachi.

"I felt that," said Lisa, "Lieutenant Winky is starting to salute."

"Those are my keys."

"Your keys are on the table."

"Let me go or I'm not paying you."

"You're worth more to me than money. I want to feel a man's body inside me. I'm so tired of boys."

"Stop that squirming." He propped himself up on an elbow. "Lisa, I can't. You're illegal."

Lisa began sniffling. Tears pooled in the corner of her gray-blue eyes.

"Sonuvabitch, Lisa. Don't cry." Davis extricated her hand from his pants and one-by-one, pulled her fingers from his string tie. He rolled, pinned her thighs together and bounced to his feet. "Here," he fished in his pants pocket. "I don't have any change. Twenty bucks. Keep it."

Lisa smiled and licked her top braces seductively. Her closed thighs spread slowly open, like a butterfly warming its wings in the early summer sun. She lifted her hips slightly. "Could you at least—"

"Please leave," said Davis. "Please?"

Lisa rolled to her feet. "Darn it." She turned and bent to pick up her shoes. Two quarter moons of flesh peeped out from beneath her skirt. Lisa rose and faced Davis. "Not even a goodnight kiss? I'll take my retainer out."

"Good night, Lisa." Davis handed her another twenty. "Thank you for watching the girls."

Maintaining a cautious distance, Davis walked her next door, then returned to check on his daughters.

In their upstairs bedroom, Jennifer and Alexi both wore pink PJs and slept in twisted yogic configurations. Davis kissed them and, although not a religious man, he prayed briefly that during their seventeenth years they suffer only from acne and Teenaged Angst; not rampant nymphomania.

Davis locked the house and turned off the a/c for the night. It had fallen to a nearly Arctic ninety-one degrees outside, but the house would stay comfortably cool until morning. He snagged an Amstel Light from the fridge and sat on the living room floor, in front of the fishtank. The fifty-five gallon tank was only half-filled with water. A submerged pump, built into a craggy faux-stone backdrop, circulated and oxygenated the water via a trickling waterfall. The backdrop had pockets where Davis and the girls had planted Maidenhair ferns and miniature African violets. The violets thrived in the tank's humidity and bloomed nearly year-round. Two turtles shared the tank with four striped tetras, three goldfish, a peripatetic school of guppies, and a Plecostomus. The turtles were named Ike and Zeke and the bottom-feeding Plecostomus was christened Hoover, after the O'Kane's vacuum cleaner. Davis watched the fish flit and zip around the tank while Zeke and Ike lounged in armored serenity on their rocks. He often wondered why the girls had named the turtles and the prehistoric looking sucker fish, but left the fish nameless.

He climbed the stairs to his bathroom.

Taped to the mirror with electrician's tape, leaving a black smudge he'd have to razorblade off, was an envelope. He ran the bath, sipped at his beer and undressed. Davis settled into the tub with a groan, placed his beer in the soapdish and opened the envelope. It was a greeting card.

Outside:

THIS AIN'T NO HALLMARK CARD—

Inside:

'CUZ I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!!!

Also inside was a handwritten message:

Dearest Darling Dickhead Davis,

As a little girl I wanted to be a surgeon. I never accomplished that dream, but divorcing you will be a close second because I'm gonna slice you into tiny, tiny pieces. And I'm not using an anesthetic. I want this to hurt. I'm taking the house, the car, the lawnmower, your scuba gear, the ping-pong table, the fondue set that your raging bitch of a mother (God rest her soul) gave us for a wedding present, the TV, the VCR, the CD player and every other piece of electronics that possess initials.

I'm also interested in the furniture, your wine cellar, the power tools, the insurance policies, the National Geographics, any equity you have in that so-called "restaurant", any food that is left in the fridge, and the Windex. If you hadn't sold the boat, it too, would be mine. I'm attempting to talk Daddy into firing you from his radio station, but for some reason, he likes you. I'm also making a bonfire of all the limp-dick, benumbed, and absurd "love" poetry you've ever written me and roast a kielbasa in the flames. Believe me, it will be the hottest, most satisfying sausage you've ever, ever given me.

And, of course, I'm taking the twins.

See you in court.

Joan

p.s. Don't bother to RSVP.

p.p.s. Have a check for $300 ready for me tomorrow. I'm a teensy bit behind on rent.

p.p.p.s. Lisa let me in. I think she has a schoolgirl crush on you, Davis.

p.p.p.p.s. Your MOST annoying habit, out of a plethora of possibilities, is your penchant for producing a Mark Twain quotation for every conceivable situation. So, I apologize in advance for quoting Zsa Zsa Gabor: "I am a marvelous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man I keep his house."

p.p.p.p.p.s. And his children.

"I don't always quote Mark Twain." Davis drained his Amstel and said, "The happiest time in any man's life is just after the first divorce. John Kenneth Galbraith." He crumpled the card into a ball, pantomimed a dribble, and loosed a high, arching shot at the toilet bowl.

* * *

CHAPTER 5

He missed.

* * *

CHAPTER 6

The town of Nightingale, county seat of Sagrado County, managed and maintained the Nightingale Meadows Horse Track. The state-of-the-art Meadows, along with its eighteen-hole golf course, had become the major drawing card for all of northwest Nevada.

Unlike the eastern counties, who catered to Utah's situationally sanctimonious Mormons popping into Nevada for a quick bourbon with a beer chaser and a blowjob, Sagrado catered to a clientele drawn from Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. Nightingale's airport and several private strips—half of Nevada's airstrips are privately owned—landed junket after junket of water-logged, sun-starved tourists from the Pacific Northwest. These wan and pallid tourists, all upstanding middle-class citizens, weren't interested in standing in a climate controlled casino and pumping quarters into a slot machine.

Neither were they interested in getting naked and freeing, for a fee, their lifeseed.

They wanted open air, sunshine, and outdoor family activities. That is exactly what Nightingale provided. Golf and horse racing for the adults. Miniature golf, swimming, and TRAINTOWN!—a huge landscaped, scale railroad—for the children. Just to make it official Sagrado County, along with Las Vegas' Clark County, had outlawed prostitution. In addition, Sagrado County had made slot machines illegal. The county's official motto, Towards the Future, had largely been replaced with the unofficial motto: Sagrado: No slots, no sluts. But in an area where the only industries were a few dwindling tungsten mines, the cultivation of alfalfa and melons, and one casino that featured high stakes roulette and baccarat for Japanese businessmen, No slots, no sluts, was good as gold.

Woody McGuire and his wife Kaitlyn were perched with their guests in a private, glassed-in suite above the grandstand at Nightingale Meadows. While the circus of silked jockeys, scurrying bettors and skittery thoroughbreds unfolded in the merciless sunshine below them, they ate and drank in odorless, air-conditioned comfort.

"Losing," said Woody to his guests, "is always a possibility. That's the hard-on of betting. Hell, anyone with half a brain has to bet, on something, at least once a week."

Woody paused, waiting for someone to ask him, "Why?"

When no one did, he continued, "And I'll tell you why: because all of life is seven to five against. We all end up as worm shit. Am I right? Goddam straight I am. Where was I?"

"Losing," said Kaitlyn.

"Thank you," said Woody. "Losing is a distinct possibility, hell probability. But the horse in question, being my own, will be backed by my cash." Woody's cigarette smoldered in an ashtray. He possessed the innate and fatal optimism of a gambler: no matter how poorly the last nag ran, he swore that the next race would be the one that provided the Keys to the Kingdom.

Or the one after that.

Or the one after the one after the one after that.

For sure.

Tall and barrel-chested, the sixty-seven-year-old with curly, liver-colored hair and a bashful, unassuming smile, scratched his balls.

"Woody," said Kaitlyn, "don't throw good money after bad."

"Don't worry," said Woody, "I have enough to keep you fat and sassy."

Kaitlyn crossed her legs, purposely exposing her sassy but decidedly low-fat, twenty-nine-year-old thighs. "You'd better."

Rooster Rudd said to Woody, "True love?"

"There ain't no such thing as true love," said Woody. "The best you can do is get what you pay for."

"Does he?" Rooster asked Kaitlyn.

She gently moistened the tip of her pronounced aquiline nose with her tongue. Rooster, Nightingale's incumbent mayor and owner of its only casino, lit a cigar and exhaled sharply.

"Jealous, Rooster?" asked Kaitlyn.

"Yep," said Woody, "I got a feeling that today's the day."

Rooster ignored Kaitlyn's question and said to Woody, "A feeling worth a grand?"

"Sure, Mayor. Give me the odds and I'll cover all bets," said Woody. He fanned and displayed five one-hundred dollar WIN tickets in his massive, lumpy-knuckled hands. All five were backing his horse, Future Glue, who had posted as a twenty-three-to-one longshot.

"Thanks, Woody," said Rooster. "Without your weekly contributions I couldn't afford to run for reelection."

"You are a liar, Rooster," said Raymond LeBlanc in his broad Parisian accent. "That Ode to a Nightingale Casino of yours is a goldmint."

"Goldmine," said Kaitlyn.

Raymond smiled at Kaitlyn and, with his eyes, removed the few items of clothing she was wearing. "Merci." Then, to Rooster, "You are surely a greedy and greasy swine to maintain that you do not make a generous profit from your casino."

"It ain't like Harrah's Tahoe, Ray, where—"

"My name is Raymond, you—"

"—where you have slots and Keno, and the Fricking Wheel of Fortune to fleece the dipshit suburbanites. I feature fewer games. And my roulette wheels are the most honest in the United States. Ray."

"Do you think I'm stupid? You don't need a crooked wheel for the house to win in roulette. You pay a straight winning bet at thirty-five to one. If you played fair—"

"It is fair," said Rooster.

"—you would pay thirty-seven to one, not counting the wagered chip. Discounting the payoff gives you a margin of over five-and-a-quarter percent. A five number bet is nearly eight percent. Compare these odds to baccarat, a French game of skill, where the house advantage is a mere one-and-a-quarter percent."

"How come you know all this shit, Frenchy?" said Woody.

"Roulette means Little Wheel in French. The mathematics of probability and the wheel itself were invented by a Frenchman, Blaise Pascal. It is a matter of pride for Frenchmen to know of all things French."

"Impressive," said Woody, "considering most of you frog bastards don't know who your own father is."

"Merde to both of you," said Raymond.

Rooster puffed his cigar and waved away the French obscenity. "As I was saying, thanks for the contribution, Woody."

"Maybe," said Woody, "I should do something for the entire community of Nightingale and lose some confidence in Future Glue."

"Before that occurs," said Police Chief Bill Svoboda, "I'm in for another thousand."

"Done."

"Woody?" said Kaitlyn.

"A thousand for me as well," said Raymond.

"A thousand francs?" said Woody. "What the hell is that, a buck-fifty?"

"A thousand dollars," said Raymond.

"Done."

"Tres bon," said Raymond.

"Merde," said Kaitlyn.

Raymond owned the other restaurant in Nightingale, Le Bistro. John Barleycorn's and Le Bistro monopolized the town's sit-down-dining business. Raymond's joint was a Nouvelle Cuisine, upscale, tie required restaurant that was just overpriced and snobby enough to assure the clientele they weren't Bourgeois. Before Woody had sold John Barleycorn's to Umberto Cicarelli it was a mutually beneficial, almost symbiotic relationship for both restaurateurs.

Woody and Raymond still loathed each other.

"How about two-thousand, Frog Boy?" said Woody.

"I am not so eager to take your money as you are to give it away," said Raymond. "I remember how many people you had to poison to earn it."

"Make it three-thousand," said Woody. "I could use the cash to reimburse my former-waiters for every time one of your arrogant, brie-breathed countrymen with their mustached, hairy-legged, tight-assed wives stiffed one of my servers. We ugly Yanks got you poodlefuckers out of two world wars and you, as a race, have never tipped an American waiter fifteen percent."

"You ignorant garçon—"

"It's expensive enough just keeping the horse," said Kaitlyn. "But why bet so extravagantly?"

"One of these days Future Glue will be in the winner's circle," said Woody.

"Or a can of Alpo," said Raymond. He giggled.

"Which you'll serve on Ritz crackers, call pate, and charge ten bucks for," said Woody. "Am I right?"

"All the cocaine in the National Football League couldn't get Glue to run, Woody," said Kaitlyn.

Woody reached into his vest pocket and removed a roll of cash, "Anybody else?" The remaining six members of the group took bets totaling an additional sixty-seven hundred dollars. The table, covered with money, was green enough to putt on.

Dirk Januleski had watched the entire transaction, drinking coffee, with a bemused and wistful smile. "How about you, Dirk?" said Woody. "Maybe win a few bucks for those cute granddaughters of yours?"

"Sure, Woody," said Dirk, searching his wallet. "Can you cover fifteen—no, twenty dollars?"

"Done."

"The least of the big time bettors," said Raymond.

"Just a personal rule, Monsieur," said Dirk. "Never bet more than what's in your wallet."

Raymond started to speak and Dirk said, "No arguments, it's none of your business." He tossed his twenty on the table.

Woody matched it. "I've said it before Dirk. You're a gent. Pleasure doing bidness wid ya."

Every bill, no matter the denomination, printed by the United State's Department of Treasury reads IN GOD WE TRUST. But every five, ten, twenty, and hundred that Woody laid on the table had BULLSHIT! scrawled over that phrase. Over the years Woody spent hour after gleeful hour with a thick, black Keno crayon making this alteration to all his cash. Woody McGuire had defaced, perhaps, two-and-a-quarter million dollars in this manner. When asked why, Woody would say to the questioner, and anyone within earshot: "How the hell, can those triple-chinned-kiss-ass United States Government idiots say In God We Trust like this country is the result of a covenant with the Good Lord Himself? I've killed Chinks, Nicaraguans, and Koreans in the employ of the good ole You-Ess-of-A, and it wasn't the work of the Lord. It was bloody work to line the pockets of big business. The bastard politicians who make these poor fuckers out to be our personal enemies are after what they can get and nothing more. Who is this year's threat to our sacred Ordained-by-Christ-Democracy? Some Towelheaded Sheik who owns a sand-covered ocean of petroleum." At this point Woody generally brandished a few small bills, then ripped them up. "And the cocksuckers who run those countries feel the same way about us. It's all about sitting at the high end of the teeter-totter. Wait 'til we're at the bottom and see what this precious green shit known as U.S. legal tender is worth to God or anyone else. It has as little to do with Trust in God as farting The Battle Hymn of the Republic through a keyhole."

Woody finished covering the bets with his modified money and all eyes turned to the track as the horses were posted. The favorites, skittish and ready to run, snorted and danced. Woody's Future Glue stood placid and tranquil as a merry-go-round mount.

"Goddam, but that horse is looking fine today," said Woody. His binoculars zeroed in proudly on his gelding: blue-black with three white boots and a cream-colored patch the shape of Louisiana in the center of his forehead. Behind Woody's back, champagne glasses, which he had paid to fill, were raised and tinked together in anticipated celebration.

Kaitlyn lowered her head and chomped her bottom lip.

The horses exploded from the starting gate. The favorite proved his ranking accurate by leading from wire-to-wire. There was a tremendous four horse battle for second place. Future Glue started slowly.

Then tapered off.

Future Glue finished fifteen lengths behind the pack and Woody's guests collected their illegal, tax-free winnings.

"Thanks Woody," said Svoboda.

"Yeah thanks," said Rooster, "but how can you afford to bet like that?"

"Not that we don't appreciate," said Raymond. He kissed his winnings and slipped the money into the rear pocket of his skintight white Levis.

"There's always next week," said Woody.

"Not next week," said Svoboda, "it's the Sagrado Derby and you have to qualify."

"I'll qualify," said Woody.

All but Kaitlyn's champagne glass was raised in a toast: "To Woody."

Woody raised his glass and with his innate country-boy charm, smiled. Enjoy, he thought, because next week me and Future Glue are taking you citified assholes for every cent you have.

"Not to spoil the mood, Woodrow," said Svoboda, "but I'm sorry to hear about that bartender."

"What bartender?" said Woody.

"From John Barleycorn's," said Svoboda. "Didn't you see this morning's Reno Gazette?"

"I get all the news I need from KFLO's Morning report," lied Woody.

"What bartender?" said Kaitlyn.

"I appreciate it," said Dirk, "but we covered Wanda Marie's death this morning."

Woody dropped his champagne flute, "Wanda Marie Tounens?"

"Yeah," said Svoboda. "That one."

"Murdered," said Woody. "Am I right?"

"We have to wait for the Washoe County Medical Examiner to determine the cause of death," said Svoboda.

"Goddam right she was murdered," said Woody. He snatched the champagne bottle out of the ice and drank. He wiped his chin, "What the hell are you doing about it, Bill?"

"I'm waiting for the Medical—"

"The hell you're waiting. I want some—"

"It a tragedy, Woody," said Svoboda, "but she's just an ex-employee. A bartender."

"No," said Kaitlyn, almost loud enough to be heard. "No, she wasn't."

* * *

CHAPTER 7

"How do you win every time?" he asked.

Joan O'Kane and her date walked slowly from the grandstand to Nightingale Meadows' pari-mutuel window.

"I don't bet every race."

"Why not?"

"You weigh five critical factors for every horse in each race," said Joan. "If one horse meets all five factors and no other horse meets four of those factors, you win."

"For sure?"

"As long as you don't chase long shots or bet bullshit trifectas, yes," said Joan. "Stick to the system, and the system won't stick it to you."

"Who you quoting there?"

"My soon-to-be-ex."

"Really?"

"Davis is a virtual genius when it comes to crunching numbers. Calculating odds he's as fast as a computer. When he worked for Merrill Lynch we made, Jesus, lots. Then even more when he worked for Shearson-American Express."

"What did he do for them?"

"Played the various stock exchanges with your monthly AmEx payment. He was, actually still is, great. At that."

"Why is he wearing a pewter-buckled string tie and managing that pissant John Barleycorn's?"

"We lived in a seaside villa in San Juan Capistrano. Red tile roof, two Beamers, expense account from hell. Paid trips to Rio de Janeiro, Paris, Tokyo. Jesus Christ, but I love Tokyo."

"What happened?"

"Davis has a compulsive little problem."

He stopped and said, "Booze?"

"Nope."

"What?"

"That gorgeous seaside villa, with a tiled courtyard and an atrium off the master bedroom was just a little too close to the racetrack at Del Mar." Joan smiled. She always considered her hair her best feature and, intending to entice this muscled-and-studly young man in between her sheets before sundown, performed a gesture she'd practiced a million times in front of the bathroom mirror. This gambit always worked, but not for the reason Joan supposed. Her finest feature wasn't her long-out-of-the-bottle-Lady-Clairol-raven-black-hair. It was her sculpted, graceful, elongated neck.

Men's magazines always showcase tits-and-ass: women and girls on all fours with their booty perched heavenward; females straddling chairs and spread-eagled on beds, settees, and futons. But the sexiest, most alluring and memorable aspect of any woman isn't a nipple or a butt cheek: it's a slightly pooched belly-button, a wrist twisted into an angle that would be impossible while awake, or a sleek and slender, fortunately composed neck like Joan's.

"Davis never met a longshot he didn't like," said Joan. "Gambled away two houses and a career."

"What happened to his Words of Wisdom?"

"He's pathological. He's beyond wisdom or common sense."

"I can't understand, how can—"

"Davis catches a rush from gambling a normal person couldn't imagine."

"Like cocaine?"

"Worse. It takes him over. It much worse than any drug." Joan motioned at the busy clerks at their pari-mutuel windows. "It's legal. It's everywhere. The Internet, State Lottos. ESPN exists because of guys like Davis."

"Huh?"

"Tune in to see if Toledo's basketball team, the Rockets, covered the spread against Kent State, they're the Golden Flashes, in the Mid-America Conference's post season tournament. Who could care unless you have a son on the team or money on the game."

"He'd bet on that?"

"Davis would visit a sick aunt in the hospital and give odds on her recovery."

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm not used to empathizing with Davis. My attorney told me that divorce is a war. Memories and regret only result in casualties. But the guy's got it; brains. Charm. Talent. My regret. But he's also got a gambling disease. His curse."

"Still," he said, "I bet you and Davis made a few bucks gambling. Before it got out of control?"

"We did okay," she smiled. "Every year we were married, I picked up an extra ten-grand that Davis and the IRS didn't know about."

He kissed Joan, "Really? How?"

"I'd use Davis' system and bet cash, off track, with bookies. You pay the vigorish but there's no trail. When you can lay off, Davis' system works."

"Ah, the proverbial system."

"But," said Joan, "there is, maybe twice a lifetime, a bet you just can't lay off. Davis, this is after all the bankruptcy proceedings—we were living back in Nightingale—hit this outrageous trifecta."

"How much?"

"A fortune. And a problem."

"What?"

They moved up two places in the pari-mutuel line. "Davis was making book with Woody."

"Woody McGuire?"

"Yeah."

"But Nightingale has a racetrack. Why did he need a bookie?"

"You've never lived with a gambler. They have this need to bet: Hialeah, Del Mar, Aquaduct."

"So Woody was a bookie." It wasn't a question.

"He had a great operation. A bar with four TVs. His own mini-fleet of bull-horned taxis for ferrying drunk bettors all over the county. If he broke even on John Barleycorn's, his bookkeeping operation would keep him in horses and his slutty little tramp in jewelry. But he profited on both: visible from the restaurant, invisible from the betting."

"What was the problem with Davis' trifecta?"

"That old fart Woody never placed the bet. It's an old bookies' scam. Trifectas rarely pay off so they just pocket the cash."

"Davis' bet was never placed?"

"You got it. When Davis tried to collect, Woody paid with forty-nine percent of that shit-kicking-chuckwagon of his. Davis knew that the only way he'd cash out was to nurture John Barleycorn's; build it up, sell it, cash out. Then, this is cute, a week after Davis signs the papers Woody sells John Barleycorn's to Ciccarelli and the boys from Vegas."

"I was wondering how the cobra and the mongoose partnered up."

"And Umberto, that cut-throat goomba, gets the best possible partner: Someone with a vested interest in the restaurant."

First in line, Joan cashed in her winning tickets. She collected nine-hundred dollars. "Stick to the system and the system won't stick it to you."

Jeff slid a ten to the clerk, named his horse, and received a ticket. Joan slid her hand into the rear pocket of his chinos and guided him away from the busy window. She squeezed, "You've got a pretty nice system yourself, Jeff."

The bartender smiled, "How long ago did Davis get into John Barleycorn's?"

"Why are you more interested in Davis getting into John Barleycorn's than you are in getting into Davis' ex-wife?"

"Soon-to-be-ex."

"Same thing, believe me," said Joan. "We've been physically apart for months. Emotionally for years."

"This is Nevada, Joan. Home of the quickee divorce."

"It's never that easy when kids are involved."

Jeff nibbled on Joan's neck, then withdrew. "When Davis and Woody partnered, was there a bill of sale, or contract?"

"With Woody? Oh, yeah. It's in the safe at John Barleycorn's."

"People are always in-and-out of that big safe."

"The little one, upstairs, in the storeroom," said Joan.

He gazed across the track. Post Time. Jockeys, like large, multicolored insects perched on their mounts and coaxed them into the starting gates. Joan snatched Jeff's ticket and ripped it to confetti.

"That might have been a winner."

"It wasn't." She re-inserted her hand in his rear pocket and dug her fingernails into his backsides. "I want to know if this is a winner."

"You've really got to get over this shyness, Joan."

"I'm really working on it, Jeff."

* * *

CHAPTER 8

Ken Moro hated American women. He loathed their brashness, abhorred their sickly-sweet perfumed smell, and despised their shrill voices which were cocked, ready, opinionated and misinformed on any number of subjects. They dressed like sluts and acted like prudes. They reasoned like spoiled schoolgirls, then acted as if they were members of the Algonquian Roundtable. They were terrible mothers, disastrous cooks, and, in summary, an expensive and annoying burden. He considered anyone who slept with an American Barbie simply too lazy to masturbate.

"Stand," said Ken to the baccarat croupier.

The tuxedoed croupier nodded solemnly, paused, and offered a card to the next player, a painfully thin, tanned man closer to sixty than fifty, with neat little hair plugs comprising the forward third of his hairline. "Card," said Plugs.

The card was dealt deftly from a six deck shoe.

For the third consecutive hand Plugs lost after having drawn and Ken retained his bet by standing and equaling the croupier's eight.

Ken loved baccarat as much as he despised American women. He loved the game's pace. In every casino it was set apart from the brainless, juvenile slot machines and the boorish yokels, suburbanites, and drunks who played craps, roulette, and twenty-one. He loved baccarat's expensive upholstered tables; the elegant oversized playing cards, the polite and aloof bankers and croupiers.

The croupier turned up his cards and said, "Banco."

The baccarat layout resembled a green felt, aerial view of the Los Angeles Coliseum. On each side of the oval, from the near forty-yard-line, down through the end zone and up to the far forty-yard-line sat six players. The area on either side of the fifty-yard-line were occupied by a banker and a croupier. The table is also divided into two halves, Tableau Un and Tableau Deux. The object of Baccarat Banco is to obtain a count as near to nine as possible, without exceeding nine. Only the last digit of the sum is counted:

6 + 6 = 2 or 8 + 3 = 1 or 4 + 5 = 9. Face cards and tens = 0.

Baccarat is a pure bettor's game. Wagers up to the house limit are placed on spaces marked Tableau Un and Tableau Deux. You may bet either table or à cheval: you win if both tables beat the croupier; lose if both tables lose; and break even in the event of a split. It is the only casino card game where you could bet with or against the house. That factored in an edge that an observant, patient, and skilled player might utilize.

The croupier's emotions

After an hour Ken smiled and nodded to the croupier as if to say, Well, we just showed Plugs how to play this game, eh Buddy?

A hint of a trace of a smile flickered across the croupier's face.

This croupier, late forties, Ken had sized up immediately. His thinning hair was obviously, though effectively died. His large-boned frame had an extra layer of insulation, like a wet-suit beneath his tuxedo. His eyes were puffy and slightly, Ken guessed, permanently bleared. He possessed the air of an above-average intelligence who thought the world owed him an uncomplicated and comfortable existence because he had a Master's degree in Sociology, English, or History. Ken pegged him for a scotch or cabernet drinker, something expensive, so he'd have a monetary incentive to drink slower. Although the croupier had never been fired or arrested for drinking, he never drank too little and would be hard pressed, even if offered a thousand dollars to tell you when he'd had two sober nights in a row.

Ken knew this kind of croupier—this kind of person—functioned flawlessly, until things turned against him. Then the croupier would encourage events to continue down the toilet because, more than anything; he wanted and needed an excuse to drink himself comatose that evening. Ken didn't know whether it was a conscious or subconscious thing with the croupier and he didn't care. He wasn't a therapist; he was a gambler.

Since baccarat players have two options—to draw and bust, or stay and hope the croupier busts—there is no room for error. Ken knew on a point of five, the player who draws has a twenty percent chance of worsening his hand.

The croupier never drew to a five.

Ken sipped his Perrier and stayed and stayed and stayed on all his points of five for nearly two hours. He'd built a rapport with the croupier, smiling when they won, engaging in non-verbal commiseration when they lost. Ken never spoke, he ordered his Perrier by pointing them out to a short-haired cocktail waitress. Approaching the third hour Ken sensed something: an impatient exhalation, a tension in the croupier's shoulders, a patina of sweat on the brow. That's when Ken caught the waitress' eye and pointed at a neighbor drinking Glenfiddich. Ken knew it was the opportunity to grab this spongy croupier by the balls and start twisting. He continued to play cautiously until the Scotch arrived.

Then he gulped it down and bet nearly his entire bank, matching the house limit. One hand, do-or-die.

Baccarat also differs from other casino games because it is somewhat of a silent spectator sport. Unlike the raucous catcalling and outlandish rituals of craps and the roulette tables, it is an elegant game. The game's current is subtle: a run of cards for the croupier, bets for and against the house; all help establish a Machiavellian atmosphere. This palpable intrigue-counter-intrigue is obvious for players at the table, those who have just finished playing, and those who are waiting to buy into a seat. This small, knowledgeable audience gasped, knowing Ken just reversed his strategy and turned on the croupier. In the eyes of the audience he'd been transformed from polite Japanese businessman to an enigmatic and inscrutable Oriental gambler. Ken smiled as he felt all the players and onlookers turn against him. He knew two things: he would win, the croupier's confidence had been shattered, and, that he'd been born—and attended law school—in San Francisco and spoke more graceful and precise English than anyone in the room.

The croupier turned up his cards: a five and a three, Le Petit.

Ken needed a two card total of nine, Le Grand.

He hesitated, feeding off the nervous emotion of the crowd, and turned up a Jack.

Zero.

Ken noticed the croupier sweating into his collar and flipped up the second card; the nine of hearts, for a Le Grand.

Ken stood and bowed to the banker, tossed a hundred-dollar chip toward the croupier and stepped from the table. A valet handed Ken a warm towel. He washed his hands and returned the towel, along with a five-dollar bill, to the valet, who opened the velvet ropes that separated the baccarat from the rest of the casino.

"Exquisite," sad Ken to no one in particular.

He headed to the bar.

Ken always enjoyed the Ode to a Nightingale Casino. It possessed a decidedly European feel. The emphasis on cards and roulette, agreeable suites for VIP guests, and a kitchen with the simple, but increasingly rare ability to prepare an omelet that wasn't doing the backstroke through a millpond of grease. He nestled into the booth farthest from the bar and waited for a cocktail waitress. Before she arrived Rooster Rudd slid into the booth and said, "That was a thing of beauty—"

"Which is a joy forever."

"—even if it did cost me twenty-grand. What're you drinking?" asked Rooster who coiled his arm around the waist of the cocktail waitress.

"Scotch."

"Two, Darling." Rooster cuddled the young lady before sending her away. "How'd you like some of that? Prime choice, believe me."

"Love it," said Ken. He smiled a sour smile.

"How many tonight?"

"Send up six. In groups of three, two hours apart."

"God, but you Japs can fuck. Must be all that seaweed and shit you eat."

"Must be."

The drinks arrived.

Rooster raised his glass, "Here's to the door not hitting you in the ass when you leave."

"Back at you."

They drank.

"Ken, you sure as shit did a number on my dealer. Probably call in sick for two shifts—Irish flu." Rooster glared at Ken through his tinted tortoise-shell goggles. Mayor Rudd wore a Velveeta-yellow, pirate-sleeved shirt beneath a blue polyester vest that matched his pants. Rooster's most recent, and probably final, fashion update was during a closeout sale at Reno's Montgomery Ward's men's department in 1982. He will be the last man in recorded history to be buried, by choice, in a double-knit leisure suit. "In town for long?"

"Couple of days, maybe." Ken removed his bowtie and tucked it into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

Rooster nodded, "You're welcome to the girls. The room and food's on the house, but stay away from the baccarat tables or I'll get an injunction to bar you from the casino."

"On what grounds?"

The boys, both graduated from University of San Francisco Law School—twenty years apart—glowered at each other, then laughed.

"As always, Mayor, you are more than accommodating."

"Not really. If I'd seen you, I'd have tossed you before you could buy a chip."

Ken finished his scotch and nodded at the cocktail waitress, "That's why I paid to have your attention diverted."

"Ah shit, Kenny, I thought she really liked me."

Ken counted out the hundred dollar bills into three stacks of five bills each. The bills were placed on a sterling silver tray. The tray was placed on a footstool in front of the chair in which he would sit when the ladies arrived. He always attended to business in the suite's sitting room; his bedroom was absolutely off limits.

Ken reclined in the chair sipping his third, and final, scotch of the business day. He knew that the knock at the door, when it came, would either be too loud and insistent or too demure and hesitant. He relaxed, replaying the psychodrama of the baccarat table in his mind's eye. He drifted away, smiling with the memory. At the unusually crisp and confident knock, he finished his scotch, sat erect and said, "Enter."

As Rooster had promised there were three of them. He nodded at the first girl and said, "You" in a flat and uninflected tone. A blonde in her mid-twenties, Ken sized her up as recently divorced and turning the sporadic trick to support one, maybe two little blonde and blue-eyed children. "Take off your clothes," said Ken.

She did.

The blonde possessed a petite, athletic and gymnastic build that she was proud of. She strutted around the room.

"Thank you," said Ken. "Your money's on the tray."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Whatever floats your boat, Buddy." She shrugged, snagged the middle pile of bills and her clothes. Without bothering to dress, she left the suite.

Ken said to the second lass, a tall redhead, "Please take off your clothes."

She stripped off her blouse and bra.

"Thank you," said Ken before she had even unbuttoned her pants. "Your money's on the tray."

"Ain't I good enough for you?"

"Nothing personal," said Ken.

"Well, fuck you." She cupped her breasts in her hands. "What's wrong with these here hooters?"

The other girl Rooster had sent up, a short-haired, slightly built cocktail waitress, laughed.

"Honestly?" said Ken.

"Yeah."

"Your tits remind me of Marty Feldman. Your nipples are like his eyes, all over the place."

"And," said the dark-eyed cocktail waitress, "they're each the size of the hump on his back in Young Frankenstein."

Red cinched up her bra and departed.

"That almost became unpleasant," said Ken.

"Almost?"

"What's your name?"

"Tasha."

"Short for?"

"Natasha. Latvian, not Russian. In case you're nosy."

"I'm not. Tasha, Latvian, take off your clothes."

She crossed her legs. "No."

"Why not?"

"I'm a cocktail waitress not a strumpet."

"How Moll Flanders." Ken leaned forward. "Why'd you agree to visit my room for money?"

"I knew something was up, but it didn't involve sex."

"How'd you know that?" Ken stood and motioned to the chair near his. Not until after Tasha had seated herself and re-crossed her legs did Ken settle into his chair.

"Because I just served you three Perriers and a Glenfiddich. I watched the way you finessed Geoff—the baccarat croupier. That little mind-fuck gets you off more than sex."

"So why—"

She straightened her legs and leaned forward with her elbows on knees, "You show me yours. And I'll show you mine."

Ken smiled and broke Rule Number One. He would have a fourth scotch during business hours. He extended his glass, "Please? A scotch?"

Tasha did so and silently watched Ken drink. Her hands were folded in her lap as she waited with the bored and practiced indifference of a haughty and disobedient Catholic schoolgirl.

Then, perhaps because he'd broken Rule Number One, Ken broke Rule Number Two. He knew that in negotiations that He who speaks first loses, but still, he said, "I suppose you'd call me a talent scout. A procurer."

She hesitated four heartbeats; just long enough to show Ken that she knew that he knew that she had just won. "A procurer of what?"

"I obtain American women for extremely rich Japanese businessmen."

"You're a pimp."

"Not precisely a pimp. There's a rigorous screening process. A hooker in the Orient, by tradition and definition, must exude a demure, sexy and servile, but not subservient quality."

"A geisha who swallows?"

"An American woman with these qualities—because of the provincial and asinine worldwide standards of beauty promulgated and disseminated by Hollywood—is literally worth more than her weight in gold."

Tasha's fingers—nails unpainted—unfurled and drummed her thighs. "To whom?"

Ken broke Rule Number Three. He liked this American woman. He finished his scotch and said, "Myself and my associates most certainly. But to be tawdry and mundane, and mention numbers, six figures a year for the women. Working two or three nights a week."

The telephone rang. Ken said, "Excuse me." He answered, laughed, then listened. "Of course I haven't forgotten...How are the girls?...I'll see you tomorrow night at nine, Davis." He hung up the phone and smiled.

Tasha said, "Who's Davis?"

* * *

CHAPTER 9

Rodney Trane owned the only pigfarm in Sagrado County. Located in a cottonwood-lined valley it was about three miles from John Barleycorn's. Since the restaurant had opened Rodney had enjoyed unprecedented profits. The day following John Barleycorn's Gala Grand Opening, Rodney brought Woody McGuire four gift-wrapped, one-hundred gallon garbage cans and a proposition. Rodney would supply the steak house with garbage cans and haul the trash for free if Woody had his employees segregate the edible garbage—table scraps, leftovers, rotten produce—from the inedible bottles, plastics, and cans.

And find a job for Rodney's none-too-bright son, Peter.

Peter Trane was like a complicated Algebraic equation; a lot of variables needed to be filled in. Woody appointed Peter John Barleycorn's Head Taxi Driver and quite a bit of the younger Trane's equation had been solved. Peter liked the job's pace—he could drive as fast or slow as he wished—Woody paid him a more than fair salary. He relished the tips he earned and he took pride, pleasure, and satisfaction in the fact that he was saving lives. As it takes time and trial-and-error to ascertain all the variables in an equation, Peter had driven the Barleycorn taxis for eleven years before he developed another interest besides eating, sleeping, and his fiancée: a not too distant cousin named Lisbeth.

That interest was politics.

Local politics.

Peter had appointed himself head of Len Arizona's election campaign. Len was enthusiastic, a professional educator, and two decades ago the only Senior at Nightingale High, besides Davis, who didn't whup Peter's ass with a towel when he was a Freshman. Len's modest campaign—consisting of a billboard and a few fliers—had been propelled to a new level by Peter. He drove the John Barleycorn's taxi to Reno, spent two paychecks at Kinko's and returned to Nightingale with a station wagon full of GO ARISONA! buttons and colored brochures. The brochures, written by Peter, were full of misspelled words and unadulterated enthusiasm. Every inebriated customer Peter ferried home heard about Len Arizona's plan to build a new high school, move the grade school to the old high school and not raise taxes. Concessions at the city owned racetrack, golf course, baseball stadium, and TRAINTOWN! would be raised four percent. In two years the needed moneys would be raised from tourists, not taxes.

Even though the restaurant was now owned and operated by Umberto and Davis the garbage pick-up policy with Rodney Trane continued as long as Peter was still employed. Every morning between 3:00 and 4:00 A.M., Rodney would drive his Dodge pick-up to John Barleycorn's and roll the garbage cans onto the truck's Powerlift tailgate. After the hydraulics had hefted the slop onto the bed, Rodney drove to his pigfarm and unloaded the two containers of edible garbage, to be dumped later. The inedibles would be driven to Nightingale's recycling center where Rodney would spend an hour sorting and weighing the castoff claptrap. He earned about twenty dollars a day from recycling.

The real profits were manifested on the pigfarm. John Barleycorn's turned out the richest possible slop for pigs: potato skins, bread, French fries, beans, and butter. Rodney's swine ate better than a majority of Third World humans. These pigs, huge and satiate, sold for top dollar and Mister Trane fed them for free.

Monday morning, shortly after sunrise, pigfarmer Trane was slopping his perennial Nevada State Fair Finalists. He used a short-handled bivouac-shovel to transfer the tossed-off nourishment from human refuse canister to porcine trough. Rodney was halfway through the second barrel when his prize pig Pearl (after his first wife, Peter's mama) began choking. Rodney dropped his shovel and hopped into the pigpen. He slipped and fell with a splash, scattering all the pigs except the gagging Pearl. He plugged his arm, up to the elbow, into Pearl's mouth. Twisting and yanking, Rodney extricated the debris.

A needle-less syringe.

"Goddam you halfway to Satan's Castle, Davis. You sure-as-shit are gonna hear about this."

* * *

CHAPTER 10

Dirk Januleski let himself in through the garage. Davis and the twins sat at the kitchen table eating Captain Crunch. "Granpa Dirk, Granpa Dirk," said Alexi and Jennifer.

"Howdy sweet-blossoms," said Dirk. With wavy brown hair and gold-specked mahogany eyes, Dirk Januleski was 1940s Movie Star Handsome. As tall as Davis, he gracefully carried perhaps, thirty extra pounds, mostly through his chest, shoulders, and arms. His face was lined just enough to be called distinctive rather than wrinkled. He poured a cup of coffee and relaxed at the kitchen table.

"Tell us a joke," said Alexi.

"Okay." He sipped his too-hot coffee. "Why'd the turtle cross the road?"

"Why?" said Jennifer.

"To get to the shell station."

"Cute," said Davis. A trickle of milk stained his chin.

"Why did Tigger have his head in the toilet?" said Alexi.

"I'll bite," said Dirk. "Why?"

"Because he was looking for POOH."

"Where'd you hear that?" asked Davis.

"Lisa told us," said the twins.

Dirk set his coffee cup on a three-day old Reno Gazette, "Who's Lisa?"

"She's our favoritest babysitter," said Jennifer.

"I think she likes dad," said Alexi.

"Finish up your cereal," said Dirk. "I'll give you a ride to school."

"In the HumVee?" asked Jennifer.

"That's what I drive," said Dirk. "The KFLO HumVee."

The twins slipped down from the table and hugged Dirk. "I wish you were our dad," said Jennifer.

"Thanks, Jenn," said Davis.

"Scoot and get ready," said Dirk.

Like tumbleweeds they spun from the room.

"More coffee, Dirk?"

"I've barely touched this." He picked up the carton of Captain Crunch and rattled it. "How can you feed them this sugared shit?"

"Don't start. Please?"

Dirk read the box' side label, then tossed it into the sink, "Fair enough, but that detritus belongs in the toilet, not a cereal bowl for your children."

Davis raised his cup of coffee as a gesture of peace and the men drank.

"Have you lined up Len Arizona for Wednesday morning's show?" said Dirk.

"I've lined up a guest host. Chris Senoi."

"That's not what I asked."

"I'll call Len later."

"Rooster Rudd's ready at a moment's notice. God, I'd love to hear those two debate. Might help get that old fart outta office."

"Never happen. And I'm Len's best friend."

"The Old Boy network is crumbling, Davis. It's close—"

"How close?"

"—a swing of seventeen percent could put Len in office."

"One out of every five-point-eight-eight-two-three-five voters and Len's a shoe-in."

"When'd you get so sarcastic? Just get me Len for Wednesday's show."

"Dirk, Len's got this aloof thing going. He doesn't want to be mayor if it means becoming a politician."

"I'd say that's a commendable thing." Dirk poured more coffee. "Who's this Chris?"

"He's a Communications Major at Sagrado State."

"Which means he's waiting tables at John Barleycorn's."

"He's been behind a mike before."

"If we can't corral Rooster and Arizona what's your call-in topic?"

"I was thinking," said Davis, "the History of the Typewriter Keyboard."

"No," said Dirk, "you weren't thinking."

"I'll come up with a topic."

Dirk gulped half his coffee, "What can you tell me about Wanda Marie Tounens?"

"She's dead."

"No shit, Sherlock. C'mon."

Davis stared into his coffee cup, "She worked at John Barleycorn's about a year. Bartender, good and professional. A tomboy from Southern Idaho. Attractive and smart. Drank a little, read a lot, rode horses. No boyfriends. Apparently no kids or exes. I thought, for a while, that she was a daughter of Sappho from the isle of Lesbos."

"Until," Dirk said, "you got into her pants."

"Nope."

"Bullshit. You forget who you're talking to Davis. I know what you looked like when you fell for Joan. You've got that same stupid, puppy dog grin. How long had you and Wanda Marie—"

"I wasn't."

"Thinking about it?"

"I got hormones in my body."

"Any social interaction at all?"

"The occasional drink after work. Always at John Barleycorn's. Standard stuff," said Davis. "Why the treatment, Dirk?"

"Because if you were involved with the young lady and if you wanted to talk about any aches, or twinges, or pains over her loss I thought you might like someone to talk to."

"Sonuvabitch, Dirk. It's making me crazy. Your daughter rips my heart out, she vows to get custody of the twins and yeah, Wanda Marie and I screwed and balled and kissed and made love and laughed and I wanted to get closer but she wouldn't let me, but I pulled back—for her—and it's going great and then she's dead and it's like she asked me to retreat in order to spare my feelings and that just screws me up and sonuvabitch, Dirk. I don't know what to do; I'm dealing with a divorce and a relationship that was never a relationship that gets cut short by death, and, and, Sonuvabitch." That's what Davis said, on the INSIDE.

This is what he said on the OUTSIDE: "I answered all these questions for Yurri Brisco last night."

"No Svoboda?"

"One car; one cop."

"Lucky you, dealing with Yurri instead of Svoboda."

"Brisco's an arrogant asshole," said Davis.

"Svoboda's a dangerous asshole," said Dirk.

Davis walked across the kitchen, rescued Captain Crunch from the sink and moored him in the cupboard. "Why are you so interested in Wanda Marie?"

"A dead body found in the freezer of a local restaurant? I am the news director for KFLO, and you manage the local restaurant."

"I suppose there's a story in there somewhere."

"There's that killer newsman's instinct."

"I'm a part, part, part time talk show host." Davis rinsed the girls' cereal bowls and racked them in the dishwasher. "Thanks for taking the kids to school."

"What are favorite Granpas for? Heard from Joan?"

Davis grinned, "She sent me a card."

"That was thoughtful."

"You'll never know." Davis consulted his watch. "I'm outta here. Thanks for the taxi service." The girls streamed into the kitchen.

"Don't forget to call Len."

"See you, Dirk." Davis kissed the twins goodbye and exited.

"Let's hit it girls, or we'll be late for school." Dirk handed each of the girls a ten-dollar bill. "Don't tell your dad." Dirk had scraped off Woody's scrawled BULLSHIT! with a dime, leaving—ironically, perhaps appropriately—In God We Trust severely smudged and barely legible.

"We won't," said the twins.

* * *

CHAPTER 11

Len Arizona turned to his Introduction to Electronics class and said, "In nineteen-o-four the first vacuum tube that could be used commercially was built by the British scientist, John Ambrose Fleming. It was a diode tube that could actually detect radio signals. Diode tubes, in time, were also used to rectify the alternating current provided by commercial power plants. Any questions?"

Chris Senoi fondled his goatee and said, "Yes. Are you going to debate Rooster Rudd?"

"Any questions," said Len, "about electronics?"

"I have one," said Chris. "Are you going to debate Rooster Rudd on Davis' radio show?"

"This is an electronics course," said Len, "not Political Science."

The girl to Chris' left said, "The election is the hottest topic on campus, Len. You've got the whole school, except for some jowly professors, behind you. Debate the hell out of Rooster. I registered to vote, just to vote for you."

A low murmur of assent rippled through the class.

"I'm guest hosting Davis' show, Wednesday morning," said Chris. "A debate could put you over the top."

"Not that many people listen to Davis' show," said Len. "It's usually putrid, boring, and contrived."

"So we liven it up," said Chris. "Get you and Rooster in the studio."

"Rooster would never agree to a pre-election debate when he's leading in the polls," said Len.

"Then how about an interview?" asked Chris. "An open radio forum with you and the people of Nightingale?"

"Yeah," said a student.

"C'mon," said another.

"It's all good," said a third.

"I'll think about it," said Len. "I really will."

"Thanks," said Chris.

"Class dismissed," said Len.

A Paiute elder, Len's Uncle William, told Len when he was eleven-years-old that "Wisdom Sits in Places". Len had an inkling of an insight into what this meant when he first left Nightingale for the University of Nevada Reno.

Len had been educated in public schools. He had always felt comfortable, effective, and at ease in the academic world and it was the most straightforward and natural decision in the world to become a teacher.

But his first year in college had been hell.

Like a majority of freshman Len had been afraid, almost intimidated by university life. His counselor said all the things that college counselors are paid to say, but Len's confusion and disorientation were truly different.

He was literally homesick.

Len ached for the places where he had grown up. The places his Uncle William had told him the Paiute names for; and then made him swear to never pronounce aloud in front of the white man. That would be giving his places, their places away.

Giving away the large flat rock on the Sagrado River called Coyote Pisses in the Water. Surrendering the huge, two-trunked cottonwood tree at Trail Goes Down Between Two Hills. Relinquishing the place where Len now jogged slowly, Trail Extends Across Scorched Rocks.

Wearing only running shorts and his gaudy green Adidas, Len had been running north for an hour. He loved the town of Nightingale: when you left the township you were in wilderness. Wild uncultivated hills, desert, and alkali scrub. Unlike Reno, which spreads like a prickly venereal rash, linking with Sparks to the east, Carson City to the south, and Verdi to the west. But the town of Nightingale, mercifully, stopped.

And the desert took over.

Not far from where he now jogged, Len's same uncle, that same summer, asked the child, "What do you see?"

"Nuthin'. Just desert."

"Down on your stomach. Flat," said the uncle. "What do you see?"

Len said, "It's thicker that the Ponderosa pines at Lake Tahoe. I can't see two feet."

"Lift your head higher and what do you see?"

Len said, "I see paths through the forest. Little roads."

"Up on your knees and what do you see?"

Len said, "I see the shrubs laid out in clumps, like cottonwoods along the river."

Uncle said, "You have just seen your nuthin' from the eyes of the snake, the rabbit, and the coyote. Three different worlds in Just Desert. Things aren't as they appear to just you, little boy."

Len stopped running and stretched. For a full minute he clasped the heels of his Adidas and drew his head toward his knees. He exhaled and stood straight, reaching for the stratosphere. A gust of dry, hot wind whipped over the rocky plateau where he stood. Despite the hundred-plus degree heat, Len shivered. He turned so the mottled gray-green Sierra Nevada were on his right hand side. Slowly, he returned to Nightingale.

"You win, Davis. I'll see you Wednesday morning."

* * *

CHAPTER 12

Bob checked the IN basket on his desk at the United States Geological Survey office. He expected, any day, an invitation from Dr. Jim Agee, PhD. The invitation would be to accompany a group of Canadian and American geologists to China. A recent flood had exposed a huge slice of ancient sedimentary rock. Bob O'Kane had applied as Dr. Agee's research assistant, but he'd attend the expedition if he needed to sign on as a cook or dishwasher.

But again, no letter from Agee.

The only letter the IN basket cradled was addressed to "bob o'kane" in pencil.

No return address.

Bob opened the letter and read:

dear bob,

when you struggle against your destiny, you are struggling against the design and intent and purpose of the entire universe. you are a scientist. you have a gift for intuitive insight and enjoyment of the skeptical, scientific process. that is your destiny. why are you tending bar at john barleycorn's?

i know the answer: money, food, rent. these are legitimate concerns that poison us all and dilute our passion for life. bob, do not struggle against your destiny, accept it and embrace it. when you agree to your destiny as a scientist (not a bartender!) you accept and experience the universe not only as it is now, but as a synthesis of all the moments, needs, and desires you've had in the past. i know it is hard to break away from the workaday world and live your destiny, but I can help.

beg, borrow, or steal all the money you can and bet it on woody mcguire's horse in the sagrado derby. don't ask why, just do it. the name of the horse is future glue and most people think it's because the horse will end up as a carcass in a glue factory. but I named the horse future glue because it is the celestial steed that will become the cement that will, eventually, bind all our futures together. don't ask why, just bet and you'll never have to work another shift at john barleycorn's.

to the future,

wanda marie

"Jesus Frog," said Bob. "What a fruitcake." He, nevertheless, folded the letter neatly and placed it in his shirt pocket.

* * *

CHAPTER 13

Davis glanced over his shoulder; in the ninety-seven degree mid-morning heat there were no pedestrians on California Street. He could hear the cars, two blocks distant, THRUM THRUM down Sagrado Boulevard; a 4x4 thundered up California answering the traffic noise from the Boulevard like a single coyote calling to others in the desert. He rocked back-and-forth on his boots and pulled aside the yellow police tape that surrounded Wanda Marie's house. He'd visited the same time yesterday, unable to enter because there was no key stashed in the grinning ceremonial Carib mask. Habit—four weeks old—but habit nevertheless, prevailed and he dug in the mask for the key to Wanda Marie's house.

And he found it.

"Sonuvabitch," said Davis. He shuddered at the unexpected touch of the cool metal key perched on the mask's tongue. He recalled when, as a small child, he picked up one of his father's double-edged Gillette razor blades. He hadn't realized he'd sliced open the tips of two fingers and his thumb until he saw the blood. The experience of touching Wanda Marie's unexpected key and his father's razorblade were so parallel he wiped his fingers on his pants, fully expecting to see blood.

Then he wiped again.

Davis let himself into Wanda Marie's house and walked to the kitchen, his boot heels leaving cloven indentations in the mottled-sepia-and-maize carpet. The entire left wall of the hallway was decorated with black-and-white photographs of horses, from floor to ceiling. On two occasions, both after screaming-mad-passionate-sex—not love, sex—Davis sat on the decades-out-of-style hallway carpet, drank a beer and studied the equine gallery. Two things that had seemed odd and alluring to Davis were the fact that Wanda Marie had only one picture of a human being in her apartment. A fairly recent, enlarged photo of herself standing, like a circus performer, astride two black horses. She was barefoot, in cutoffs and a vee-necked t-shirt. The horses, like two pieces from the same ebony chess set, stood with their withers nearly touching. Wanda Marie wore the relaxed and seraphic face of a person who has nothing to endorse, argue, or defend. She simply balanced upon two horses, arms at her side, in the shadow of Pauite Mesa.

Wanda Marie possessed a second quirk that mystified and enamored Davis: she didn't listen to music.

She owned an AM/FM radio, a CD player, and her Walkman, but she listened only to news and talk radio. She didn't own a television. The small CD player she had won in a KFLO-phone-in-contest and included her lone CD, "Ray Charles' Greatest Hits." Davis had loaned her a potpourri of music: jazz, classical, and blues, but she never played the loaned CDs. Sometimes, after making love, Davis would bring the CD player into the bedroom and play Charles Mingus' "Myself When I Am Real."

"Nice," Wanda Marie would say.

Then Davis would play Charles Ives', "Central Park in the Dark."

"Nice," Wanda Marie would say.

Then Davis would play Ry Cooder's, "Across the Borderline."

"Nice," Wanda Marie would say. "Now stop playing that thing and come back to bed."

"Why don't you listen to music?"

"I do."

"No you don't."

"I listen," said Wanda Marie, "when I ride my horse."

"Your Walkman?"

"No. I listen to what those guys hear when they write their little songs."

Davis tried to formulate a question. He failed.

Wanda Marie addressed the confusion in his face: "The Carib don't separate or differentiate music from thought. They are always accompanied by their thoughts, which are their music."

"What's your music?"

"It's just that," said Wanda Marie.

"What?"

"That," said Wanda Marie. "It not my fault that you can't hear it."

"Quiet," said Davis, "and I can hear it." He relaxed and thought of his runs in the desert; on the beach at Del Mar. Of the entombing silence heard while diving beneath the sea. They reclined together in bed for over an hour, touching only incidentally and accidentally. Davis drifted off, not to sleep, but to that ineffable site of restful awareness.

Their breathing settled into the same slow pattern.

Wanda Marie said, "Maybe you can hear it."

Davis said, "When my divorce is final, will you marry me?"

"No."

"Too sudden?"

"No," she said, "love is sudden."

"Why?"

"Because. Just make love to me."

And he did. That was two days ago.

And now she was gone. A brief, fleeting encounter that seemed strangely final. Did he feel completion rather than sorrow because Wanda Marie made it clear they had gone as far as they could; done everything they would do as a couple?

Davis loitered in Wanda Marie's kitchen and quoted Mark Twain from memory: "One of the proofs of the immortality of the soul is that myriads have believed in it. They have also believed the world is flat. Sonuvabitch." He snipped a piece of purple basil from Wanda Marie's window-herb-garden, crushed it between his fingers and dropped the crumpled leaf in the sink. He opened a warm mineral water. He sipped while examining Wanda Marie's unruly and wild artillery fern hanging over the sink.

Why had he returned to this house?

This intrusion, Davis knew, was a quarter-step away from morbid voyeurism. But with his divorce looming—Alexi and Jennifer's custody riding on the outcome—and Wanda Marie's sudden, he had to think it, murder, Davis was a changed man. Like most good folk who had assumed that life is somehow vaguely fair, he had turned hardened and cynical while facing his life's recent ugliness.

He finished the water and continued into the bedroom.

Like the rest of the tidy house, the only bedroom decorations were plants and photographs of horses. An exterior window-box contained wilted pelargoniums. Inside, ferns and philodendrons cascaded from hanging baskets, a ten-gallon fishtank had been converted into a home for several Wandering Jews and gaudy coleus.

"What are you doing here?" said Davis.

Beside the fishtank, kneeling with legs beneath him, balled fists thrust against his stomach, was Zenny. Facing the bearded and longhaired bartender was a primitive looking twelve-inch-high wooden carving of a bear that stood holding a human in exactly the same position Zenny maintained.

"Zenny?" said Davis.

There was no answer.

"Hey?" Davis sat on the bed, "Zenny?"

A beatific smile spread across Zenny's face and he opened his eyes: "Morning Davis." He unfurled his legs and stretched. He massaged his knees, then assumed a traditional cross-legged, meditation posture. "The Bear Spirit Position really cramps up the old knees."

"Bear Spirit?"

"I was in trance." Zenny tossed Davis the carving. It was a primitive, unpainted, totem-pole-looking-bear with triangular ears, almond-shaped eyes and jagged teeth. The bear was seated. His rear legs enveloped a person with no sexual features. The bear's front paws were clapped over the human's ears. "That's an Athabascan shaman," said Zenny, "being hugged by the Bear Spirit."

"Why?"

"To induce a healing trance. Remember when you were a kid, you could slip into that realm of magic, just like opening a door? You could make the sky a different color, fly instead of walk, speak to animals in their own languages?"

"Ah, no."

"You're a spiritual cripple, Davis." Zenny's hair was thick, black, and braided into a ponytail. It contrasted with his beard: curly, smoke-gray, and unruly—like a fifteenth century navigator who didn't really expect to see land anytime soon. His teeth were capped and perfect.

"So help the cripple," said Davis. "What are you doing?"

"I've discovered that if I mimic the precise postures of the figures in prehistoric art, I enter an analogous spiritual realm. I can tap into their spiritual experiences."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I almost killed my brother with the Australian Bone Pointing Pose before I found out it was a revenge posture."

"How'd you figure all this out?" Davis turned the statue slowly in his hands, like a fussy housewife examining an early season cantaloupe.

"I know you're my boss," said Zenny, "but I do a lot of drugs."

"You're kidding."

"No." Zenny motioned for his statue. "I'm very serious."

Davis lobbed the shaman-bear to the cross-legged bartender.

"Once I took this mega-fucking-dose of acid I'd just cooked up and I started tripping bigtime. I had traded a friend of mine some meth-crystals for this here statue," he cradled it beneath his right arm and extended his left, looking vaguely like a hippie version of the Heisman Trophy, "and I sat there and stared at it. The bear explained to me—"

"Talking bears now?"

"Not like Yogi."

"Of course not," said Davis. "That would be silly."

"This one had a deeper voice, like Baloo, from Jungle Book."

"Ah."

"I was told—"

"By the bear?"

"—by the bear, that altered states and trances are an entirely normal aspect of human existence. They aren't signs of illness or psychosis or special gifts reserved for Theresa of Avila, Meister Eckhardt, or Shirley MacLaine. It's our birthright to trek from the domain of the secular to the sacred." Zenny massaged his head, cuddling it as if it were a live animal.

"Zenny, what are you doing here?"

"I was trancing," said Zenny. "I didn't go all the way in because I heard you in the kitchen. You make a lot of noise, man. You gotta learn to walk with the earth."

"Why were you trancing in Wanda Marie's house?"

"I spent the night here."

"We tried to call you at home last night. We were in the weeds at John Barleycorn's. You were on-call."

"You should have called me here. Sunday night, at work, she slipped me a key and asked me to spend Monday and Tuesday nights here."

Davis jangled Wanda Marie's key like a craps player, "Why?"

"She asked me to keep an eye on this." Zenny, legs still crossed, popped up on his kneecaps and waddled across the room. He hauled a battered blue Samsonite from the closet and returned, pushing the suitcase in front of him like a shopping cart.

"What is it?" asked Davis.

"It's a suitcase, man."

"What's in it?"

Zenny popped the locks and the case sprang open. "Two-hundred and seventeen-thousand dollars. I counted it twice."

"Sonuvabitch."

Zenny said, "You know what's the odd part?"

"No. What's the odd part?"

"A cop came in and rummaged around in the closet. Probably looking for this suitcase."

"Why didn't he find it?"

"It was in the attic, with me."

"What were you doing in the attic?"

"Counting the money." Anticipating Davis' next question, he said, "Even though I trip to spiritual realms I am not naïve and do not trust my fellow man. Especially cops, they can smell the green like a shark sniffs blood. And this, is a shitload of green. So I counted it in the attic."

"Did Wanda Marie—"

"No explanation offered; I didn't inquire."

"How'd you know it was a cop?"

"He walked like a cop—heavy footed; arrogant and official, equipment banging, you know, A COP. Then Wanda Marie didn't come home last night. She asked me to count this, safeguard it, and she didn't even call."

"Let's get out of here," said Davis. "Close that thing."

"I'm waiting for Wanda Marie."

"Zenny," Davis swallowed twice. "Wanda Marie is dead."

With exaggerated care Zenny closed and locked the Samsonite. He looked up at Davis like the pitiful mophead in Oliver who requests more gruel.

"I found her Monday night. In the big freezer at John Barleycorn's. Dead."

Zenny rose and performed, leisurely and languorously, the Rishi posture. "She died at two-seventeen A.M., Monday morning."

Davis had known Zenny for nearly five years and had heard him extol the virtues of Firewalking, the health benefits garnered from twenty-five day fasts, and the salutary effects of drinking cocktails concocted of equal parts mountain spring water and your own urine. Nothing Zenny did anymore—trance with Athabascan Shamans, count money in a dark attic—shocked him. The outrageous was the expected. But Zenny proclaimed the time of Wanda Marie's death with such a precise and assured tone it shook Davis physically. It wasn't just the poem he had read her on Sunday. Wanda Marie had hustled Davis out of the house—before midnight—for another reason. "Two-seventeen?"

"Exactly," said Zenny. "I was asleep in my hide-a-bed in the trailer and BOOM—" he whirled and smacked his hands together "—I was awake and I knew two things had been stolen from me." He repeated, "BOOM, like that. I first thought it was an omen concerning your girls, Ginger and Allison—"

"Jennifer and Alexi?"

"—but it wasn't. I just knew—beyond certitude—it had to do with Wanda Marie."

"Why?"

"Because I dreamed that the twin stars from the constellation Gemini—Castor and Pollux—had been stuffed into the old meat grinder in John Barleycorn's kitchen and Wanda Marie was turning the crank."

"It was just a dream."

"My premonition dreams are never wrong. My precognition dreams, on the other hand—"

"Zenny?"

"What?"

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

CHAPTER 14

Grimes knew immediately who was on his office phone.

The Health Inspector hit two buttons simultaneously. One switched the voice to speakerphone, the other started the micro-cassette recorder: "Why has not John Barleycorn's-ah been shut down?"

"Huh?" He knew Umberto Ciccarelli was on the line, but Grimes loved goading him by playing stupid.

"Why has not John Barleycorn's-ah been shut down?"

"Are you on a cellular phone, Mister Ciccarelli? I must inquire because the clarity of the instrument you are utilizing is quite clear and incredibly lucid." Grimes smiled. Even though he admired and envied Umberto's command of a second language, he enjoyed confounding Umberto with Cossellian hyperbole. The only foreign tongue Grimes knew was a smattering of Korean cusswords his second wife had taught him. He learned a crucial lesson from that marriage: never, ever purchase a mail order bride from a company that's not registered in the United States.

"I am on my phone," said Umberto, "in my office. It is a phone. Into one end you speak; the other end you listen."

"What was it you wanted?"

Umberto tried again, "Why has not John Barleycorn's-ah been shut down?"

"Hang on, I'll find out." Before he could protest Grimes had placed Umberto on hold and speed dialed Davis O'Kane's number at the restaurant. Umberto promptly hung up and re-called Grimes a moment later.

"Who is it?" said a cheerful Grimes.

"I do not know," said Umberto, "if you are mosca or volpe; but I know you are not a man. I will explain. Mosca is the fly, BUZZ, BUZZ, getting into food and bothering your sleep, but of no great consequence. Volpe is the fox. He won't bother you; but you'll wake one morning and all your chickens are gone. I do not care which you are because this is our first and last," he hesitated, translating from Italian mentally to find the proper word—no not Alliance, yes—Transaction, "transaction. You are a man of position and power in the tiny world you inhabit. That is why I came to you. Use-ah your importance and close my fucking restaurant down. That is why I'm paying you. Understand?"

I understand completely. When John Barleycorn's is closed, you cease paying me. "Seriously, Mister Ciccarelli, what brand of phone are you using, the transmission quality is—"

"To play such games with a business associate proves you are worse than a child." Umberto slammed the phone down.

Grimes chuckled, rewound the tape and listened to it twice. "God, I'm an irritating prick."

Grimes ran through a mental theorem: A: The restaurant owner approaches a public official. B: This owner—Ciccarelli—offers payment to official to shut him down. C: The restaurant's manager/part owner—Davis, you fuck—complies with the public official obviating the shutdown. Conclusion? The restaurant owner, Umberto, knows the building and/or land is more profitable if no longer a restaurant and his partner, Davis, doesn't.

* * *

CHAPTER 15

Davis picked up the desk phone and pushed the extension for the bar. "Bob? Send two brandies to the office. And a coffee. Thanks." He hung up the phone and said, "Chief Svoboda, why didn't you close the place down the other night?"

"Call me Bill."

"No."

"There was no evidence of foul play," said Svoboda. "It just unusual that the girl—"

"She was nearly thirty."

"—was discovered in your freezer. Officer Brisco should have closed the place for a follow-up, but Sagrado County doesn't have a Medical Examiner. I knew we'd have to borrow one from Washoe County."

"And you probably got a phone call from Umberto Ciccarelli."

Svoboda flashed a smile that would have been boyish if it weren't for his too-alert Aqua Velva colored eyes. "He told me to make sure Yurri Briscoe didn't drink any coffee."

"That's all?"

"I'll be honest with you—"

Davis mentally quoted Mark Twain: Honesty: the best of all the lost arts.

"—Yurri is a good cop for breaking up teenaged keggers and handing out speeding tickets to cars with California plates but we're not an investigative police force. Brisco had committed so many procedural errors, that if it were a murder we'd have to get it on video tape for a conviction."

"So why are you here now," said Davis, thinking of a blue suitcase. He scuffed his cowboy boots on the floor, "I have a management meeting at eleven."

Svoboda ignored the hint. "No one has claimed the body. I've done the routine police search. No ex-husband, no children, no siblings. Her parents were killed and eaten by headhunters in Dutch New Guinea or some-fucking-place. We'll have to have her declared Jane Doe and bury her if no one shows."

Bob entered the office without knocking. He glanced at Svoboda and said, "The Heat."

"You still working here?" said Svoboda. "I thought you were off to Pakistan."

"China," said Bob. He set the drinks on Davis' desk and left.

Svoboda raised his shot of brandy. The shotglass seemed thimble-sized in his sunburned claws. "To Wanda Marie."

Davis sipped his too-hot coffee, "How'd she die?"

"All things seem to indicate a heart attack."

"That makes imminent good sense. A healthy—"

"Very healthy."

"—twenty-nine-year-old woman has a heart attack?"

"No bruises or contusions. No evidence of drug use, let alone overdose. Until the M.E. arrives, I'm assuming it was cardiac arrest." Svoboda had been holding the brandy in a bent-elbow Prost position. In a single motion he slammed it and returned the shotglass to Davis' desk. He said, "When you found Wanda Marie, was it the first time that day you'd opened the freezer?"

Davis pondered a moment. "Yes. Absolutely. Our meatcutters have Monday off and the Frosty Acres order was delivered the previous night."

"Frosty Acres? From Carson City?"

"Our new frozen food purveyor."

"What happened to Johnson's Frozen Fresh? Woody told me he did business with them for years."

"Umberto insisted on changing to Frosty Acres. About a year ago. It's more expensive and a larger minimum order, but he didn't care. They deliver in the wee hours, Monday mornings," 2:17, thought Davis, Zenny said exactly 2:17, "Wanda Marie had to be put in the freezer after they delivered."

"Why?"

"Didn't you read my statement? She was on top of the lobster tails. We were out of lobster on Saturday night when I called in the order." Davis sipped at his coffee.

Svoboda motioned at the brandy, "You gonna drink that?"

Davis shook his head.

"I'll call Frosty Acres and determine an exact time of delivery. "He glugged the brandy. His Aqua Velva eyes misted slightly.

"This is bullshit," said Davis, "all these questions should have been asked the other night."

"Why are they delivering at that hour? Who's here to let them in?"

"Nobody," said Davis. "Their delivery man has a key to the backdoor and freezer."

"How many other people have keys?" asked Svoboda.

"Twelve. Maybe thirteen."

"Jesus, Davis, why bother locking this shithole?" He pulled out a notebook. "Who?"

"Four department heads. The drivers from DaSilva meats and Frosty Acres. Produce guy. Cheesecake guy. Beer guy. Janitors. The bookkeeper."

"Bookkeeper? Shit, Woody never let anyone see the books."

"Ciccarelli's man, Mauro Ballatore, does all the bookkeeping."

"Are there still two sets of books?"

"I don't know." Davis slurped at his, now, too-cold coffee and thought of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

Svoboda slammed his Virginia ham sized hand against the safe, "First, get those goddam keys back. Second establish delivery hours and stick to them. If the purveyors don't like it, fuck 'em. Third, hire an assistant. Take control of this place."

"Why are you so concerned about John Barleycorn's?" He now thought of the Big Bad Wolf.

"Because John Barleycorn's is a fucking institution in this town. If you go out of business I eat at Le Bistro, that filthy taqueria out by the Paiute reservation, that vegetarian Chinese joint, or drive to Reno."

"Altruism is running rampant."

"What?"

"Sarcasm. Are we done?"

"Yeah," Svoboda snapped his hat onto his head. "There's just one thing bothering me."

"Aside from the state of gastronomy in Sagrado County?"

"I had that pervert Evitch examine Wanda Marie—"

"From the funeral parlor?"

"Undertaker Evitch, yeah. His examination revealed that Wanda Marie's vagina contained semen."

"Why's an undertaker poking—"

"He assured me it was standard procedure, and he also said the semen was viable. What's that freezer? Twenty-five degrees?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Her body hadn't frozen to the core; she'd had intercourse shortly before," said Svoboda, "or after death."

"Ask Brisco," said Davis, "he was in there alone for forty-five seconds."

"You ever get the urge to pork a corpse, Davis?"

"Get out."

"Stay in touch."

Davis pointed at the empty shot glasses, "Seven bucks."

Svoboda slapped a ten on top of the large safe, "Keep the change."

John Barleycorn's management squad—Headwaiter Chris Senoi, Head Cook Mike Merriman, Head Bartender Bob O'Kane, and Head Cocktail waitress Barbara Dubous—were seated at the bar when Davis entered. Mauro Ballatore sat aloof, at a table, silently playing an intricate game of solitaire. The cards were arranged like spokes on a wagon wheel. Mauro played thoughtfully, flipping each card over with a precise and professional CLICK.

Mike cracked the knuckles of his elongated, almost feminine fingers. Barbara and Chris conversed quietly. Bob dozed. "Let's cut the horseshit and get to it," said Mike. "I've got a life outside this toiletbowl." He punched Bob on the shoulder. "C'mon Sleeping Beauty, rise and shine."

"I work nights, asshole" said Bob.

"I think we should start the meeting," said Davis as he sidled onto a barstool, "with a moment of silence for Wanda Marie."

"Which is a moment more than the little blonde hoochie ever gave us," said Barbara. "The Carib this. The Carib that."

"Stuff it Barbara," said Bob. "She's dead."

"But that girl could ramble on about those Indians," said Mike.

"Shh," said Chris. He lowered his head and an uneasy silence ensued.

After an approximate but appropriate minute, Davis said, "Who's got a gripe?"

"I don't like the way the bar is run," said Chris.

Bob belched into his hand, "So?"

"We need three bartenders during the week. Drinks come out too slow," said Chris.

"I can only schedule two bartenders during the week or Signore Ballatore is all over my ass about labor costs." Bob ground out his cigarette, curled up in his chair and closed his eyes. "Deal with it."

CLICK. Mauro didn't look up from his game. "That's correct." In contrast to Umberto's sibilant Florentine pronunciation, Mauro spoke English with a slight British accent. He'd been born in Rome but spent his teen years in Canterbury. His manicured fingers placed a red queen on a black king. CLICK. Mauro flipped over the card beneath the red queen. The Ace of Spades. He pursed his lips and smirked at the ace.

"Then we need some cocktail help in the dining room," said Chris.

"Call a Kelly Girl," said Barbara. "My cocktail waitresses stay in the bar."

"Help me here, Davis," said Chris. "We can't get drinks out to the customers. Have the cocktail waitresses run a tab in here and transfer it to our dinner checks."

"Then you get tipped for the drinks I serve?" said Barbara. "No way. It's Cash and Carry in my bar."

"We'll tip a percentage to the cocktail waitresses," said Chris. "Davis, remember when every party ran a tab which was transferred to the dining room? It simplified bookkeeping and the customers liked it. They didn't have to dig for cash after every round. It was a great system."

"I remember," said Barbara. She fished her car keys from her purse. They hung from a gold BMW pendant. "I was driving a baby-shit-brown Gremlin and scrounging quarters for gas money." She dropped the keys to the Beamer on the table.

"The old system," said Chris, "worked better for the house and the customers." Chris stared at Davis.

"For now," said Davis, "the system remains the same: Cash and Carry in the bar; waiters schlep their own booze in the dining room."

"Why?" said Chris.

"I have my reasons," said Davis.

CLICK. Mauro glanced up from his amusement and scrutinized Davis.

"What else," said Mike.

"The kitchen isn't doing their cleanup," said Davis.

"We have the same argument every meeting," said Mike. "We can't afford to pay those guys for cleaning. We fork out enough for labor costs in the kitchen."

"Minimum wage," said Davis, "minus five-dollars a day for meals?"

Mike slammed both fists onto the table, rattling Barbara's keys and Bob's ashtray. "Those guys couldn't work anywhere else. John Barleycorn's should receive a tax credit for keeping those freaks off the streets at night."

"Mike, the kitchen is filthy," said Davis. "They don't scrape the grills. They never disinfect the cutting boards or change the oil in the deep fryers. One of our customers is gonna contract salmonella or botulism. Woody wouldn't have put up with these conditions."

"Pardon," said Mauro, "but this will be settled for now; and for all time. By not wasting money on cleaning products or extra payroll we can keep the price of our steaks down. That's what the public desires. If one or two of our valued clientele pick up a tad of ptomaine, that's life. They'd need Johnny-bloody-Cochran to prove they'd been infected. The American public eats out twice a day at these noxious-little fastfood-swine-troughs. Any customer gets sick and say they got it here, we say they didn't. Those places cover our bums. That's company policy, Davis."

"Tell it to Inspector Grimes."

Mauro dismissed the objection with a brusque wave. "People will keep dining if we just keep the prices down. The only items an average American can cook is a microwaved supper or a toasted Eggo waffle. They need places like John Barleycorn's."

"John Barleycorn's," said Chris. "Where we fuck the other guy and pass the savings on to you."

"That's splendid," said Mauro. "Davis, perhaps we should emblazon that sentiment on our fleet of taxis." CLICK.

Davis said, "And here's the bad news. I've received a letter from the IRS. They will be auditing all busboys, cooks, hostesses, foodservers, and bartenders. Anyone who receives any remuneration above and beyond their wages."

Bob opened his eyes, sat up, and lit up. "That's bullshit."

"Why was I not made aware of this?" asked Mauro. He placed his deck of cards on the table.

"The IRS has a brand-spanking-new formula for figuring tip income. It's called the McQuatters ruling." Davis extracted a folded sheet of yellow paper from his shirt pocket and read IRS-SPEAK for three minutes. "Any questions, comments, queries?"

"Yeah," said Chris, "what's it mean?"

"Bottom line," said Davis, "as far as I can tell is that all tipped employees of John Barleycorn's must pay taxes totaling sixteen percent of their gross sales."

"Sixteen percent?" said Bob.

"Retroactive for three years. Any of those years you haven't paid this percentage you are liable for fifty percent penalty on the unpaid balance, plus twelve percent interest."

Mauro, having ascertained the ruling didn't apply to management, shrugged and returned to his solitaire.

"Davis, are you sure?" asked Barbara.

"My lawyer's coming over tonight," said Davis. "I'll have him look it over, but I don't see what we can do but comply." Davis glimpsed his reflection in the dregs of his coffee. Reflected in his eyes were: an impending divorce, the twins, Wanda Marie's death, Len's election, a blue Samsonite at Zenny's trailer, John Barleycorn's, the IRS. The air in Nightingale was suddenly too complicated to breathe. Davis felt it bubbling inside; more than an urge, not quite a craving—a necessity, perhaps. Although he'd deny the feeling and tussle against the impulse Davis knew this conflict was a crucial, and satisfying, part of the procedure. After deliberate and suitable rationalizations, he knew he would decide to return to gambling in order to quell the unbearable and stifling complications of his life.

Why did he visit Nightingale Meadows weekly, handicap horses, but not place a bet? It wasn't just to Stay Sharp and see Woody's nag run; it was to prepare for a day like today, when the only thing that kept the regret from overwhelming the self-pity was the confusion.

Had he been preparing all along for his first wager in almost four years? He'd once heard a famous athlete on Sports Center say it was easier to quit cocaine than alcohol because once you terminated your association with dealers you were finished with the powder, but beer is on tap and available everywhere.

As is gambling.

Davis relaxed and grinned at the reflection of that crazy gray-haired sonuvabitch in the remnants of his coffee cup; he knew he had willingly—happily—succumbed to his frailty, he had simply yet to place a bet.

"The IRS?" Bob snuffed out one butt and lit another. "Dealing with them is like wearing a condom."

"Why?" asked Barbara.

Bob said: "You're getting screwed with no sensitivity at all."

"Anything else?" said Mike.

"I need all your keys to the restaurant," said Davis.

Mauro, once again, discontinued his game of solitaire.

Davis emptied his coffee cup on the carpet and placed the mug on the bar. "Keys in there. Meeting adjourned."

* * *

CHAPTER 16

Although John Barleycorn's didn't open until 4:30 P.M. the restaurant was active all day. The janitors would arrive around 3:00 A.M., stack the chairs on the tables, vacuum, drag moldy mops and slimy sponges over filthy floors and scummy sinks. Then they would fish quarters out of the Muscular Dystrophy donation jars, drink red house wine from gallon jugs, and play video games, courtesy of Jerry's Kids, until dawn.

At 7:00 A.M.—six days a week, they had Mondays off—the meatcutters arrived. Les, Jim, and Carl lived less than a mile away and vanpooled in a nearly-kaput 1967 VW microbus with holes rusted through the floorboards. These jagged holes, each the size of a human head served both as air conditioning and a convenient garbage disposal for candy wrappers, crumpled up parking tickets, and beercans. They lived in a trailer wallpapered with old Sports Illustrated covers. They liked the early morning hours because it left days free for golf, softball, shooting pool, and drinking. They watched the San Francisco Giants and Seattle Mariners together. They had attended school, K through 12, but it had taken fourteen years. Sixteen for Jim who flunked eighth grade three times so he could attend high school with his buddies.

But what they did best together was cut meat.

As soon as they entered the restaurant Jim set up the bandsaw, Carl sharpened knives, Les started the coffee and fired up the boombox. During their five hour shift these were their only disparate functions. Once a pot of coffee had been consumed, the knives and bandsaw honed to surgical precision and a Def Leppard CD inserted and cranked to "eleven", the THREE became ONE. Like the god Shiva they wielded six arms controlled by a solitary intelligence and passion. The screaming saw and the raucous pulsating music was impossible to speak over, but language wasn't necessary. LesJimCarl functioned with a mute, sonic precision that dolphins would have envied.

LesJimCarl hauled sides of beef from the walk-in refrigerator; they immediately knew which slab of beef had aged properly, which needed to hang for another day, which needed to be grilled that evening. LesJimCarl, proud graduates of the United States Department of Agriculture's Meat Preparation and Storage School in Elko, knew every technique of the trade. If a slab of beef were sour they would quickly dissect it, bathe it in a solution of baking soda, parboil the steaks and move them to the cook's line where they would be served as specials. In the preceding five years they had used forty-seven dollars' worth of baking soda to reclaim twenty-two thousand dollars' worth of marginal beef.

LesJimCarl also saved all the meat scraps that flew and fell from the bandsaw. These unchewable morsels and bits-o-beef were marinated in red vermouth and soy sauce overnight, then skewered along with cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, and onions. When ordered, the John Barleycorn hash slingers ignited the kabobs and burned them like witches at Salem. At the table the Barleycorn servers de-skewered the kabobs onto plates of sticky rice, charging seven-fifty for forty-two cents worth of produce and a few scraps that Pigfarmer Trane's charges would have raised their snouts over.

LesJimCarl also manufactured all of the restaurant's ground beef. The meat scraps too meager or durable to qualify for incineration on a skewer were jammed into a meatgrinder. An overly fatty mixture of scraps—prime rib or filet—were mixed with a soybean extender. Gristly scraps, such as New York or sirloin, were ground once, mixed with dry curd cottage cheese and ground again. Both styles of hamburger were then died meat color with the blood LesJimCarl had collected since cock-crow. Consistency in texture and color, not taste, were the desired outcome. Taste didn't matter because the cooks coated the burgers with MSG and garlic salt prior to charring. Any cook refusing or forgetting to apply John Barleycorn's Secret Salt to the burgers was terminated.

Around noon LesJimCarl cleaned and stored the knives and bandsaw, flicked off Def Leppard and opened three Heinekens. Then they would order out and eat lunch at the same table in the main dining room. Their lunch was always the same and always dropped off by the same delivery guy from the Princess Garden Chinese Restaurant: Deluxe Vegetable Sauté. Even though they'd graduated with highest honors from the USDA's Meat Preparation and Storage School, LesJimCarl was a vegetarian.

At 1:15 P.M., Mauro Ballatore was finishing the previous night's books. He added the bar totals to the food and wine totals. Then he subtracted the charge card receipts from the gross to establish the cash total. From this cash total he subtracted approximately twelve percent: the cut for Umberto that Mauro skimmed on a daily basis. To cover this twelve-percent Mauro searched through the waiter tags, looking for unnumbered checks. Every restaurant uses, in case of an audit, sequentially numbered checks that must be kept for seven years. But John Barleycorn's, since Woody sold to Umberto, also used checks with no numbers. These would be shuffled randomly with the numbered checks that hostesses laid on each table as they were seated. When Mauro did the books, any unnumbered check that had been paid for with cash would be shredded in his Radio Shack paper shredder and the money hidden from Davis and the IRS. If an unnumbered check had been paid for with a charge card, Mauro would shred a paid-cashed numbered check and rubber stamp the shredded check's number of the previously unnumbered check. Then Mauro used a ten key calculator to dummy a new register tape for both the bar and dining room registers. This bookkeeping scheme netted Umberto an extra four to five thousand a week in cash; two-hundred of which Mauro kicked down to Davis as a bonus. This system also furnished Umberto and Mauro complete control over waiters, cocktail waitresses, and bartenders who were stealing from John Barleycorn's. At the conclusion of his second month there, two years ago, Mauro could predict, to within a hundred dollars, how much each shift in the restaurant would gross on any given night. In the last two years Mauro had approached several employees who had been stealing and presented this ultimatum: You can overcharge the tourists and keep the difference, but you'd better be square with the house and the locals: this is your first and last warning.

While Mauro finished the books, Davis stocked the beer Jeff should have the night before. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and studied "The Racing Form" at the bar. Davis was a serious, scientific handicapper. He had worked his way through UNLV by working as a clerk in Caesar Palace's Sports Book and tending bar at the Purple Cow Steakhouse. At Caesar's he acquired firsthand knowledge of handicapping; at the Purple Cow he acquired an insight into the psyche of the gambler. He scrutinized the sport of betting and developed his own system, a method that left as little to chance as possible. He combined Andy Beyer's computer generated Speed Figures with Steven Davidowicz' track sense and devised a nearly faultless system. He couldn't find a horse to back in every race; but when he wagered he usually won. This approach, as designed and outlined on paper was faultless, but Davis tossed in another crinkle: a self-deluding blind spot he shared with every junkie, sex addict, and chronic alcoholic who ever lived: the capability to disregard and ignore where the first needle, naughty nooky, or nip would lead them. No matter how well intentioned, disciplined or motivated Davis was to Stick with the System, he'd sooner or later start chasing longshots. Everyone knew it, except Davis.

That's why casinos and racetracks and religions never went out of business.

Like a Celtic monk copying a mediaeval manuscript, Davis hunched over "The Racing Form" making margin notes and circling possibilities for the day's final race at Nightingale Meadows. He finally located a horse that met his exacting qualifications: it hadn't raced for a week, it had been moved down in class, and had a speed rating of eighty in her last race. He also liked the name: Divorce Me Quick.

He hesitated a moment before dialing his brand new bookie. Then he grinned and admitted it: he loved the rush born from risking a thousand dollars on a horse he'd never seen. He dialed the bookie and placed his first bet in fourteen-hundred and twenty-three days.

Then he went home to take a nap.

Joan swept into the room like a well-groomed Cossack, "Davis, did you get my card?"

Davis, snoozing on the couch awoke and said, "Grwwft?"

"Did you get my card?"

"Yeah." He propped himself on an elbow. "I did."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Where's my three-hundred dollars?" She pulled a lipstick from her Gucci handbag and touched up her face.

"I don't have it." Davis recalled that Joan appeared, recurrently, in his dreams as a barracuda wearing bright pink lipstick.

Her sandaled foot TAP-TAP-TAPPED the carpet.

"Yeah, gimme a minute." Davis checked his watch, 2:22. He had time to fix a bite and pick the twins up at school. Divorce Me Quick ran at 5:15. He opened his checkbook and scribbled out the check.

"Thank you, Davis." She slipped the lipstick and the check into her bag. "Walk me outside."

Davis, as he had during nine years of marriage, obeyed.

"How are the kids? She asked as she slipped into her red Acura.

"I can't believe you care."

"I most certainly do. I'm their mother."

"The twins have always been window dressing to you Joan, nothing more. You don't even like children."

"Are you betting again, Davis?"

"No." Davis did a barefoot hip-hop-dance-step on the searing pavement. "Why?"

"The only time you show any spine is when you're betting." She started the car and shifted to drive.

He sprinted from the burning sidewalk to his front lawn. He shuffled through the grass, cooling his almost blistered feet.

"No," she said, "I don't like children. But it will break your heart when I get custody." She pulled from the curb and whipped around the corner onto Peony Avenue without even slowing for the arterial stop sign.

Davis stared at the white-hot sky and said, "Sonuvabitch."

* * *

CHAPTER 17

Woody's ranch was the size of an emerging African nation. It abutted the Nevada/California state line, spreading for acres across the Sierras and the high desert. This northern corner of Nevada received more rain than the rest of the Silver State, but this year it hadn't rained since Groundhog's Day. The hills which usually managed a tiny, olive-green carpet of cheat grass until May was already tawny colored and dusty. Pockets of mesquite, cottonwood, and manzanita dotted the low, wind-sculpted hills.

The northernmost boundary of the ranch, a .22 shot distant from the Sierra Nevada seemed like another world. Twenty-two years ago Woody had dammed a tributary of the Sagrado River and formed a 45 acre reservoir a half-mile from his house. On the southern edge of the lake, near towering Paiute Mesa, he had planted Oregon Ash, White Pine, and Buckeye trees. Decade by decade, as the trees dropped their leaves onto the irrigated desert sand, the grove had formed its own topsoil and expanded westward. It had evolved into a highland forest where sword ferns lasted through the torrid summers, and black-tailed deer dozed through the swelter of July and August. The trees' roots had also raised the water table and several underground springs that had been dormant for half-a-century began flowing. These springs drained back into Woody's artificial lake and sustained the water level even through drought years.

Lake Wally was named in memory of Woody's childhood, and lifelong friend, Wallace Baker. Wally and Woody made it through Inchon together and were inseparable until Wally had been beaten to death by irate Pro-Life Christians protesting the opening of a Planned Parenthood office in a building he owned. Lake Wally was stocked with bass, perch, and catfish. Eleven years ago a flock of Canadian Geese, blown off course by a storm, discovered the lake and had returned annually.

At the eastern corner of the lake, adjacent to the homemade, earth-and-rock dam was a grassy, irrigated field. On this meadow were an aluminum shed, an outhouse, and an oval half-mile horse track. Woody, shirtless, in a cowboy hat and faded fatigues stood in the center of the grassy expanse with a stopwatch cradled in his left hand. Jim the meatcutter, in gold and red silks, sat on a black gelding with a cream-colored patch the shape of Louisiana in the middle of his forehead. "Is he warmed up?" shouted Woody.

Jim nodded and adjusted the goggles covering his almond-shaped blue eyes. He patted his mount's shoulders. Jim whispered in the horse's ear and he began running; slowly, gracelessly, like a Ferrari that was only driven three or four times a year.

"C'mon," shouted Woody. He tugged at his gray chesthair. "Let's see the real Future Glue."

Jim used his crop like a Fairy Godmother's wand: delicate strokes producing miraculous results. He tapped the horse's rump and Future Glue responded with a suave and powerful acceleration. Another dab with the crop resulted in a further surge of speed. Jim crouched above the saddle, standing on the stirrups, bobbing in faultless synchronicity with the horse. At full speed, ambling with the efficient, careless gait of a champion, Jim started Future Glue on the second lap. Woody consulted his watch and said, "A half-mile in twenty-seven seconds?"

The watch dropped and dangled from its braided cord. As he watched the horse, he thought of Wanda Marie. Through his career as a U.S. soldier and a mercenary Woody had buried friends, foes, and fuck-ups.

But it was different with Wanda Marie.

Woody, by choice, had never fathered any offspring. He knew the world was a no-win-shithole and he didn't want responsibility for dropping another human into the cesspool. But he'd known Wanda Marie for over two decades and watched her—albeit at a distance—grow up. As he'd done so often in his years on this planet, he compacted all his feelings for a recently deceased friend into a single recalled instant: the way Woody dealt with death was reducing it to a snapshot. Wanda Marie was about four or five. She was hunting snap turtles with a Carib boy. Both were naked and unaware of Woody as they step-by-silent-step approached their prey. They reached the slumbering turtle and flipped it unto its back. Avoiding claws that could rake you open and jaws that could remove a finger like tin snips they slid the turtle down the creek bank. They laughed as the turtle plopped and thrashed across the creek. Then Wanda Marie turned and noticed Woody: she wasn't startled or caught unawares. But the stare that Woody received made him realize that he was not a component part of the jungle.

But Wanda Marie was.

"Fuck me," said Woody, "but who made up the rules to this game?"

Jim allowed the horse to run full speed through the three-quarter mile mark, then reined Future Glue in. He passed the scratched-in-the-dirt Start/Finish line and allowed Glue another quarter mile to gently decelerate. He ripped off his goggles, blinked rapidly, then cantered across the grass infield to Woody. "The mile in fifty-eight seconds and you reined the bastard in, didn't you?" said Woody. "Shit, he would have slaughtered that field today."

Jim stroked the horse's mane.

"When the real Future Glue shows up next week I'm kicking ass and taking names. All of them, Rooster, Raymond, and Wee Willy Svoboda are gonna shit their frillies."

Jim hadn't heard a word. He nuzzled his mount and said, "I love this horse."

A mile away, in the scattered and unreliable shade of a cottonwood grove, Rooster lowered his binoculars and said, "Well I'll be whupped like a red-haired stepchild."

"What?" said Svoboda.

Rooster handed Svoboda the binoculars. "Take a peek."

Svoboda wiped Rooster's viscous sweat from the eyepieces with his bandanna handkerchief and raised the binocs. "That is Future Glue. The map of the Bayou State on his face." He lowered the glasses. "But Future Glue ran today."

"Now is when that horse ran," said Rooster. "I would have lost a grand if Glue motored like that today. Woody's sandbagging us."

"So it appears."

Rooster removed his cigarette makings from a vest pocket and rolled a perfectly cylindrical smoke. "You have to qualify for the Derby. He should have let the horse run faster today. He fucked up."

Svoboda said, "Yurri told me that Woody's been spreading some money around the track. But not to jockeys. To track stewards and a couple of owners who've qualified mounts for the race."

"That sneaky bastard." Rooster blew smoke. "He pays an owner to scratch, a steward to pick Future Glue as a replacement, he keeps the odds in his favor and—"

"Wins back double what he's lost this season."

"And then some," said Rooster. "This week we have to cover all his bets. He can't get suspicious."

Svoboda waved at the private track, "I'm not betting against that horse. If Woody's sandbagging, we might lose."

"Listen, Bill. Woody's approached me about betting my share of M & R Mining against his. I'm gonna say yes. You don't tell anyone and you bet like a drunk Shriner on his first trip to Vegas."

"But—"

"That scrawny old shitkicker is not the only one who can spend money at Nightingale Meadows." He spit on his thumb and with a HISSS ground out his smoke between thumb and forefinger.

Rooster and Svoboda hopped into Rudd's blue Cadillac with the custom-yellow-velour-interior. Rooster put the Caddy in neutral and let it coast backwards, down the hill to the access road, its tires crunching over the shale hillside. At the paved road Svoboda, in a tan form-fitting uniform that accentuated his paunch, clambered from the car and opened the gate that kept noontime adulterers and drunken teenagers off Woody's ranch. Rooster started the V-8 and motored through the gate. Svoboda refastened the rail and joined Rooster in the convertible. Smiling, Rooster turned left and cruised toward the blistered and wind-whipped municipality of Nightingale.

* * *

CHAPTER 18

Kaitlyn McGuire's most prized possession was her body. She exercised incessantly, ate vegetarian, and stayed in oh-so-perfect shape for her husband and assorted other lovers. One particular point of pride was her all-over tan. She viewed tan lines the way a United States Senator treats honesty, integrity, and compassion for the poor: things to be avoided at all costs. She sunbathed in the buff regularly to banish those pale scars from her body. She now reclined naked, on a semi-secluded plateau about a hundred yards from the house when she saw Rooster's unmistakable blue Cadillac coast, in reverse, down the access road and stop at the gate. "Interesting," said Kaitlyn.

"What?" asked the also naked John Theroux.

"Rooster Rudd is trespassing."

"That is interesting," said an equally exposed Rohn Theroux.

"Kaitlyn?" said John, "I think my pecker's getting sunburned, it's not used to being in the sun."

"Mine too," said Rohn.

"Here we are," said Kaitlyn, "in the Great Western Desert, far from shade or shelter. How can I shield both of your pale members from the sun's harmful ultra-violet emissions? We're all out of sunblock." Kaitlyn stood and shook her arms; sweat pooled and ran down the small of her back, trickling between her cheeks like a slender river through a narrow canyon. She stretched like a kitten in the sun. "I've got the perfect solution. John," she said as she knelt, "you stand here. Rohn, behind me."

They did.

She did.

"Oh God," said Rohn and John in unison.

Kaitlyn, like a sexual seesaw, entertained her two young riders simultaneously.

And enthusiastically.

Kaitlyn's portable radio, tuned into the KFLO KOUNTRY KLASSICS HOUR played Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces." The song warbled to a conclusion and Dirk Januleski announced that it was 3:30 in the P.M. and 112 degrees.

"Kaitlyn," said John, "we've got to be back at John Barleycorn's in half an hour."

"Mfn grtting," said Kaitlyn.

"What?" said Rohn.

"She said she's hurrying," said John.

"I'm glad you're the one studying to be a dentist," said Rohn.

Rohn and John, sunburned and smiling, arrived at 4:04 to set the dining room, fold napkins, stock doggy bags, set up the salad bar, and place matches in the ashtrays of all seventy-two tables. Rohn and John Theroux were twins, born and raised in Sagrado. They were an identical six-foot-three, and blonde, but Rohn was two minutes older and hazel-eyed; John had startling aquamarine eyes the exact color of the Miami Dolphins' home uniforms.

The Theroux twins were both sophomores at Sagrado State College. Both Chemistry majors, John planned a career in Dentistry and Rohn a future in Animal Husbandry. They were solid scholars, especially for the offspring of drunken-white-trailer-trash who couldn't finish the TV Guide crossword without cheating. They had both applied and been accepted, on scholarship, at UNR, but they declined and remained in Sagrado where they could spend weekends drinking and cruising for chicks with their buddies.

Prior to embarking on their appointed busboy duties they sat in booth nine with forty-eight plastic water glasses and a cordless Makita drill. John fitted the drill with a 1/128 inch drill bit. Rohn handed a glass to John who bored a tiny hole an inch from the rim, turning the vessel into a dribble glass. "I hope Mauro has a Coke tonight," said Rohn. "Bastards like him wearing sharkskin suits are proliferating the destruction of a species and upsetting the complicated ecological balance of the earth's oceans."

"Plus," said John, "he's a fucker."

"Yeah."

John drilled another glass. "I can handle this, you start setting up."

"Wait a minute," said Rohn.

"What?"

Rohn removed a twice-folded envelope from his shirt pocket. "Read this."

John unfolded and read:

rohn and john,

even though you two are a couple of peeping tom perverts—I know you all spy on waitresses in the changing room at work—but i've chalked that up to raging hormones rather than truly twisted natures. so I've decided to share a secret with you guys. there is a carib story about two twin boys who more than anything else wanted to swim in the sea. this was considered foolish by their parents, but the boys knew they could only be happy if they were allowed to swim in the sea. the trickster god, cutzyl the parrot, knew of their longing and approached them as they stood on the beach, watching the waves. to one he gave a rock the size of a man's head; to the other he gave a tiny pebble. cutzyl dared them to throw the rocks into the sea and have them make the same sound; if they could, cutzyl would convince their parents to allow them to swim in the sea. without speaking the twins waited and waited until a huge wave hit the beach. into this turmoil one twin threw his large rock into the raging sea and cutzyl heard a PLOP. the twin with the pebble waited until the wave had broken and the water lay smooth and glassy on the beach. he tossed his pebble into the calm water and cutzyl the parrot heard an identical PLOP. cutzyl kept his end of the bargain and the twins were the first carib to swim in the sea. that's why the sea became known as the caribbean. in the sea they found clams and urchins and fish so huge that they could feed the tribe for a week. these twins became the first kings of the carib tribe.

listen up, pervos: you have to get your butts out of nevada. this land of basins and ranges is a single-dimensional, small-minded, redneck paradise that will take every dream you have, turn it into poop, then rub your nose in it. you've done well to make it to sagrado state, but you've got to get further away.

here's how you can afford it.

a horse named future glue will be entered in the sagrado derby next week. borrow money from everybody you know and bet it on that horse. do it and don't tell anyone. then get the hell out of nevada or forty years from now you'll be living in a trailer full of empty beercans and booger-nosed children asking yourselves where the hell your lives have gone.

be the first of your tribe to swim in the sea.

wanda marie

"Isn't Future Glue Woody's horse?" said John.

"Yeah, think we should bet?"

"I don't know," said John. "Since Wanda Marie is dead isn't this letter police evidence or something?"

"Not," said Rohn, "if we don't show the fascist-fucking-cops."

"We'll finish setting the dining room and talk after work."

But before setting the dining room the twins took a pair of vicegrips and cinched down the lids on every bottle of ketchup, A-1, and Worcestershire sauce in John Barleycorn's dining room.

* * *

CHAPTER 19

Davis picked up his daughters at Nightingale Elementary School at 2:50 P.M. He eased his battered Saab through the tangle of soccer moms in pastel minivans and metal-flake SUVs. He stopped and opened his door—the passenger-side-door was jammed closed permanently—creating another minor traffic jam in the major snarl. "Hey jerk-off," yelled a hardcore carpooler wearing a too-tight pastel tank top, "move your fanny." Another lady in a two-tone-teal minivan with children everywhere except the roof-rack pressed on her horn so hard the airbag was in danger of inflating. Davis smiled his I Was Here First So Bite Me smile; an aggressive version of his managerial Calm But Concerned smile. He held the door open for Alexi and Jennifer, who scrambled into the backseat. When Davis had slipped back behind the wheel, Jennifer said, "Pops?"

"Yeah, Jenn?"

"When are you going to fix the people door?"

"Next week," said Davis as he accelerated to cut off the lady in the teal minivan.

"Good," said Alexi, "then the other mommies won't call you a-hole when you pick us up."

Davis gazed at Alexi through the rearview mirror and contemplated life as a single parent.

"Do you work tonight, Pops?" asked Jennifer.

Clear of motorized housewives Davis said, "We had our management meeting today; Bob, Chris, and Barbara work, so I'm off."

"You work every night," said Alexi.

"Not tonight," said Jennifer.

"Not yet," said Alexi.

"I am NOT working tonight, Little Ladies," said Davis. "Guaranteed. You guys do your homework. Then we'll cook dinner. Maybe I'll rent a movie."

"Could you watch it with us?" said Alexi.

"Could I call Lisa to come over and watch?" said Jennifer.

"Maybe she could sleep over," said Alexi. "We could have a party."

"No, my lawyer is coming over tonight."

"What's a lawyer?" asked Alexi.

"He's the guy," said Jennifer, "who figures out if we live with mom or dad."

After a dinner of salad, macaroni-and-cheese, and fishsticks Davis bathed the twins. He noticed as the otter-like twins splashed, that he'd forgotten to scrape the blotch of electrician's tape from the bathroom mirror. He drained the tub, toweled and pajama-ed the girls and popped "Kindergarten Cop" into the VCR. He started a pot of coffee and snuggled with the lilac-lotion-smelling girls on the couch. Davis stroked Alexi's hair. Jennifer nuzzled her head in his lap. He feigned interest in Arnold's academic adventures, pleased just to cuddle on the couch with his girls.

He wondered how long he'd have that pleasure?

The twins had been tucked in for an half-an-hour, but they weren't asleep yet. Davis heard giggling and the WHUMP of an ill-aimed pillow hitting the window. He sprawled on the couch; barefoot in a ragged brown John Barleycorn's YOU CAN'T BEAT OUR MEAT sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. While waiting for his lawyer he read "Buck Fanshaw's Funeral" from a coffee-stained dog-eared copy of "The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain." He had just decided to switch to beer when the doorbell rang. He placed the battered book on the coffee table and yelled: "It's open, Ken."

Seventeen years earlier Ken Moro and Davis attended UNLV together. Back then Davis wore button-down collars and sports coats. Ken wore sandals, round wire-rimmed glasses, and a roach clip around his neck. They both studied English Lit and despite their differences in dress, were beer drinking buddies. Ken's nickname in college was Birdman because he was a spindly macrobiotic vegetarian who ate only tree or vine ripened fruits, nuts and veggies.

And he only smoked organic dope.

After graduation Ken became a lawyer, went into his family's business, and started eating prime rib. Davis picked up his MBA and crossed into the realm of Business and High Finance. But at least once a year they would meet—Kauai, Majorca, Monterey, Vancouver Island—and scuba dive. Since the twins were born and Davis became mired at John Barleycorn's their dives had been confined to nearby Pyramid Lake and quick dips—sometimes with tanks, mostly snorkeling—in Lake Wally.

Davis smiled in anticipation; Ken always managed to make an entrance. He'd be juggling avocados or be carrying a metal cage with chinchillas for the twins. It had become a ritual, but tonight was the topper. Ken wore his wire-rimmed specs and carried an attaché case that matched his black, eleven-hundred dollar Bill Blair suit and Italian shoes.

But he was with a woman.

An American woman.

Ken exuded more tradition than most citizens of Osaka. Business was business and pleasure was pleasure; and they never mixed.

Davis nodded at the young lady accompanying Ken. She stood half-a-head taller than the lawyer. Her bobbed black hair was worn short, just long enough to curl beneath her jawline. Her brown eyes were gold-flecked. Her nose turned up slightly at the tip. A classic Slavic face that a century earlier would have shattered hearts at the Tsarina's Moscow court.

Davis and Ken embraced. Davis felt the handle of the attaché in the center of his back. "Hey Birdman," said Davis, "you're looking good."

Ken stepped back and held up the attaché, "You're not."

"You got the papers? I had them sent to the casino."

Ken nodded. "Davis, this is Tasha."

Tasha and Davis shook hands. He noticed she wore no makeup. Her poised and confident grip—with a work-callused hand—made Davis think Saint Petersburg instead of Moscow. "Welcome," said Davis.

She winked her welcome and said, "I know you boys have business; I'll make myself scant." She picked up the Twain volume, "You mind?"

"Go ahead."

She smiled and Davis' eyes followed her as she left the room.

"Sit, Birdman," said Davis. He heard the front door close quietly.

Ken sat in an imitation Louis V that Joan had acquired when Davis worked for Shearson-AmEx. He opened his briefcase, extracted a sheaf of papers and said, "Nice to see you, man."

"Yeah. You too."

"But you're screwed."

"Thanks."

"By the looks of this, you're gonna be broke and busted."

"How bad?"

"A gardener working for a homeless family would be better off," said Ken. "Unless you've a suitcase of tens and twenties stashed away, you are shit-outta-luck."

Davis stared at the ceiling and thought about collecting the thirteen-hundred he'd won on Divorce Me Quick. Wanda Marie's blue suitcase also flittered through his brain. He stared, straight up, for nearly a minute.

His ceiling needed painting.

Ken broke the silence, "You got a beer?"

Two beers later Ken snapped his attaché shut. "What's most important to you?"

Davis picked at a callus on his left heel.

"You," said Ken, "have the biggest, ugliest goddam feet in the entire universe."

"Size fifteen, triple E."

"Do you want out with no attachments? Do you want the house? The car? Alimony? Keep the house and pay alimony? What about John Barleycorn's?"

Davis drained his third Amstel and said, "I need John Barleycorn's until I can cash out my equity."

"Is it on the market? One call to my uncle and—"

"It's not for sale." Davis stood. "What's important to me? I want my Complete Works of Mark Twain. The whole set. And my scuba gear."

"I'll load the books and dive gear into my car tonight. If she presses you in court, say it was stolen. Call in a complaint to the pigs tomorrow. It'll be on the record, all legal and official."

"You're good."

"It's a gift," said Ken. "What about the car?"

"Joan wouldn't be caught dead in the Saab." Davis considered the white tan line on his left ring finger. "The bottom line is Alexi and Jennifer. I couldn't live without them. I'd give Joan the house and the equity in John Barleycorn's if I got the kids." Davis dug the THIS AIN'T NO HALLMARK CARD from beneath a couch cushion and tossed it to Ken. "Read that. I'm getting us another beer."

When Davis returned Ken had the card spread, tent-like, over his left knee. Tasha curled on the couch with her legs tucked up and under. The Twain was open on her lap to "Caucus in the Clouds." Davis handed the open beers to Ken and Tasha; he sat next to Tasha and pointed to the anti-Hallmark card. "How's that for love?"

"Why does Joan," asked Ken, "even want the kids?"

"To spite me."

Ken tilted back and drained half his beer. "Davis?"

"What?"

"Your ceiling needs painting."

The trio sat silent for a protracted minute.

"Here's what we do," said Ken. "Tomorrow, we argue that you need John Barleycorn's to earn a living—"

"I do."

"—and we give Joan everything except the restaurant, the scuba gear, and the Twain. This house, we give. The kids, the jewelry, insurance, wine cellar, National Geographics, we give. Everything."

"And, how much, again, am I paying you for this advice?"

"We give like UNICEF; like Mother Theresa; like a dead organ donor."

"Including the twins?" asked Davis.

"Especially the twins."

Davis visibly stiffened. Tasha passed him her beer. He drank it down and said, "Why?"

"In one month I'll arrange a hearing concerning custody. I'll argue you were under mental duress—"

"I am, thank you."

"—stress and nervous tension from your job. From the divorce. From the Rooster Rudd-Len Arizona election and the unrest in Central Africa. From the rising price of cherry tomatoes. Then and only then, do you say you want the kids. Just the kids." He gestured pontifically at the in-need-of-paint ceiling. "Then Joan has what she wants and you have what you want."

"Sonuvabitch. That's tough."

"Listen," said Ken, "how long have you been taking care of the twins? By yourself?"

"Eight months; maybe a year."

"Picking them up from school?" Ken drained his beer.

"Everyday."

"Helping with homework and bandaging skinned elbows?"

"Yeah."

"Making school lunches? Swimming lessons on Saturday morning when you worked 'til two AM?"

"Yeah."

"Shopping for Lucky Charms and lunchmeat that they'll eat; worrying about the babysitter—"

"Enough," said Davis.

"Joan will never go for that. You know it. I know it," said Ken. He leaned forward: closing the deal. "I give her thirty days of full-time-parenting: after one month we'll have more bargaining power than we do right now."

Davis said, "I take back half of what I was thinking about you."

Ken smiled, "Thanks."

Davis said, "The good half."

Ken spoke softly, causing Davis and Tasha to lean forward like the RCA canines: "But you have to stay away from Jennifer and Alexi. You can't help Joan feed, comfort, console, or discipline the girls. Work overtime. Get a girlfriend."

Tasha smiled; Davis didn't notice.

"I don't know, Birdman."

"How good were you at handicapping horses?" asked Ken.

Davis simply smiled.

"I'm that good at handicapping people and I've got Joan pegged. Fast start from the outside position, looking great for the first hundred yards then fading like a hothouse orchid in Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell."

"You just described our marriage," said Davis. "But I can't stay away from the twins."

"How old are they?" asked Tasha.

"Seven," said Davis. To Ken: "I can't."

"Heed my advice, Davis." His muted intonation somehow echoed through the room, "If you don't concede the girls to Joan, you'll never have more than dual custody or rights of visitation."

Davis' faint nod signified Yes.

Tasha cleared her throat, "Did I hear Ken say you had a wine cellar?"

Davis nodded again.

Tasha stood, she had removed her shoes, "May I?"

"Please," said Davis. "It's through the kitchen; it's just a converted pantry. There's two, maybe three bottles of Chateau Petrus stashed in the back."

"I'll find that," said Tasha. "Glasses and an opener?"

Davis told her and Tasha exited, her bare feet softly slapping the hardwood floor.

"A new recruit?" asked Davis.

"An...associate," Ken loosened his tie. "I think Tasha and I will be in business together."

"A female pimp. How liberated and enlightened of you, Birdman."

"More like a talent scout. Tasha works at the casino, she knows the girls who schlep drinks and work for tips."

Davis nodded and stretched out. He could feel the warmth from where Tasha had been seated on the couch. "You ever do murder cases?"

"That's from left field." Ken finished his beer.

"Do you?"

"I sat in on a few, while I interned," said Ken. "But the brutal, vile, ruthless aspects of corporate law are so much more attractive than dreary, dull, cop-a-plea murder cases."

"That's comforting."

Ken shrugged: "I'm too busy with the ToMoro Escort service—finding ways to skirt national and international laws on prostitution, diverting funds, you know—my chosen profession—to study any other aspect of law."

"In suspected murder cases don't they rope off the area, dust for prints: all that Law & Order bullshit?"

"Tasha told me that they found a body in John Barleycorn's freezer—"

"Wanda Marie. And the cops were in and out in an hour."

"Lens Crafter cops?"

"Then Svoboda, Police Chief, pays me a visit today. Asks a pack of questions."

"You shouldn't be telling me this, Davis. Call the Nevada State Office of Internal Affairs." Ken finished his beer. "What do you know about this Wanda Marie that you're not telling me?"

Davis said, "When in doubt, tell the truth."

"Twain?"

Davis nodded and said, "I asked her to marry me the night she died."

"After you're done with the State Police, call the FBI."

Davis wasn't listening, "Death is a stunner; we all know it's gonna, hell, got to, happen, but we are forever shocked and confused and amazed when someone we know dies. Wanda Marie and I'd been having some giggles, but with my marriage bombing I needed some hope. If not in a marriage in the idea and ideal of marriage. So I asked her to...Sonuvabitch."

Ken squirmed in his seat. He could deal with judges and anal attorneys and statutes; the minutiae and maddening particulars of law were his forte. Raw emotions frightened him: but he considered this a gift, not a flaw.

The friends sat in silence until Tasha entered with an opened bottle of Petrus and three glasses. She poured Davis a taste. "Fill 'er up. Can't send this one back."

She filled three goblets and said, "To a successful and painless divorce."

"For my client," said Ken.

"Amen," said Davis.

They drank half-a-bottle of the world's most expensive merlot in ninety-four seconds.

"After I wrap up," said Ken, "this shipment of ladies, I'm off for a month. Tahiti. I wish you could tag along Davis; do some diving."

"And give up all this?" Davis raised his glass. "Thanks for the help, Birdman."

"Cheers," said the trio.

* * *

CHAPTER 20

Tasha didn't walk directly to the wine cellar. She walked—barefoot and silent on the carpet—to the Master Bedroom's bathroom and opened Davis' medicine cabinet. Some Excedrin, dental floss, one hundred and twelve dollars' worth of foot care powders, pomades, unguents, balms, and ointments. There were no prescription drugs. "Either this Davis guy is clean," said Tasha to her reflection in the mirror, "or there's no cure for what he has."

She didn't consider her investigation remotely unethical or even feebly intrusive: she had already decided she was interested in Davis, she just wanted to cover her bases.

During her teens and early twenties Tasha suffered from what she now described as Snow White Syndrome, knowing, then hoping, that, Some Day, My Prince Will Come. This left her vulnerable to a succession of losers and loverboys; both of whom are precisely the same type of man: profoundly flawed, but with one attractive quality. The Losers' attraction was emotional—a sad childhood, a flawed self-image, a personal tragedy they couldn't put behind them: they needed her sympathy. The Loverboys' appeal was physical—a hardbody, a smile, a wardrobe, money, and car: they wanted her sex.

Tasha grew out of Snow Whiteness and entered her, self-described, Sour Milk Syndrome. This left her vulnerable to another passel of males. They were more mature and complex; but also more deadly. They thought they wanted a relationship, but at the first indication of discord or a hint that a relationship might entail a trace of effort or sacrifice they ran, they ran, they ran. What they wanted was a mommy who swallowed. And Tasha, after the men had broken up with her, would always return, thinking perhaps they'd learned; they'd changed; they'd grown. It was, she finally realized, like pouring milk on your morning granola, realizing it was sour, then, instead of throwing it away, placing the milk back in the fridge to see if it would taste better tomorrow.

It never did and you ruined a lot of granola.

She would never buy a car without peeking under the hood, or a house without checking out the furnace, why should it be construed otherwise while researching a male? Tasha had done precisely this in her last attempt at a serious relationship. He was articulate, polite, and gorgeous. It was their third date. But in this promising prospect's bathroom, as she was preparing for their first conjugal conga, she found a magazine featuring young erectile males tucked beneath the sink. Caveat emptor—Buyer Beware.

See ya'.

She tip-toed to the ground floor. Passing the TV room she heard Davis and Ken engrossed in solemn and serious conversation. She slipped into the garage and checked the recycling: a few beer bottles, all Amstel Light, and an empty wine bottle with a Czech or Bulgarian name beneath a tacky gold-foil albatross. In the garbage a little more junk-and-frozen-food wrappers than she'd like to see, but what the hell, he's got two kids.

Tasha re-entered the house and examined the photos in the hallway. Typical pictures of homely infant twins who developed, through a progression of pictures into charming and attractive young girls. She noticed as children, with big eyes and wispy blonde hair, they resembled Davis. As they grew into their heads they resembled more-and-more the woman pictured alongside Davis in a beach cabana. This was the only picture of the couple together. It revealed a tanned and slender Davis next to a carelessly beautiful, athletic and trim woman with a cold and perfect smile: a package that would melt a man's heart, divert his cash flow, corrode his credit, and undermine his faith in a Benevolent and Loving Supreme Being.

Davis, decided Tasha, had married a beautiful ballbreaker.

She decided how she'd play Davis: friendly and sexy, fun, funky, and accommodating. A breath of unsullied air after his divorce.

A friendly roll in the alfalfa.

Some laughs; a little slap-and-tickle.

Tasha removed the picture of Davis and Mrs Davis from the wall and examined the figures as she walked to the kitchen. There was, at the least, a vibrancy, perhaps even some love evident between the pictured couple. In every snapshot Tasha had ever seen she tried to determine what had been said immediately before and after the SNICK of the aperture:

"How long will you be diving today, Davis?"

"Two hours."

"Smile for the camera, Darling."

SNICK.

"Give me your wallet, Davis."

"Why?"

"Cuz if you lose track of time like you usually do, I'm not sitting in that hotel room alone!"

Tasha would bet a hundred dollars against a twenty-nine cent sack of sunflower seeds she had nailed not only the essence, but an actual portion, of the dialog. She tucked the framed photo beneath her arm and examined the fridge: real butter, various flavors of yogurt and Lunchables for the girls. A six-pack of Amstel. No leftovers. The freezer was nearly empty: a Cornish game hen, fishsticks, two ice-cube trays, frozen OJ and cranberry juice, and a packet of frozen brine shrimp.

With the picture still beneath her arm she opened the pantry/cellar door. She groped to the left, then the right for a light switch. "Criminy," said Tasha, "where's the light switch?"

"Right here." The light snapped on and Tasha recoiled. The picture clattered to the floor. A young lady in a black thong bikini bottom and no top stood in the near corner, her left hand on the light switch. She wore deerskin moccasins and too much make-up.

"Venus on a half shell?" said Tasha.

"I thought you were Davis," said Lisa.

"What are you doing in Davis' wine cellar? Tasha examined the nymphet's body, not a bulge or sag anywhere. Sixteen, seventeen tops. "Is Davis aging you for a special occasion?"

"I live next door. I'm Lisa. The babysitter." She nibbled on a lower lip. "Are you a date?"

"Just a friend of a friend," said Tasha. "She pointed to a tiny pile of clothes on the floor. "Please get dressed, Lolita."

"Lisa."

Tasha recalled that she hadn't read any Nabokov until after high school. "That wasn't fair. Sorry, Lisa." Tasha spied a Bengal tiger tattooed to the right side of Lisa's abdomen. "Nice tattoo." Too bad that tiger's gonna look like a Shar-Pei when you're fifty.

"Thanks." Lisa wriggled a blue-and-silver Nevada Wolfpack sweatshirt over her head. Without removing her moccasins she stepped into a pair of white short-shorts. "I just wanted to say goodbye to Davis. His wife's kicking him out. She was here the other night. She left a note. I snuck upstairs and read it."

Tasha smiled and thought, Attagirl, keep it up. "What did it say?"

"Bad things," said Lisa. She smiled the genuine but shy half-smile of an adolescent girl with braces. "What's your name?"

"Tasha." She remembered having a crush on her high school gym teacher. She faked a twisted ankle just to feel his hands on her leg. She supposed to a generation raised on cable TV access and internet accessibility to God-knows-what that standing naked in a pantry hoping to fuck your forty-year-old neighbor was as reasonable as taking a dive during PE.

"That's a pretty name."

"Thanks," said Tasha. "I think it's time for you to go."

"You won't tell Davis—"

"Never."

"Please tell him that I don't like Joan, and even when that witch is here I'll check in on Jenn and Allie."

"He'll appreciate that." Tasha located a bottle of Petrus. "Goodnight, Lisa."

Lisa began to speak, then shook her head. "Goodnight."

They stepped into the silent kitchen. Lisa opened the backdoor, locked it from the inside and left. She checked the lock from the outside, rattling it twice before she walked away.

* * *

CHAPTER 21

Woody McGuire was having an affair.

Although sexy-trim-hungry-horny Kaitlyn satisfied every desire he had, and some he hadn't realized he might even possess, Woody met twice a week with another woman. A furtive, secret, on-the-sly rendezvous with Corine Rucker at her house on the corner of Lousiana and Magnolia. The affair wasn't torrid, but it satisfied.

Even though today marked their second year together, neither Woody nor Corine had ever kissed or removed a stitch of clothing. They drank tea. They listened to old jazz.

And they talked.

Woody had been a POW in Korea, but he's never felt as lonely in his life since he married the beautiful-seductive-sultry-sexy Kaitlyn. Except for her body and his money they had squat in common.

"How's the Indian School campaign comin', Corine?" Woody slurped his tea.

"Another quarter-of-a-million or so and I'm there."

"A drop in the bucket."

"Whose bucket?" said Corine, "Donald Trump's?"

"I might be able to help you, after all—"

Corine raised a finger, reminding Woody not to mention gambling.

"Sorry." Woody rattled his teacup back onto the saucer and pointed at the Hi-Fi. "Who is this?"

"Bix Beiderbecke. 'The Davenport Blues.'"

"That's music."

Corine said, "I feel like such a relic."

Woody leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into his Levis' belt loops, "How so?"

"I drove down to Reno last week and bought a CD player—"

"That's an upgrade."

"—and some Sarah Vaughan and Cab Calloway."

"Sounds good," said Woody.

"No," said Corine, "it doesn't. It sounds antiseptic and lifeless."

"Music's music. Am I right?"

"There's no anticipation, Woodrow. Listen." Corine strode over to the Hi-Fi and removed the needle. She flipped the bulky 78 RPM record over and, carefully, replaced the needle. CRUNCH-SCRINCH-CRACKLE-SCRINCH. "Anticipation. We both know how 'In a Mist' starts. The static leads us into it. With the CD, it's complete silence or total music. There's a lot to be said for that gray region. The in-between area. It's where we spend most of our lives, not truly happy, not entirely sad—anticipating both. I think our music, especially, should reflect that."

"What did you do with the DC player?"

"CD. I returned it for a VCR." She smiled, "I'm not against initials or technology, I simply don't care for things that disenhance life."

"Disenhance? Is that a word?"

"It is now," said Corine. "More tea, Woodrow?"

"Please."

She filled his briar-rose patterned cup. "Happy Anniversary."

* * *

CHAPTER 22

The telephone rang and Mauro answered, "Allo?"

"Como estai, Mauro?"

"Bene, tutto bene, Umberto."

They continued in Italian:

"Where are you, Mauro?"

Mauro could never get used to that question. He believed that when you speak to someone, on a phone or in person, you should speak to that someone exclusively. But these Americans! They speak on their little pocket phones while driving, eating, shopping, shitting, and screwing. The babies have speed dial on their telephones to page their mommas when they are hungry. Mauro looked into the distance and smiled at the mountains. As much as he hated these loud, fat Americans with their crass and barbarous manners he loved their country: their spacious and wild landscapes.

Of course, Italian cities are the most beautiful and exciting cities in the world, but Mauro would trade nearly half of Rome (all of Sicily plus Brindisi) for the view of the Sierras he savored while speaking to his boss. Mauro Ballatore's blue-tiled swimming pool was surrounded by Italian cypresses he had imported from a nursery in Los Angeles that specialized in Mediterranean flora. These trees framed the distant and sheer escarpment of the east face of the Sierra Nevada. Mauro spent nearly every evening, winter and summer, sitting by his pool with a Cinzano Bianco, watching the sunset. Colors that he didn't believe existed outside a Tintoretto painting or a Michelangelo fresco played every night on the exposed granite of these untamed mountains. Purple that contained tones of silver and slate would deepen to a cobalt blue with maroon highlights.

Then the darkness.

Mauro lived ten miles west of Nightingale and when the darkness descended on him, it startled him in its completeness. Then 'piano-piano,' softly-softly, the stars would pinprick the sky; so many stars they seemed to overlap. He knew now how the pudgy, sloppy, ill-mannered American tourists felt when they saw the Pieta or the Sistine Chapel; something so beautiful and foreign and inspiring it made you ache inside. A pity this beautiful landscape was wasted on these unappreciative American pigs. Sometimes Mauro thought the stark beauty of this bizarre landscape almost made up for the fact that pigfucker Umberto sent him to the wasteland of Nightingale to insure that John Barleycorn's would quietly, but permanently, go out of business.

Mauro was amazed that creating an atmosphere of bad service and terrible food simply wasn't enough. These American hogs didn't seem to notice; they still lined up at John Barleycorn's trough. Finally, after two years of contemplation, purposeful understaffing, and encouraging unsanitary, possibly life-threatening culinary conditions Mauro found the ideal method to disgust American customers.

Smaller portions.

Mauro answered his boss, "Of course I'm at home, Umberto. What have you discovered about Wanda Marie?"

"She wasn't born in Dayton, Nevada. She lied on her application for employment. She hasn't worked at any of the restaurants listed on her references."

"Of course not, I only hire people who are unqualified." But, ironically, Wanda Marie performed her bartending duties with an unhurried efficiency that was a delight to watch. "Isn't that why you dispatched me to Nightingale?"

"You were sent to Nightingale because you took my only child's virginity."

"It was mutual consent."

"It was still the child's first time."

"Twenty is not a child." Mauro recalled and relished the night. They had driven into the desert south of Vegas and drank Pinot Grigio while the sun set. Kissing and speaking muted, mellifluous Italian they watched the stars bloom above the desert. Then they tenderly, unhurriedly, removed each other's clothes and made love. They had known each other—family friends—since childhood, since Italy, before Mauro left for Britain, and each of them knew it would someday come to rolling around naked in each other's arms. It was beautiful; and all the more fulfilling that they had waited years to fulfill their sexual fantasy.

"The child," said Umberto, "has just not been the same. Sitting in the bedroom all day reading and drinking wine; not even dancing anymore. You have violated and ruined my little Pietro."

"It was your son who approached me, Umberto." On all fours, as Mauro recalled.

"Enough. This talk of sodomy sickens me. The police of Nightingale—"

"It is extremely odd, Umberto. They do exactly what we want them to do, but they will accept no bribes."

"Perhaps someone has already paid them?"

"It might be so." Mauro glanced down at the stain on his pants. Those bastard Theroux twins; another suit ruined because of a Coca-Cola stain.

"What about Davis?"

"Fine news. The bookie we hired to entice him told me he placed a bet on a horse today."

"Excellent."

"Even better, he won. With any luck he'll be Off the Wagon permanently."

"He drives a wagon?"

"It is a phrase from that simplistic American twelve-step-program," said Mauro. "Have the laboratory results returned?"

"No."

"Why? It's never taken so long."

"A sample such as this is difficult and time consuming to analyze; not like heroin or cocaine. And lab technicians, they are more bribe-resistant than the police. What's a poor little gangster to do, Mauro?"

"Persevere."

"Ciao."

"Give Pietro my regards."

CLICK.

Mauro placed his cellular phone facedown on an umbrella holding a red-and-white Cinzano umbrella. He groaned and watched the sun dip down beneath the impressive and imposing Sierra Nevada.

* * *

CHAPTER 23

Aloysius Tuggnutt ran the slickest sports book operation in Northern Nevada. He had a small office at Nightingale Meadow's golf course. He did a healthy business on a daily basis, taking perfectly honest, above board bets from a few locals and, more importantly, tourists. This was, after all, vacation, and why not have a cold beer and lay off a few bucks on a hockey game or horse race or your favorite basketball team while waiting for your tee time?

Aloysius looked more like the Jesuit priest he'd studied for two years to become than a professional bookie. His pallid complexion, slight frame, tortoise-shell glasses, and reticent manners cultivated instant trust with his clients. When he lost he paid promptly and cheerfully; when he won he collected with an air of contrition and commiseration that sometimes made bettors apologize for having to pay him.

That was the tip of the iceberg.

With out-of-town bettors who wagered with Aloysius it was but a succinct step from confidence to absolute trust. First, the exchange of business cards; then an e-mail address. After entering the latest harvest of e-mails in his computer Aloysius would shotgun out Nightingale Meadows racing schedules to a diverse and distant clientele located in Alaska, Canada, Washington, Oregon, and California. The bets, at first, would trickle in. These casual gamblers would be much more likely to bet with Aloysius than drive to a local horse or dog track. First, e-betting was instantaneous; it could be done on a coffee break. Second, they had seen the cozy and intimate environs of Nightingale Meadows; this wasn't like betting in—GASP—Los Angeles or—GOD FORBID—New York. Third, they trusted the man with the moist, weak handshake and heart of gold.

Then the bets would arrive more steadily. It is, after all, more exciting while staying up all night eating Twinkies and drinking vodka, to handicap real horses and place real money on tomorrow's races with Honest Aloysius than play chess online with some unemployed lesbian from Krakow, Poland.

Aloysius offered unlimited credit to his electronic customers, but he paid immediately with an electronic transfer. A computer whiz Aloysius had attended high school in Reno with, a brilliant guy named Zenny who was eating 'shrooms and pissing away his life tending bar, designed a program that ran Tuggnutt's operation automatically.

Here's the good part.

The Credit Aloysius offered was bogus because the bets were never placed. Aloysius had been bankrolled to set up and front the system; reward the electronic mice in the maze with an occasional, immediate payoff and create a comfortable and stress-free cyber-environment for the rodents to run up a large, but painless debt. Painless until the bankroller, Umberto Ciccarelli, called his friend Aloysius and purchased five or six electronic files to collect on. Aloysius had created an anonymous, effective, lucrative, and absolutely antiseptic way to fuck people with their own personal computers. And Aloysius got paid upfront without the headaches of collecting.

Aloysius' setup with Umberto was sweet, but the Italian blew the ex-seminarian's mind with his latest deal. Umberto paid Aloysius ten dollars cash for each dollar wagered by a guy named Davis O'Kane. Aloysius had paid regular visits to John Barleycorn's, each time accidentally-on- purpose forgetting tomorrow's "The Racing Form." He'd chatted easily and amicably with Davis on several occasions, allowing the manager to bring up the subject of handicapping, before presenting Davis with a business card.

This Davis, ironically, turned out to be Zenny's boss and Umberto's employee, but none of that mattered to Aloysius. The Credo of Betting was accepted with the same mindless faith he had used to assimilate Catholic Doctrine: Why did God make us? God made us to show forth his goodness and to share with us His everlasting happiness in heaven. The Credo of Betting: Everyone's a mark, including yourself, so don't shit where you eat.

Aloysius had never placed a bet in his life.

"Good evening, Mister O'Kane," said Aloysius. He shifted the phone from left to right ear. "Brilliant call this afternoon."

"I lucked out."

"And that luck earned you—" Aloysius hesitated, as he always did before quoting a dollar amount; having the exact figures at hand implied premeditation. Premeditation implied dishonesty, "—th, th, thirteen-hundred-and sixty-five dollars in profit. Ten grand for me. "Who looks good tomorrow?"

"I haven't had time to do any handicapping," said Davis. "I had visitors tonight."

"How about laying off a hundred on a hunch?" A thousand for me.

"No," said Davis.

"Have you laid off any cash on the election?"

"You're making book on the election?"

"Someone has to. It's the talk of the town, my friend."

Davis swallowed hard, "Put it on Len Arizona."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

"Thank you, Mister O'Kane." Davis hung up and Aloysius allowed himself a Mrs Field's cookie and a cup of mint tea before he returned to his Latin studies. He'd been told, before flunking out of the seminary, that if he mastered his Latin he'd be a perfect fit for the ecclesiastical hierarchy. With weak tea moistening his thin lips he enunciated carefully:

"Introibo ad altare Dei

Introibo ad altare Dei

Introibo ad altare Dei..."

He sounded like a drunken Russian sailor ordering a beer in a Portuguese bar.

* * *

CHAPTER 24

There are various types of alcoholics. There is the blackout drunk who drinks to oblivion, sleeps it off, then swallows wine, whiskey, or white port until he is, once again, unconscious. There is the weekend binge drinker who, from nine-to-five Monday-through-Friday, is a solid citizen and pillar of society. On weekends he's a slobbering, vomiting, red-eyed drunk. There is the closet drinker with bourbon in his lunchtime Thermos bottle and vodka in the medicine cabinet. Then there is the maintenance drinker. This type of alcoholic drinks almost all day; booze for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—with no food during the daylight hours. But he always maintains a modicum of control. He never blows his cookies, rarely blacks out, but is nearly always drunk.

Freddy was a maintenance drinker.

He came by his addiction to alcohol the honest way: Heredity. Frederick Arnold John Patrick Finnegan was the last member of a long line of Irish Royalty. Wars had killed many of his noble ancestors, famine a proportionate number, cirrhosis the remainder. The Unofficial Family Motto was, "I'd rather be a good liver than have one."

Frederick, born and raised in Chicago, didn't taste alcohol until he was nearly forty. True to his ancestry, after the first sip this prosperous, happy, honest, forthright, church-going businessman traversed the road from weekend to closet to blackout drunk and was forty-three when he drank his chain of hardware stores into bankruptcy. Freddy then sold his house in Forest Hills, put the money in a Certificate of Deposit and lived off the interest. His business persona convinced his alcoholic persona that they'd both be better off if he backed off the booze a little, and so a successful, if not triumphant maintenance drinker was born. He drank his way westward, through six or seven states, before he reached the Paradise of Nevada. Here bars, casinos, and liquor stores were open 24 hours a day 365 days a years. The weather was such that you only needed a roof over your head two or three months a year. Freddy had lived in Nevada five years; he was now forty-nine and didn't look a day over seventy-two.

His typical day consisted of waking on a park bench or behind a dumpster with a hangover that would kill a small brontosaurus. He would quickly swallow the final gulp of booze he was always sure to leave from the night before. He'd then visit a service station, strip to the waist and bathe in the sink. Following his ablutions, he would take his last quarter, again saved from the previous night, and deposit it in a newspaper vending machine. But instead of taking a single copy of The Reno Democrat, he'd take the entire bundle. After selling the newspapers to tourists he would invest the proceeds—always a businessman, Mr. Finnegan—in a bottle of booze. His formula for purchasing alcohol was:

PERCENT ALCOHOL x OUNCES

PRICE

This formula always assured Freddy of the highest possible blood alcohol level per dollar spent.

After purchasing his first bottle of the day Freddy would wander around Nightingale. Several restaurants left scraps and leftovers for the affable, red-faced drunk. Freddy was never hungry, but lately he had become picky. Four years ago, Freddy had a conversation with Woody McGuire, proprietor of John Barleycorn's Steak House. The gents hit it off and Woody began leaving one of his taxis unlocked on cold or rainy nights for Freddy to sleep in. Then, a foil wrapped baked potato or two—slathered in sour cream and pepper—began appearing. Then, a steak. The new manager, God Bless Davis, continued the tradition. Freddy had started gaining some weight and refusing the fast food castoffs he was offered. He also considered the possibility of spending one day a week sober, just as a change of pace.

Freddy's pastime and passion consisted of watching passersby and inventing wild, convoluted sexual tales. He would people watch and visualize and sip-sip-sip until his first bottle was drained, invest another quarter in the newspaper business, and invest that modest windfall in another bottle. On a good day he'd rip through several bottles of Gallo White Port and a fifth of bargain scotch. If he stumbled upon a twenty-dollar bill he would drink Irish whiskey. On the days he consumed Irish the distinction between maintenance and blackout drinker was obscured.

The last time Freddy was in this obfuscated state was in the wee hours of Monday morning when he saw a person dragging a woman, by her blonde hair, from John Barleycorn's. Before the blonde could be stuffed into the taxi next to his, a delivery truck arrived and the body was dragged back into the restaurant. Upon waking in the morning Freddy attributed the bizarre nightmare scenario to drunken tremors and fright. It wasn't until three days later that Freddy bothered to read one of his pilfered papers to discover that The death of John Barleycorn's twenty-nine year old Wanda Marie Tounens was officially attributed to natural causes. Examination pending.

"Natural causes, my ass," said Freddy. He tossed all but one of his papers into a trash bin and walked down the street. He tried to remember where he'd seen the person dragging the blonde-haired, still supple body of Wanda Marie. He stopped and had a sizeable snort of white port to jumpstart his polluted brain cells.

Of course, at Woody McGuire's private racetrack. Three weeks ago, following thirty-two hours of sobriety and feeling frisky, Freddy strolled out toward Paiute Mesa. He hopped a wooden gate, climbed a shale hill and watched a black horse run lap after lap under the guidance of a jockey; but also under the vigilant eyes of Woody, his Missus, and the dearly departed Wanda Marie.

Strange bedfellows.

He smiled. Frederick Arnold John Patrick Finnegan knew that only one thing paid better than honesty, industry, labor, thrift, and intelligent money management.

Blackmail.

* * *

CHAPTER 25

Len Arizona's campaign headquarters was located in a ramshackle, single-room schoolhouse that would have been condemned if Sagrado County's building inspector ever drove out to the Paiute reservation. Headquarters featured Len's cellular phone, one big dirty room with broken windows, and no indoor plumbing. Luckily the schoolhouse had a healthy, hungry, and active population of scorpions; which kept the deadly poisonous brown spiders under control.

And, of course, it was free.

Len could have run his low-key campaign from his office at Sagrado State College, but he was determined to keep his political life—a billboard, some placards, and his unofficial campaign manager, that crazy cab driver from John Barleycorn's—separate from his academic and personal life. Len, sitting on the front step, had just begun sorting his mail when Ken Moro arrived in a rented, silver Lincoln Town Car. Ken and a young lady who combined the merits of perky and sexy exited the Lincoln. She leaned against the car, almost posing it seemed, as Ken approached the quasi-abandoned building.

"Hi Kenny," said Len. "Davis told me you were in town."

"He told me where to find you," said Ken. "Don't get up, I'm here for just a minute." Ken reached down and they shook hands.

"Who's the lady?" asked Len.

"Business associate."

"I see."

Ken didn't bother to explain. Tasha, sensing her cue, waved.

Len returned the greeting, "You registered to vote in Sagrado County?"

"It's the only county I'm not registered to vote in." Ken tossed an envelope on top of the mail pile. A security envelope; sealed but not addressed.

"What's this?"

Ken retreated to the Lincoln, "A write off."

The mayoral candidate tore off one end, HUFFED it open and extracted five one-hundred dollar bills. "You need a receipt?"

"I already printed one for a thousand and forged your signature," said Ken. "Do some campaigning and knock that fat cat Rudd out of office."

"Thanks Kenny."

"What's your next campaign move?"

"I've decided to let Davis interview me on his show tomorrow."

"I'll tune in." Ken and Tasha hopped into the idling Lincoln. Sagebrush and piñon pine needles crackled beneath the rolling radial tires.

Len tucked the hundreds into his shirt pocket and thought about his campaign. He'd been all but forced to run for office by his cousins and Uncle William. They insisted he had the talent to make some changes and he ran just to shut them up. He knew all the old assholes and Rooster's cronies and town business owners would form an old-boy-league that open debate, insight, or integrity couldn't assail. So Len began his mayoral run by establishing the schoolhouse—three miles from the nearest paved road—as his headquarters so he could spend some quality time.

Alone in the desert.

Twice a week, since the campaign started, Len had tossed a couple days worth of unopened mail in the car and driven out to the schoolhouse. He then proceeded to open his mail, stare at his cellular phone and wait for Election Day so he could lose and his life would return to normal.

Today's mail: phone bill, a Dear Occupant flyer from GNC in Reno, this month's "Skeptical Inquirer" magazine, and a letter with no return address. Len ripped again, HUFFED again, tapped out the letter and read:

dear len,

my great-grandfather, orllie antoine tounens, though probably insane, has been a source of inspiration to me. in 1858, he was 31, he left france (and his law practice there) and arrived in chile. as a child he was devoted to, and had memorized the majority of an epic poem entitled la araucana. this epic told of the wild araucana indians of chile who had never been conquered; by the spanish or the chileans. they still ruled a harsh, small mountain kingdom: just a fraction of their former domain. it was orllie tounens' dream to unite these araucanas and win back the entirety of their lands. for two years he wandered in the chilean andes with an interpreter named rosales, learning the customs and language of the araucana. he wrote a magna carta, based on the constitution of france, that promoted the indians' independence from chile. finally he was granted an audience with the araucana chieftains. orllie explained his magna carta and presented the chiefs with a blue, white, and green imperial araucana flag. each chief sent for their warriors. the next morning orllie tounens was surrounded by 20,000 mounted warriors; the chiefs had accepted orllie's declaration of independence from chile and would fight for freedom.

rosales, witness to this insurrection, managed to get orllie away from the heavily defended mountains and betrayed him to the governor of chile. my great-grandfather almost died in jail before the french consulate intervened and sailed him back to france.

in france, orllie wrote several articles explaining his experiences and ideas for an independent, native state in south america. the newspapers considered him a crackpot explorer and labeled him a lunatic. the araucana's enthusiasm and organization waned under constant attacks from the chilean and argentinean armies and they were, for the first and only time, defeated. orllie antoine tounens remained in france, working on his memoirs. he died in 1878, his sarcastic obituary titled: new king of the araucana dead at 73. but for a short time, he had the loyalty and respect of the araucana. he had their best interests at heart. he was in truth their king.

i don't know what your dream is, len, but don't share it with anybody. it's a small minded petty little world. keep your dream to yourself; house it in your heart. let it nurture and gestate. decide on what you want then forget about it. when you plant a garden you don't dig the seeds up every day to see how they're doing—the same with your dream. bury it in the hushed recesses of your heart.

but here's how to fund your dream. bet on a horse named future glue in the sagrado derby. Do it and good luck with your dream.

wanda marie tounens

Len wrapped the five-hundred dollars in Wanda Marie's letter, slipped it into his rear pocket and strolled into the sagebrush. The desert heat filled the Sagrado Basin like a vital and animated presence.

* * *

CHAPTER 26

Davis and his headache rolled out of bed Wednesday morning at 6:07 A.M. Still half-asleep and barefoot he started coffee, then ventured outside. A frail layer of clouds served, not as shelter from the sun, but as an umbrella of insulation that kept the morning heat closer to the ground. He returned inside for coffee and to wake the twins for school.

Their twin beds were pushed into the corner beneath a bay window. Both girls slept on top of the covers. Jennifer lay on her back, with legs crossed at the ankles. She snored much too loud for a seven-year-old. Alexi's green pajamas were twisted as if she'd been wrestling rather than sleeping. Davis stood quiet and listened to the girls' breathing. Jennifer's sonorous wheezing contrasted and complimented Alexi's shallow snorts like woodwinds in a slick jazz quintet. "Ken, you'd better be right." Davis shook the twins awake.

The girls dog-piled their father.

He listened to the twins putter and bang around upstairs as he paused in the kitchen to pour a second cup of coffee. Davis' favorite coffee cup was a redbrick ceramic gourd he'd purchased at a bazaar in Rabat, Morocco. He sipped at the coffee with his eyes shut, following the sound of the girls' footfall across the ceiling. Water ran. The toilet flushed. Twice. Then three times.

Four times.

"C'mon guys," yelled Davis. The water stopped. But the giggling had started.

Running late, despite ample planning and preparation, he backed out of the garage and driving a little too fast motored south toward KFLO.

Dirk waited in the parking lot as Davis parked behind the KFLO HumVee. Dirk's eyes crinkled against the hurtful morning sun. "You're late, Davis."

"Couple a minutes, maybe," said Davis. "Are Chris and Len here?"

"The kid's not bad. Had a list of pre-interview questions for Len. Breezed through the pre-show meeting."

"Told you." Davis opened the driver's door and pigtails bobbed out of the Saab and surrounded their grandfather.

"Get your heinie inside," said Dirk. "I've got these beauties."

"Running a city, ma'am," said Len, "means a lot more than filling it with year round tourists. My concerns are about our water reserves, education, and incipient mercury pollution from the old mines. The residents of this—"

"Tourists," cackled the old caller over the studio's speakerphone, "are what make this town run. You can be goddam sure mayor Rooster Rudd has never, and will never, lose sight of that."

"Have you considered that Mayor Rooster Rudd spends tax dollars to promote Nightingale because he owns the local casino?"

"No."

Len said, "When Rooster advertises the town and his casino with our tax dollars, shouldn't that be considered malfeasance? Doesn't that fox-guarding-the-henhouse arrangement trouble anyone except me?"

"All I know," said the caller, "is I'm voting for Rooster Rudd, not someone teaching socialism at Sagrado State."

"I teach electronics."

"We'll be back," said Davis, "after this message from"—Sonuvabitch—"Rooster Rudd's Ode to a Nightingale Casino."

"We're away," said Dirk from the engineering booth. The twins waved.

"Ironic commercial spot, eh Len?" Davis returned the waves with blown kisses.

"I'm kicking ass and taking names today," said Len.

Chris said, "Why have you decided that there's no way you can beat Rooster?"

"That's because," said Len, "there's no way I beat Rooster."

Dirk said, "Back in three...two...one."

"Welcome to the Davis O'Kane Show. We have a caller. Good Morning."

"This is Rooster Rudd."

"Excellent," said Chris, "he got my message."

Davis and Len stared at Chris, who flashed them a thumb-and-pinkie Hang Loose.

"Morning Rooster," said Davis.

"Why wasn't I invited to this debate?"

"It's just a talk show," said Davis.

"You wanna debate, Len? I'll debate the hell outta you."

"I had planned," said Len, "to use this show as a forum. To speak directly with the citizens Nightingale."

Rooster cranked up his Good Ole Boy Drawl, "Well Boy Howdy, I'm a citizen of Nightingale and here's a question? What the holy heck did that goldurn twenty-five cent word you just used mean? Mal-FEE-sance? What's that? A skin disease?"

"C'mon Rooster," said Davis. "You graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of San Francisco Law School. Around fifty-five?"

"Fifty-seven, Davis. But that was a long time ago. Lenny, refresh my memory on the exact meanin' of that there word."

"Precise meaning?" said Len. "Official misconduct."

"I've never," said Rooster, "been convicted of a crime."

"I remember," said Len, "back in the seventies, two indictments, one by the Nevada State Gaming Commission, the other by the Environmental Protection Agency. The indictments were vaguely related, could you refresh my memory?"

"You on the warpath now, Chief?"

"C'mon Rooster," said Davis.

Len waved Davis away from the microphone, "Let's talk about kickbacks to EPA officials to ignore mercury seepage from a mine owned by McGuire & Rudd Mining. This was in exchange for high stakes gambling junkets for their buddies in D.C.—"

"Arizona, you are making me get interested in this election—"

"—at the Ode to a Nightingale Casino."

"—and when I get interested, I get dangerous."

"You're dangerous enough right now. An incumbent mayor who rocks the voters to sleep with one hand and goes through their wallets with the other."

"This is slander, Arizona."

"It's public record, Rooster. So is the fact that the last three opponents you defeated were employed at your casino."

"My workers' political beliefs ain't my concern, Chief."

"My name is Len Arizona, Mayor Rudd."

"We're away," said Dirk.

"Who cut me off?" said Rooster.

"I did, Rooster," said Davis. "We're at commercial."

"Is Arizona still there?"

"Right here, Rooster."

"Sorry about the name calling. Nothing personal, just part of the fricking game."

"No offense taken."

"But I am gonna bury your ass tomorrow." CLICK.

* * *

CHAPTER 27

Woody turned up his truck's radio: "Two indictments, one by the Nevada State Gaming Commission, the other by the Environmental Protection Agency. The indictments were vaguely related, could you refresh my memory?"

"You on the warpath now, Chief?"

"Give that polyester prick holy hell, Len." He pulled up in front of the Post Office and listened for another minute. "I just might have to call in a few favors for that Mister Arizona." Leaving the keys in the ignition he jumped from the truck, landing solidly on the heels of his cowboy boots. He waved to Corine, who, across the street, pursued, then persuaded two tourists into cash donations for the Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins Indian School. She didn't return Woody's wave. Friendly gestures and serious solicitation for a worthy cause didn't mix. "Stubborn old woman," said Woody. He'd offered many times to fund the project, but she refused to accept any dividends from M & R Mining or gambling winnings.

Winnings.

Another thing Wanda Marie had to attend to for Woody—where in hell was that goddam suitcase? He'd checked her house, using the key in that freaky Carib mask, but no Samsonite.

Woody entered Nightingale's Post Office. He tipped his green felt Stetson to the clerk who wore both her smile and postal uniform with an attitude of annoyed boredom. He opened his PO box: all his correspondence from M & R was sent here, not the ranch. He inspected three letters with a return address from M & R's corporate office in Carson City, then tucked them into his back pants pocket. The remaining letter was addressed in neat lowercase. He returned to the pickup and read:

woody,

i don't trust the u.s. post office to deliver anything but i couldn't send this note to the ranch. why? because I actually want you to read it.

why were you talking to davis like that this morning on the radio? were you drunk? bored? or just stupid? for you to win the mining company and for me to cash out and move to belize we have to play this close and quiet, after warning after warning from you and kaitlyn, i can't believe i have to tell you this.

am i right?

there, i hope i made you feel terrible.

anyway here's my indiscretion. i've written a few letters (mostly people i work with at john barleycorn's) telling them to bet on future glue. not telling them why, just to do it. they are all citizens who could use a break and the total they bet won't affect the pari-mutuel odds, but you've always said the way to get rich is in the dark, so i know your big action will be off-track, away from uncle sammy.

i remember when mom and dad died on that expedition to guyana; you were the only one i could call. when i hung up the phone i swore that no matter what life dealt me i'd never cry again.

remember that old man in belize? the lame silversmith who lived in the hut by the little dirt airstrip at santa clara? when i was sixteen—the last time i visited belize with mom and dad—our return flight was cancelled; the propeller fell off the plane, or some equally catastrophic maintenance problem, and we spent the night with the old man. i can't remember his name but mother and father and the old man, he was so arthritic he could barely walk but his hands fashioned this gorgeous silver jewelry, stayed up all night drinking plantain wine and conversing in carib. mother later told me that he wouldn't have spoken on the ball of twine if he knew i understood carib. the philosophy of the ball of twine if heard too early in life, he said, could cause irreparable damage.

laying on my sleeping bag, head in my mother's lap, i listened as he said that the destiny of each individual is governed by a law of evolution. every human being begins as the most primitive organism in the cosmos, a living atom that possesses only the sensations of weight and pressure. it passes through an almost interminable evolution, progressively gaining more senses. the atom grows and evolves through the entire plant kingdom—from alga to redwood—into the increasing complexity of the animal kingdom, and finally into the sphere of humanity. this evolution takes place through a series of ninety-six thousand existences that can never—through prayer, faith, or good works—be hurried. also, the process can't be retarded by any action. the atom will naturally arise and when the requisite number of existences have been attained, an unmitigated subliminal release occurs. when my father objected to the gloomy majesty of this philosophy the old man said simply: "life is a ball of twine thrown through the air. the ball will run out to the last inch of thread: the curve ends only when the entire ball is unwound. once set in motion—like the atom that courses through the mineral, vegetable, animal, and human forms—no human effort or divine intervention can affect this cycle of bondage, evolution, and release. my father objected strenuously, switching to spanish to express his contempt for this bleak and merciless philosophical system.

a parrot shrieked and my mother stroked my hair.

father asked the silversmith, who exported his jewelry to belize city and used the profits to support the local hospital and school at santa clara, why—if he believed this philosophy—he bothered to live such a selfless, nearly ascetic life? the old man struggled to his feet and laughed. love, respect, and good works toward fellow humans, he said while pouring more wine, doesn't cause release it is a síntoma, i remember he used the spanish word for symptom, just as—he farted—gas is a síntoma of eating beans. a good life is not the cause, but the characteristic, of a life that is approaching fulfillment and release. people who appreciate the stark and profound implications of the ball of twine theology are those who are nearly evolved; those who don't need a few thousand more lifetimes. simple, he said, and sat—folding his knobby arthritic legs beneath him.

mother kissed me softly and said, tiene razón: he's right.

woody, after my mother died i installed this ball of twine on my soul like a program on a computer. it works; divorcing yourself from the entanglements and results of your actions liberates you. i've done exactly what i've wanted and needed to do since my parents were killed. i'm one horserace away from helping my friends realize their dreams—whatever they are, i can't care or judge or dictate—and fulfill mine. i will be returning, permanently to the carib's rainforest.

but i've fallen in love with davis.

i haven't room in my life for these feelings, but they can't be denied.

the hardest thing I've ever done is push him away. there is no place in my life for a lover who has kids and lives in nightingale, nevada; but davis has somehow—like the carib's atom, somehow, without trying—found his way into my heart.

if he asked me to marry him, i don't know what i'd say.

that makes me cry for the first time since mother and father died.

speaking of marriage, woody, your wife's a bitch. watch your back.

thanks for listening,

wanda marie

Woody opened the glovebox and grabbed a pint of Jack Daniels. The bottle's twist top spun off with a satisfying crackle and Woody McGuire had his first A.M. slurp of booze in nearly six years. The last time Woody started the day with an English muffin and a fifth of Jack Daniels three Girl Scouts visited John Barleycorn's and before they'd left he'd bought $1571.86 worth of cookies. He didn't remember the purchase until the truck delivering his order rumbled up to the restaurant's back door a month later.

He wrote off the loss, froze the cookies and gave them away to customers as freebies, and, until today, never again drank before noon.

* * *

CHAPTER 28

Yurri Briscoe turned up the radio in his patrol car:

"Let's talk about kickbacks to EPA officials to ignore mercury seepage from a mine owned by McGuire & Rudd Mining. This was in exchange for high stakes gambling junkets for their buddies in D.C—"

"Arizona, you are making me get interested in this election—"

"—at the Ode to a Nightingale Casino."

"—and when I get interested, I get dangerous."

Yurri had more than a casual interest in this morning's broadcast; the winner of the election would be his boss. And, when Dirk was interviewing Local Personalities to host a twice weekly, grassroots talk radio show Yurri and Davis were the final two candidates. Davis had a great voice; not quite a baritone but still smooth and, and—Yurri squinted, trying to remember the proper adjective from his 30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary program—mellifluous: sweet sounding and smooth: also mellifluent.

But Davis wouldn't know a story if it bit him in the ass. Yurri corrected himself mentally: backsides, rear end, posterior. What the hell was that, the other day, an open microphone show about goddam twins?

Yurri's dream was to be a radio show host. Not like that Howard Stern asshole; more like a cross between Larry King and Judge Judy. He'd interview movers and shakers in the law enforcement community, and hand down sagacious pronouncements on points of law and procedure. Unequivocally, just like Judy. Dirk turned him down and what did he get? Twins. Discussions about how dogs and cats sound in different languages. Basque cultural appreciation day. "Bullshit," he said aloud and pulled the visor down to block the glare. The digital thermometer in front of the bank blinked 107. Those three crazy meatcuters from John Barleycorn's putted by in their battered microbus. Yurri made a mental note to pull them over for a vehicle code violation and search the van. The Thought for the Day in front of the Calvada Ecumenical Church of Meditation read:

ANYTHiNG AT All, INCLUDING CUNNING AND LieS,

WILL WOrK FOR THE BEAUTIFUL;

NOTHING HELPs THE UGLY

Yurri's attention strayed away from the streets of Nightingale and the Davis O'Kane show. The other night standing in John Barleycorn's freezer with that frozen—quiescent—corpse he had a feeling—premonition, insight, sensation—that it was a turning point in his life. The poor little bartender had bought it, that was too bad, anyone's death—expiration, departure, end, dissolution, cessation—was tragic, but Yurri felt a tingle like a kid on Christmas morning. And Officer Briscoe knew it was waiting for him, close at hand, in THAT GODDAM FREEZER. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slow; the fog from his breathing dissipated quickly. He searched the corpse's pockets; thirty-two dollars and a polished rock. She wore no jewelry, but she'd served Yurri some beers before and he'd already noticed she wore no watch or earrings. Nothing. She always left the cop with a perplexing sense of tranquility: she served everybody without haste or anxiety—like she really and truly didn't give a shit. Wanda Marie was an...an...enigma. She was smart without being talkative; desirable without being beautiful. Yurri had seen her often, riding that goddam Future Glue out by Paiute Mesa, out in the frigging middle of nowhere, all by her lonesome. He checked her face for bruises and neck for contusions.

None.

He untucked her shirt and spied the corner of a lightblue envelope. It was addressed simply: davis.

Yurri had Wanda Marie tagged, bagged, and refrigerated at Nightingale's Police Station before he brewed a cup of chamomile tea and steamed open the letter. Sitting alone in his office he read the letter slowly, impeded slightly by Wanda Marie's lowercase script. He read it again, smiled, and said: "Merry Christmas and God bless us everyone."

* * *

CHAPTER 29

"Hey," said Jennifer, "this isn't the way to school."

"I know," said Davis. "We're going someplace special this morning."

"Where?" said Alexi.

"Guess."

Alexi said, "Back to KFLO?"

Jennifer said, "Disney World in Orlando, Florida, where the magic lives on?"

"You watch too much TV," said Davis.

"Then so do you," said Jennifer.

Davis checked the girls in the rearview mirror. Both the little ladies wore shorts and blouses with their hair done in slightly askew pigtails. But Jennifer wore multicolored pastel stripes with white shorts and Alexi sported solid pastel green over yellow shorts. Another source of contention between Joan and Davis had been dressing the girls. Joan would purchase matching outfits and dress them like dolls so exact everyone but Davis needed nametags to tell them apart. Davis insisted on similar but distinct outfits. His eyes flicked to the road, then back to the mirror: his reflection looked better than he felt. He ran his fingers through his powdered-sugar-colored hair and even though it was barely long enough to ruffle, he felt he needed a haircut.

"Take a look up there," said Davis.

The girls craned their necks as Davis eased the Saab to a stop beneath a sign that proclaimed: TRAINTOWN!

Except for a chopped Harley and the Saab the parking lot was empty. "I'll be right back," said Davis. He exited the Saab and walked to the locked gate beneath the maize-and-crimson sign. Davis rattled the chained gate and yelled, "Anybody home?"

A voice from behind a ten-foot-tall water tower said, "Go to hell."

"Open the gate," said Davis, "I want to talk to you."

"We're closed."

"I just want to talk."

"Read the sign, bub."

"I'm not leaving until I talk to you," said Davis. He rattled the gate for emphasis.

Moments later a six-foot-seven, handlebar-mustached figure loomed. "What's your problem?"

"Good morning," said Davis.

"No it isn't." He adjusted the motorcycle chain that served as a belt. "What do you want?"

"I've got two little girls in the car who want to ride your train."

The man's stature was enhanced by the pixie-scale houses and trees that he towered over. "Bring 'em back at noon, bub."

"C'mon. One ride."

Mustache examined Davis and the two little heads bobbing up-and-down in the backseat of the Saab. "It's gonna take a twenty for this gate to swing open. We'll talk train fare later."

Davis made eye contact through the chain-links, noting a scar beneath the behemoth's left eye. "Name your price and I'll pay you after the ride."

"Twenty to open these here portals."

Davis fished out the emergency twenty he kept tucked behind his driver's license, folded it lengthwise and slipped it through a wire hexagon.

"No receipts, bub." He fished on a keyring that hung from his chain-belt. He located the gate key, clicked it home and swung open the entrance to TRAINTOWN! On cue, the girls slid out the driverside door, skipped across the parking lot and into Davis' arms.

TRAINTOWN! had over fifty acres of landscaped countryside and three miles of track. Like the manicured infield of Nightingale Meadows it was irrigated with reclaimed water from Sagrado County's state-of-the-art sewage treatment plant. A miniature locomotive puffed out steam as it pulled Mustache and his three passengers up the hill to the duckpond. Jennifer and Alexi swiveled their heads left-and-right, surveying miniature townships and villages. Davis sat content with his size fifteen cowboy boots propped on the seat in front of him. Mustache had donned a blue-and-white striped engineer's cap and tooted the whistle before each corner, as if he truly expected Lilliputian livestock on the track up ahead.

Jennifer's brown eyes glittered in the duckpond's reflected light. Davis stared at Alexi's white knuckles as they squeezed the rail of the seat in front of her. Wallowing in the self-pity he knew it would take a bottle of wine to cure, Davis thought about his impending court date with Joan. About the possibility of Ken's plan not working and losing the girls to his ex-wife. Davis said to the passing scenery: "Grief can take care of itself; but to get the full value of a joy you must have someone to share it with."

"What did you say, Pops?" asked Alexi.

"I didn't, baby. Mark Twain did." He yanked softly on her left pigtail.

"Thanks, Mister Trainman," said Jennifer.

"Yeah," said Alexi.

"They walked reluctantly across the parking lot, kicking gravel.

"Thanks," said Davis, extending his hand.

"One-hundred for the choo-choo ride, plus twenty for springing the gate equals one-twenty even."

"I already paid—"

"One-fifty."

"You just said one-twenty."

"We'll compromise," said Mustache. "One-sixty."

"I left my checkbook in the car," said Davis.

"That's one-sixty-five cash."

"I don't have any cash, but—"

"But what?" He stepped forward, crowding Davis.

Davis noticed that Mustache smelled, not unpleasantly, like a combination of olive oil and baby powder. He fished a business card from his shirt pocket. "Bring this card in any night I'm working and I'm buying you and three friends dinner and drinks."

He scanned the card, "How do you know myself and three friends won't eat and drink through about three-hundred dollars?"

"I hope you do."

Mustache smiled, "I'm congruent with that."

"Congruent?"

"Congruent: from the Latin congruere. Definition: corresponding; harmonious. Been doing that 30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary program. It kicks ass."

"Great," said Davis, "I'll see you at John Barleycorn's."

"You will. But you may have underestimated my thirst."

* * *

CHAPTER 30

Len entered his electronics class to a standing ovation. "C'mon," he said, "this isn't a rally."

"You kicked his ass," said a husky-voiced blonde who wore paisley shorts and always sat in the front row.

"Yeah," said another, equally blonde, but attired in denim.

Len said, "I'd like to thank everyone for goading me into appearing on the show."

"You're welcome," yelled Chris, from the back.

"Now," said Len, as he turned to the board, "the solid state era of electronics began..."

Chris ignored the lecture and re-read a letter he'd received in yesterday's mail:

chris,

i know you are into money and success, the big car, the successful career, the spacious house on the hill.

ain't nothing wrong with that, as long as you help people along the way. although serving other people and aggrandizing yourself seem to be opposites they aren't. if—and this is crucial—if you are doing something you are supposed to do. but how do you figure what that something is?

i know that you're thinking and pondering and questioning and analytically dissecting the future's possibilities. talking to people and counselors and mentors. this takes time and effort and never works. here's another way: franz kafka said: "you need not leave your room. remain sitting at your table and listen. you need not even listen, simply wait, just learn to become quiet, and still, and solitary. the world will offer itself to you to be unmasked. it has no choice; it will roll in ecstasy at your feet."

i know you were bludgeoned as a child with stifling whitebread christianity and think that idle hands are the devil's workshop and all that poo-poo, but that's not so. that's what those who have an investment in your not thinking have to make you believe; and make you feel guilty if you don't.

chris, go to the grocery store.

buy everything you need to eat and drink (no beer!) for two days. unplug your tv, phone, stereo, pager, and computer. then sit in silence in your house for 48 hours. at first you'll feel anxiety; that voice in your head will assault you: you are wasting time. do something. read a book. do pushups. Ignore that petty, work-a-day-world voice and sit at franz kafka's table. you will discover exactly what you need to discover. i know you object because, how can i find time to do nothing for two days? i'm a fulltime student, i work at john barleycorn's, the silverpanners have a home game today.

here's how.

bet on a horse named future glue in the sagrado derby. i know you live on a shoestring, but invest a hundred bucks and win enough for next semester's tuition and two consecutive, uninterrupted days off work. do it.

wanda marie

Chris placed the letter in a textbook and tried to concentrate on Len's lecture. He really tried.

* * *

CHAPTER 31

"This session is called to order," said the bald bailiff. "Judge Roger Webster presiding." Judge Webster, in a tank top, walking shorts and sandals beneath his judicial robe entered the Sagrado County courtroom and nodded to the bailiff who intoned, "All rise."

There were a total of six cases on the docket, Davis and Joan being the only divorce. Judge Webster who had just celebrated his ninth year on the bench, dealt swiftly with a thirty-two year old pickpocket: "Our livelihood in the fair township of Nightingale, and the entire state of Nevada, young lady, depends on tourism. Aside from a few mineral deposits, tumbleweeds, and sheep, that's all we got going." Judge Webster leaned forward and pointed his gavel at the crew-cut woman, "When you steal a wallet, and I know you're gonna say he wasn't in his pants at the time, but when you steal a wallet you take a little bit away from all of us. Sentenced: two years at the state correctional facility at Carson City."

"Judge Webster," said the pickpocket's lawyer. "There was only forty dollars in that wallet. This punishment is uncalled for."

"I know," said the Judge. "I just wanted to see the expression on her face." He banged the gavel. "Thirty days in County, less time served. Next."

Judge Webster dispatched the next two cases quickly. "O'Kane vs. O'Kane," the Judge echoed the bailiff, then said, "May I ask counsel to approach the bench?"

Ken, dapper in a blue Bill Blair, white silk shirt, and delicately pinstriped red-on-blue tie, advanced to Judge Webster's bench with Joan's lawyer, James Conrad. Like professional athletes who have more in common with the millionaires they play against than with the hometown loyals who buy the tickets, hotdogs, and hats that pay their salaries, so lawyers are to their clients. With the aloof dignity and disdain of the underworked and overpaid, Ken and James left their clients and stood before Judge Webster. "May I ask," rumbled the judge in his baritone, "exactly what the fuck is going on here?"

James glanced at Ken and said, "A divorce."

"A Cherokee woman," said Judge Webster, "could place her unfaithful husband's belongings outside their house and a divorce would be granted and recognized by the entire tribe. Aside from this ancient, but oh-so-civilized tradition the State of Nevada has the simplest divorce proceedings in the cosmos. Why are you wasting this court's time?"

"Special circumstances, Judge," said Ken.

"What special circumstances?"

Ken handed the judge Joan's crumpled THIS AIN'T NO HALLMARK CARD.

"That's inadmissible," said James.

"The proceedings haven't official begun, James," said Ken. "Give that a quick read, Judge."

Expressionless, he read the card and said, "A Sheriff friend of mine has repeatedly told me he'd rather be in a free-for-all in a Hell's Angel bar than a domestic squabble in the suburbs." He returned the card. "Gentlemen, this court's time is valuable. A swift and simple solution to this dilemma would be appreciated."

Like boxers having received prefight instructions, Ken and James returned to their respective corners. Judge Webster pointed his gavel at James Conrad. "You start."

James used his arms to raise his bulk from the chair he'd just occupied. He sighed, "Your Honor—"

"If it may please the court?" said Ken.

"It had better," said the judge.

"My client concedes to his wife's demands." Ken, who had remained standing, rocked heel-to-toe.

"All of them?" The judge stared at Davis. The poor bastard looked a little goofy, in a distracted Bob Dylan-esqe manner, but he sure-as-shit didn't look stupid. "Okay, that leaves him with what? A car and a job?"

"Pretty much," said Ken.

"I want to hear him say it," said Judge Webster.

Davis stood, clasped his hands behind his back and said, "It."

"This ain't fun and games, son. Your wife is after your children and all your cookies."

Davis turned to Ken.

"I can do everything but make up your mind."

"Thanks," said Davis. "I," the words caught in his throat. "I concede to her demands."

The judge stared at Davis a full-five-seconds, then banged his gavel. "Next case."

Davis and Ken stood silently on the relatively cool, shaded-granite steps of the courthouse. The bank's digital thermometer blinked 109 109 110. They each smoked a blonde Perfecto. Ten feet away Joan yelled at her lawyer. "I'm not paying you five-thousand dollars."

"I represented you," said James. "And we won. The bill is in the mail. And if you think I was good in there, try not paying me."

"Good in there?" said Joan. "You said two words."

"Hell of a way to make a living, ain't it though?" James patted her on the arm and said to the smokers, "Nice seeing you, Ken. And Davis, do you know why divorces cost so much?"

Davis shook his head and James said, "Because they are worth it." The men saluted James with a wave of their cigars. As he trudged down the steps into the brutal sun. Joan, wearing heels, CLICK-CLACKED-CLICKED down the steps. "James-fricking-Conrad, I'm not through with you."

"I hope she remembers to pick the kids up at three," said Davis.

That's when Woody pulled up in his red Dodge pick-up and said, "You boys wanna go for a ride?"

* * *

CHAPTER 32

Davis flicked sweat off his nose, "Doesn't this rig have air conditioning?"

"At least you have a window," said Ken, who sat sandwiched between the two Sagrado residents.

"Air conditioning's no good for you," said Woody. "Gives ya the chills. I love this fucking heat. Opens up the pores, makes you feel alive."

Davis shrugged and looked out the window as Woody drove slowly down Sagrado Boulevard. In front of the Ode to a Nightingale Casino, Chris and three other students stood with life-sized cardboard cutouts of Len Arizona mounted on broomsticks. In each of Len's hands were pictures of strangled pop-eyed roosters with their little pink tongues hanging out. Three casino bouncers stood nearby in their maroon-and-gold uniforms, scanning, inspecting, and staring. Corine Rucker, despite the heat, wore her green-and-red tam o'shanter and hiking boots. She stood off to the side, soliciting contributions for the Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins School, but with an eye on the bouncers.

"Could be trouble for those kids," said Davis.

That's when the smallest of the bouncers snatched away Chris' placard and threw it into the street. Chris pushed the Mickey Rooney-sized bouncer. The uglier of the remaining two bouncers grabbed Chris from behind. The three Arizona campaigners kept the third bouncer away from by jabbing and jousting at him with their placards. The small bouncer stood in front of Chris, wondering what to do. "Hit him," said the ugly bouncer restraining Chris. "Pop him one."

Woody stopped his truck in the middle of Sagrado Boulevard and was opening his door when Corine busted her donation jar, a glass salad bowl Woody had won for her at the Nevada State Fair, over the ugly man's head. Glass, dollar bills, change, and not a little blood covered the carpeted sidewalk. Without a word she handed her tam to Chris, took three steps back, two forward and buried a size three-and-a-half hiking boot in the ugly bouncer's scrotum.

"Goddam," said Woody, "that Corine's got spunk." He clambered back into the truck and accelerated down Sagrado Boulevard.

"Woody," said Davis, "where are we going?"

"The ranch."

En route to Woody's ranch the threesome in the truck had become a ninesome. They rescued LesJimCarl, whose van had broken down on the outskirts of town. Mike the cook, Nancy the new hostess, and Carlos the dishwasher were in the van at the time. Standing in the back of Woody's truck, whistling and hooting, the new passengers enticed several carloads of friends to follow them to Woody's.

The red Dodge bounced up the road to the main house, followed by a small convoy. Kaitlyn, lifting weights, nude, on the sunporch, donned a purple chenille robe and greeted the procession. "What have we here?" asked Kaitlyn.

"If I ain't mistaken," said Woody, "we have the makings of an impromptu soiree in honor of Nightingale's newest eligible bachelor, Davis O'Kane."

Davis honest-to-God blushed.

Woody shouted orders: "Mike, fire up that barbecue. Jim, you know where the beer is. Kaitlyn, ask Ken what he wants to drink. Me and Davis is going fishing."

"Fishing?" asked Mike.

"Just get that bee-bee-cue fired up, Mike. We'll be back directly."

A shed near a wooden pier on the eastern side of Lake Wally housed Woody's fourteen foot outboard, Felicity. Davis shaded his eyes, blinked away the glare and watched Woody unlock the shed and launch the boat. Sounds of the burgeoning party: what sounded like a volleyball game, Emmy Lou Harris' version of "Icy Blue Heart", and a small explosion—Mike igniting the bee-bee-cue, no doubt—drifted up from the house. Lake Wally, in the noon sun, glittered like a mosaic. Woody fired up the grumbling two-cycle motor, "Hop in."

"What the hell," said Davis.

The engine gurgled and burped the boat to the center of the lake. Woody throttled back and pulled a single tackle box from under the seat. Davis noticed there were no poles, only a long-handled fishing net and some Glad bags. "It's peaceful up here," said Davis.

"Placid," said Woody. "At times it approaches the serene."

Davis studied the forest that ringed the opposite shore. A Pacific Northwest lakescape in the middle of Nevada's basins and ranges. The old fart had created this ecosystem out of a ria and a homemade sixteen-foot landfilled dam. "Woody McGuire, environmentalist."

"What?"

"Nice lake."

In the distance thunderheads towered above the Sierra Nevada. As they had for the last two-and-a-half million years the clouds would dump the majority of their moisture on the western slope of the mountains and then dissipate in the upper atmosphere. Davis' father used to say, "God had one hell of a hangover the day he made Nevada." Davis felt there was more than a kernel of truth in that statement, because if anyone in the world knew hangovers it was his father.

"Yeah, real nice lake," said Woody. "When the world drives me apeshit: the wife, my horse, Rooster; I come up here and think. It's the only private, personal place I have. Woody opened the tackle box and produced another pint of Jack Daniels. He drank and offered the bottle to Davis.

Davis shook his head, dipped his hands in the water, washed his face, neck and arms, then splashed the front of his white shirt. "How are we gonna catch fish for fourteen, fifteen people?"

"Forget about lunch, we gotta talk."

Davis motioned for the bottle.

"Atta boy."

Davis GLUGGED at the bourbon and did a Three Stooges "WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP."

Woody cut the motor and stared at Davis, "How'd everything go at the courthouse?"

Davis explained Ken's plan to Woody, who listened patiently, then said, "I've done some stupid-shit things in my day, one that got me tossed out of the Marines, another that got me tossed into the California State Penitentiary, but that is the dim-wittedest thing I've ever heard. Am I right?"

"What did you get sent up for?"

"We're talking about you and the children, goddamit." He had a narrow, tanned face, with a long pointed nose. His lips were pouty, almost feminine. If not for the ears that stood too far out from his longish hair, he would have been considered eminent looking. He drank and smiled without parting his lips. "I was arrested for manslaughter." He drank again and passed the pint to Davis. "He deserved it." Woody seemed liberated, talking, isolated and insulated from the world by the lake he'd created. "Bob Rilke was a waste of DNA. He was this fire-and-brimstone preacher that I had a scam going with. Fleecing a few rich Holy Rollers in San Diego. They had too much money for their own good, we were going to liberate and disseminate some of their cash."

"A true socialist Samaritan."

"Then I found out that Preacher Man Bob liked to stick his pee-pee into snatch that wasn't quite ripe." He drank. "About ten years shy of being ripe. So I drove Preacher Man Bob out into the Southern California desert, kicked him out of the pick-up and chased him down."

"Jesus Christ."

"That's what he kept screaming. The funny part is that, after I ran him down, front left bumper, he didn't die right away. So I had to back over him two or three times. This goddammed old fifty-four Ford I was driving didn't have a synchromesh transmission, so I had to come to a complete stop to shift into reverse. This served to give the grubby old pervert a fighting chance. I would have gotten away with it completely if the fucker had the decency to die right away, but a tour bus full of Japanese tourists on their way to Vegas cruised by and got about nine-hundred snapshots of me backing over Preacher Man Bob for the third and final time. Even though his blood and shreds of his Preacher Man Suit were found on the Ford's front and rear bumpers, they convicted me of vehicular manslaughter rather than murder because of Preacher Man Bob's penchant for de-flowering the unblossomed."

"The spirit, rather than the letter of the law?"

"You got it now, Davis."

Woody, mouth open, gazed across the lake. The green, flat-bottomed Felicity had drifted slowly toward the wooded shore of the lake. A red-tailed hawk's SCREEECH re-echoed across the water. Davis took his turn at the pint and said, "You ran me over, too. I wish you would've used a truck."

Woody placed a leathery hand on Davis' knee. "When I took your bet I didn't know how good you were at handicapping. I should have placed the bet and avoided all this unpleasantness. But it was half your fault."

"Buffalo shit."

"Look at yourself. You look like a high school History teacher who stages Civil War reenactments on the weekends. Hollywood, my friend, would not cast you as a gambler." Woody squeezed Davis' knee and withdrew his hand. "But that's not why I brought you on this tour of Lake Wally."

Davis sponged down again. "Enlighten me; I work in a couple of hours."

"Children," Woody squinted at Davis, "are about the only thing in this fraudulent, crooked, God-forsaken, dismal, back-asswards, hexed, and calamitous world that make anything worthwhile. You may think that I'm just some old fart who crossed your path and caused you grief, but for what it's worth. I view you as the little snot-nosed bastard son I never had." Davis started to speak, but Woody rushed on, "Being childless I can't say that I know what you're going through with the kids and this divorce crap, but, again, for what it's worth, I had my will changed and made your kids the beneficiaries. Just so you'll know—whether you get your money out of John Barleycorn's or not—that they're provided for." Woody punched Davis on the point of his chin.

Davis spat into his hand, checking for blood, "Woody—"

"You say one goddam thing besides Thank You, I'm changing it back."

Davis spat into Lake Wally, "Thank you."

Woody finished the pint and tossed it, past Davis' left ear, into the bow. He started the motor and CHUG-PUTTED to the center of the lake. "But there's one condition."

"Surprise, surprise."

"I want you to deliver my eulogy." He killed the motor and let Felicity drift. "But there's one word you can't use."

"Bastard?"

"Worse," said Woody. "God." Vulnerability spread across Woody's face. He sat hunched and assailable; rocking with the motion of the boat. "I want my ashes scattered over Lake Wally and I want you to do the talking. That would be fitting. Am I right?"

Davis nodded.

Woody started the motor, but instead of heading to the dock, accelerated into a sweeping left-hand turn, "Now let's do some fishing. Grab that net."

Davis held the net with both hands, much like a 1930's British tennis player at Wimbledon, standing in awe before the Queen Mother. Woody braced the motor's tiller beneath his left armpit and fumbled in the tackle box with his right.

"Woody?"

From the black box Woody extracted a hand grenade. He yanked the pin with his teeth and tossed the grenade in Felicity's wake. Moments later a geyser out of "Das Boot" rocked the boat and soaked the occupants. Woody throttled back and held open a garbage sack as bloated carp, catfish, and bass corked and bobbed to the surface.

"Woody McGuire, ecologist," said Davis.

"Hey," said Woody, "it's my fucking lake."

* * *

CHAPTER 33

Davis and Woody dumped two garbage sacks full of fish near the smoldering BBQ pit. Mike reclined on Kaitlyn's bench press pumping out reps, trying to impress Nancy who was talking to two female friends who were checking out Carlos who was being eyed by Kaitlyn who was talking to Ken. LesJimCarl were drinking and serving beer to another gaggle of young females who had somehow found the party. Woody stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Silence.

"Prep crew," he yelled, "where's my old prep crew?"

"Over here," said LesJimCarl.

"You're now on the clock," said Woody. "Clean and cook these bastards. Mike, get me a beer, then we're gonna whip up some hush puppies."

"Woody?" asked Mike, sitting on the edge of the bench press, shirtless and sweaty. "How'd you catch all those fish?"

"A trick my daddy taught me."

He said, "Was he a fisherman?"

"No," said Woody, "he was in the Navy."

"Like Christ feeding the multitudes?" said Ken.

"Shh," said Davis, "he'll blow up a bakery."

Ken sipped at a brandy served in a small fishbowl. It wasn't his first. His blue-and-red tie was now a headband and he was barefoot. Ken abandoned Kaitlyn and approached Nancy and the girls; always working, that Ken Moro, always working.

Woody and Mike, beers in hand, disappeared into the house.

Kaitlyn said, "Davis, may I have your opinion?" She had changed into a Daisy Duke-ish outfit.

"On what?"

Kaitlyn answered by walking across the lawn to the rear of the house. Davis, following, said, "Where are we going?"

"To see my collection."

"Of?"

Kaitlyn stopped at a door to what once was a root cellar. She unlocked the door and flicked on a light. Fifteen cages, each containing a trio of rodents lined the sidewalls. A large table in the center of the room held three exercise wheels, an Edmunds digital scale, a laptop, and glass apothecary jars with white, yellow, zinc, and green powders.

"Why are you raising rats?" asked Davis.

"They're laboratory rats," said Kaitlyn. "I'm experimenting with them. The girls."

"They're all female?" Davis stuck his finger into a cage containing three white rats. The trio ignored him. "Yeah, they're female."

"The girls are used to being handled, kind of like the waitresses at John Barleycorn's."

The room was lit with fluorescent fixtures. Plotted graph paper covered the far wall. Two bags of cedar chips and a bag of feed pellets were stacked on a small table. "What are you doing, Kaitlyn?"

"I'm developing a post-workout-recovery drink designed specifically for women. You know I workout?"

"I'd never have guessed."

"Incessantly. Weights. Jogging. Swimming. Yoga. And I've developed a blend of phyto-nutrients and vegetable protein, potassium, and chromium that I gobble up after every workout. They work—"

"Wonderfully well."

"You're sweet." The rats rustled. Kaitlyn touched Davis' cheek. "But I needed to test the formula. To see if it was effective if you worked out," she repeated, "incessantly, a little, or not at all."

Davis motioned at the cages, "The girls?"

"The girls. I can vary their exercise, diet and rest. They receive precise monitored doses of nutrients." She pointed at the graphs on the wall.

"How long have—"

"A year with the rats. The original formula took four years of trial-and-error, using myself as the rat; mixing percentages of various products on the market." She performed a rat-like nibble at her lower lip. My KYB POST WORKOUT POWDER is almost ready to be submitted to the FDA for approval."

Davis leaned against the table and crossed his arms. He studied Kaitlyn from top-to-toes and noticed something that had eluded him previously. Her eyes, not the soft-doe-eyed-brown color, but the force and intensity. The light was on and someone was home—perhaps more than one someone, depending on the circumstance—but the space was occupied. There is a prevailing, reverse-prejudice that has developed in this country: it asserts, simply, that beautiful women are inherently vapid, dull, stupid, or all three. "Kaitlyn, this is amazing."

She turned Shirley Temple shy—reinforcing the stereotype—and mumbled, "Thanks."

But it was a good look on her.

"KYB?" asked Davis.

She perked up, "Kaitlyn's Youth Beverage. That's the official name, but I think of it as Keep Your Boobs. I hate those female runners and weightlifters who exercise their boobs away." She leaned forward just enough to show Davis what had not, in Kaitlyn's case, been exercised away.

"Those runners and weightlifters disgust me," said Davis.

"My formula contains, in addition to minerals and selected botanicals, a proprietary blend of lineolic, oleic, palmitic, and stearic acids. All the essential lipids which are necessary for a trim, but decidedly feminine shape."

"Decidedly." He was suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

"I didn't know any of the Chemistry bullshit. I just sent what worked for me to a laboratory in Maryland and they analyzed it." She CLICKED off the lights. The rats scurried.

Davis FLICKED the lights on. The rats froze.

Kaitlyn said, "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"How much money does Woody," CLICK, lights off, "owe you?"

FLICK. "A lot, Kaitlyn."

"Since he screwed you, wouldn't it be ironic if," CLICK, "you screwed—"

FLICK. "Irony's been big trouble for me these days, Kaitlyn."

Kaitlyn abandoned night-fighting; she employed a full frontal assault: she snaked her arms around Davis' neck. She lay her head against his chest. "Your heart is pounding."

"Pumping blood to God-knows-where."

"I'd venture a guess." She smiled up at Davis.

How much money does Woody owe me? thought Davis.

"How well did you know Wanda Marie?" asked Kaitlyn.

"How well did you know Wanda Marie?" asked Davis.

"Better than most of Woody's old employees." She snuggled closer to Davis, who stood stiffly at Parade Rest with arms at his side.

Davis pushed her away and walked to the door. "That's ironic Kaitlyn, because I hired Wanda Marie after Woody had sold John Barleycorn's to Umberto." CLICK. Davis exited the dark root cellar-laboratory, squinting against the sudden brightness.

* * *

CHAPTER 34

A little known Ray Davies song begins:

"I was born a slum gutter infantile

Brute-force educated delinquent juvenile.

I am a product of mass produced factory fodder,

Streets full of tenement blocks, rat infested filth and squalor."

This anthem of poverty could have been written for Kaitlyn Powell. She grew up on the back streets of Sparks, Nevada. Her father invented a machine that winnowed through the sand of skeet shooting clubs and recovered up to ninety percent of the buckshot for resale. The machine resembled a cross between a wheat thresher and a bulldozer. Kaitlyn was ten when Mr Powell lost his balance while opening a bag of Nacho Doritos, tumbled from his perch atop the hybrid machine, and was recycled along with hundreds of thousands of OO buckshot.

Kaitlyn was eleven when her widowed mother told an OB-GYN that her daughter was sexually active and needed a prescription for birth control pills. The Good Mother failed to mention that this activity was limited to Mrs Powell's new twenty-six year old boyfriend's nightly visits to Kaitlyn's bedroom.

At the ripe-old-age of twelve Kaitlyn realized that only women could use sex to obtain what they wanted because sex was what men wanted. She utilized this knowledge to negotiate room-and-board from a former Televangelist who managed a trailer court in Reno. So sex became a tool for Kaitlyn, something to be used like a surgeon's scalpel, to remove precisely what she deemed worth removing. This utilitarian use of her body didn't cheapen sex for Kaitlyn; sex couldn't be cheapened for Kaitlyn, it was simply the currency with which she paid for her next meal, next apartment, next car.

Kaitlyn screwed her way out of Reno to Seattle, San Francisco, San Diego, Honolulu, and to a homecoming of sorts, twelve years later, in Las Vegas. She met Umberto Ciccarelli who invited her to travel with him to a town up north named Nightingale. There she met Woody and decided to settle down in the Sagrado Valley; the fact that Woody owned a significant portion of the valley was more than a little incentive.

Woody treated Kaitlyn more fairly and decently than anyone she'd known. He insisted on a legal wedding—making her an Honest Woman—she would have been satisfied with a living arrangement. Kaitlyn blossomed in the security Woody provided. She started working out religiously, reading nutrition manuals, and then, with great difficulty, Chemistry manuals. Her work on the KYB formula had been nothing but a labor of love and Woody hadn't questioned any expense. Ray Davies concluded his obscure song:

"And when you think of all the things I've done

It says a lot for one

Who worked his way up off the streets."

"You don't know," said Kaitlyn, alone in the dark, "what you're missing, Davis." FLICK, lights on, Kaitlyn turned to the rats. "Time for your injections, girls."

* * *

CHAPTER 35

"C'mon Davis, she wanted the steak medium rare," said Chris. The white plate flashed briefly in the ruby glare of heatlamps then crashed down on the cook's side.

"You're fired," said Davis.

"Right," said Chris. "I'm your only real employee."

"The others are holograms?"

Davis and Chris stared each other down.

"Sorry about the plate, Davis," said Chris. "Please find me a medium-rare New York. Pretty please?"

Davis probed and palpated a row of steaks, found a New York that was the proper temperature and plated it for Chris. "How's everyone doing?"

"They're all in the weeds. I pulled Zenny from the bar to help us."

"That bad?"

"Worse, I'm giving you the Glass Half Full version," said Chris. "What the hell can I do?"

"I'm stuck back here all night, you're the floor manager," said Davis, "just manage."

"What's in it for me?"

"My radio show. You're the new host. I'll clear it with Dirk."

"I'm down with that." Chris picked up the plate and limped through the dining room.

"That was easy enough." Davis replaced the New York he had taken from the grill. The cooks' line at John Barleycorn's was an exhibition broiler opening onto the dining room: customers could peer in and watch the cooks char, burn, singe, and incinerate their beefsteaks. The nine-foot long mesquite grill was bookended on one side by a convection oven for ribs and baked potatoes, and on the other side by a steamer for lobster, crab, and artichokes. Three feet away, parallel to the grill sat the steam table. Inserts of melted butter, mashed potatoes, mushrooms, rice, rib sauce, gravy, chicken stock, maple syrup for corn bread, au jus, rice, more rib sauce, and hot fudge were aligned like exhaust flumes on a miniature nuclear power plant. To the left of the steam table sat a prime rib oven. Beneath the steam table lurked a labyrinth of drawers that housed lamb, beef, seafood, and a perambulating diversity of microorganisms. In the three-foot strip between the grill and the steam table Davis and two cooks performed an awkward culinary ballet. Twelve waiters were working tonight. Each waiter ran six tables capable of seating up to seven people. That translated into twenty-four tags per cook; a possibility of one-hundred and forty-eight dinners per seating. On a busy night each waiter would have four seatings.

The cook on the far left, Luc Dong Phong shoveled foil-wrapped potatoes into the convection oven. Luc looked sixteen-years-old, but he may have been younger. When he fled Cambodia four years ago he was the last living member of his family. He had no birth certificate and no one alive who remembered when he'd been born. Luc wrote 1978 in the Date of Birth section of his naturalization Form, thinking they were asking what year his recently purchased Dodge Dart had been manufactured. Officially, then, Luc was twenty-two and could legally drink, pay taxes, and get laid once a week in a Carson City cathouse. His main leisure activity, besides his weekly sojourn to Carson City and attending Sagrado Silverpanners home games, was reading Nancy Drew mysteries. Luc closed the oven and calmly faced his end of the grill, covered with steaks of varying degrees of doneness. He smiled at Davis and lit a menthol cigarette.

Next to Davis was Reuben Jose Romero Juarez. RJRJ's responsibility on a three-cook-line was to work the middle portion of the grill and slice the prime rib. While flipping steaks RJRJ would periodically scream, "¿Cuantos, cuantos, cuantos?" Following this interrogative all three cooks would scan their tags. Davis and Luc would count how many prime ribs they needed and communicate the information to RJRJ via Spanglish and sign language. Luc and RJRJ would count how many orders of lobster and crab they needed and pantomime that info to Davis. Then Davis and RJRJ would count the necessary number of baked potatoes and ribs and relay that data to Luc. The broiler on a busy night resembled the cooks at the United Nations' cafeteria playing charades. Davis glanced at the clock, 10:47. "Thank God," he said, "we close in thirteen minutes."

Luc smiled uncomprehendingly and lit another cigarette.

RJRJ said, ¿Davis, donde esta Mike?"

"I haven't seen Mike since Woody's ranch this afternoon," said Davis. "Which is why I'm mired in the kitchen with you gentlemen."

The door to the aluminum storage shed shrieked open. Mike stepped out into the darkness and buttoned up his Levi 501s. He was shirtless, hair disheveled. "Christ, is it dark already? C'mon Nancy."

Nancy pushed herself up from the patio chaise lounge that Kaitlyn had stored in the shed last summer. Barefoot and butt-naked the new John Barleycorn's hostess exited the steamy interior of the shed alongside Woody's private horsetrack. "Look at all the stars. Mike, where's the Big Dipper?"

Mike grabbed his crotch, "Right here, Babycakes." They kissed and moved back toward the interior of the shed when Future Glue galloped by.

Nancy almost bit Mike's tongue off, "What was that?"

"Woody's horse." He stroked her hair. "No wonder that sucker's never won a race, running around the old fart's ranch all night."

* * *

CHAPTER 36

"Pass the Tabasco?' asked Davis.

"Sure," said Ken.

They sat at the large table in Ken's suite above the Ode to a Nightingale Casino, eating Swiss cheese, spinach and mushroom omelets. The room was decorated in what Davis thought of as a nouveau riche Maxfield Parrish motif. Gold torchiere lamps in each corner, chrome, glass, and marble furnishings and a floor-to-ceiling window that opened out onto a balcony which provided an unobstructed view of the Silverpanners' Stadium, the distant Sierra, and two rundown trailer courts.

Davis soused his omelet with Tabasco. He hadn't eaten since yesterday at Woody's ranch. The fish and fried hushpuppies were good, but the pot of okra that Woody concocted was superb; made with corn, waxbeans, butter, and bourbon. In the last two months Davis had lost twelve pounds. He didn't know if it were physical or psychosomatic, but the food at John Barleycorn's gave him instant abdominal cramps and diarrhea. The last meal Luc had cooked for him Davis decided to cut out the middleman: he threw it directly in the toilet, flushing twice. His main caloric intake this spring had consisted of breakfast cereal and beer. "Good omelet," said Davis, "thanks Birdman."

Ken checked his watch and pushed his plate away. "I've got an appointment in about fifteen minutes."

"This early?" Davis had dropped the girls off at school and zipped directly to Ken's.

"The midnight to nine cocktail shift's just getting off work," said Ken. "That's a good shift for me to shop on."

"Why?"

"It's a terrible shift for the girls. Hard core gamblers and drunks. Lousy tips. No nightlife because you have to work at midnight. No reasonable daytime routine because you sleep from nine A.M. to four or five in the afternoon, get up, eat leftover spaghetti or meatloaf for breakfast and watch TV until it's time to work."

Davis blew on his coffee and watched the Silverpanners warm up for a contest. Since the stadium—it was an honest-to-God-stadium, with dugouts and bleachers—didn't have lights, all home games were played in the relatively cool early morning hours.

"It's a shitty, no seniority shift," continued Ken, "and so younger waitresses work it."

"Why do you recruit so heavily in No Slots, No Sluts Nightingale? Isn't that like trying to buy groceries in a hardware store?"

"I enlist as many girls from Sagrado County as I do from the rest of the state. I don't want pros. They are so crass; so American—"

"Here we go."

"Seriously Davis, American hookers are into instant gratification. The Money. A blow-an-go, a ten minute Around the World, then take the money and run."

"They're hookers, not social workers. It's how they make rent and pay off the car."

"Just like Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places, right? Horseshit on that nonsense," said Ken. "It's how they purchase needles and blow for themselves and their screwed-up boyfriends. The hooker with a heart of gold is entirely a fictional entity. I give my girls a one-year contract, decent pay, a chance to see the world, learn a new language—"

"You're the social worker."

Ken flipped Davis off, "My clientele wants an ingenuous, fun-loving blonde or brunette who will say; 'no.' Until she says; 'yes.' That's why I recruit hometown Nightingale girls who are just virginal enough to titillate, but worldly enough to deliver. That describes a majority of the females under thirty in this town. There must be something in the water."

Davis though of Lisa the babysitter.

Then he thought of Jennifer and Alexi. He shook his head and chased that twisted and frightening image from his mind.

Ken smiled. Depending on the situation his smile could project warmth and honesty, or stealth and quiet danger. Davis just realized it wasn't his perfectly capped teeth or mouth that changed, it was his brown eyes. Wide-eyed, he's the boy parents want their daughters to date. Narrowed, looking down his nose, you wouldn't leave him in a room where everything wasn't bolted down. He stood and tied his Adriatic blue tie and slipped into his Gucci loafers. He alternately polished the loafers on the back of his calves, then checked the shine.

"Dressed for success?"

"You should consider a wardrobe change; you look like an extra from Hee Haw."

"That's a great show, Birdman."

"You're shitting me."

Davis tried to locate Carlos the dishwasher—who also played third base for the Panners—among the cluster of ballplayers stretching and playing catch. It wasn't yet 8:30 and already waves of heat rose, waffling in the distance. "I first thought Hee Haw was a little hokey, but it grows on you."

"C'mon?"

"One day I was sitting on the couch watching Hee Haw, and all of a sudden I start making out with my mother."

"Smartass." Ken stacked the plates on the room service cart. Then he laid out four neat piles of five one-hundred dollar bills on the silver serving tray.

"When are you leaving for Japan?"

Ken smiled, wide-eyed. "Tasha is lining up some great girls for me, and there's the election, and the Sagrado Derby, so I'll just hang around for a week and file that addendum for your divorce."

"Thanks Ken. You can eat free at John Barleycorn's."

"Davis, it's customary to reward a good deed."

The phone rang. Ken answered, then handed the phone to Davis.

Davis "uh-huhed" his way through the two minute call and hung up.

"Who was that?" Ken shined his shoes again.

"Woody."

"How'd he know—"

"Woody, Rooster; Rooster, Woody. Small town bullshit."

"What'd he want?"

"He told me to sell all my stock, liquidate all assets—"

"Little late for that."

"—and bet on Future Glue in the Sagarado Derby. To win. And if I told anyone I'd end up with my balls in my mouth."

The doorbell rang: "Fur Elise", in chimes.

"I love this place," said Ken. "A Beethoven doorbell in a shag carpeted suite. The nth degree of Nevada chic." He winked at Davis, sat, crossed his legs and transformed himself into a stern and aloof businessman. He said, "Enter."

Four women were ushered into the room by Tasha. A mixed bag: blonde, redhead, raven-haired, and mahogany brown. They'd obviously been coached by Tasha before entering the room. They sat on the edge of the sofa and waited. Tasha, dressed in a flowing and flimsy white cotton dress and a silver hairnet, completed Davis' Maxfield Parrish fantasy by standing with one arm snaked around a gold torchiere. She punctuated the image by kicking off her white sandals and staring out the window.

Each of the girls stood, stripped, and displayed their wares as casually an Amway dealer demonstrating a new cedar-scented, biodegradable carpet cleanser. Ken watched, aloof. Davis didn't notice; he studied Tasha. She kneaded the long shag carpet fibers with her toes. Beneath the white fabric he watched her calf muscles bunch and contract, then relax. The spell was broken when Tasha placed her hands on hips, stepped back into her sandals and said, "Mister Moro will be in touch, ladies."

The quartet dressed, each of them picked up $500, and left in pairs.

"Isn't she great, Davis," said Ken. "Four-for-four again."

She curtsied.

"Tasha," said Davis. "Would you care to attend a baseball game with me?"

"At nine o'clock in the morning?"

"Nine already?" said Ken. "It's been a brutal day. Tasha, could you have some champagne sent up?"

Davis nodded as he and Tasha exited the suite.

* * *

CHAPTER 37

Carlos del Valle-Inclán, with one out in the bottom of the third, fought off a wicked fastball and spanked it to right field for a stand-up double. Carlos had defected, under shrouded and mysterious circumstances, from Cuba to play professional baseball following the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. He'd been drafted into the Cleveland Indians organization and sent to the Triple A Silverpanners. Carlos washed dishes four nights a week when the Silverpanners were in town and lived off his John Barleycorn's paychecks because he had banked his entire signing bonus and his four year salary, saving it to re-purchase his family's estate in Cuba when Castro, in Carlos' words: "Dies the death a mother-raper deserves."

Meanwhile he took a big turn around second, daring the right fielder to make a lazy throw to the infield. Davis stood and screamed, "Que bueno, Carlos. Way to go."

"Did you play baseball, Davis?" asked Tasha.

"I never played," said Davis, "but I was fascinated by the statistical aspects of the game. In high school I'd crunch numbers: batting averages, on-base percentages, earned run averages. You know, to try and get an advantage betting against my friends."

"Ah," said Tasha, "you were a nerd."

"A track athlete. Half-miler." He shrugged, she smiled. "I'm still looking for an edge. Baseball is the toughest sport in the world to handicap."

"Why?"

Carlos stole third, sliding headfirst to the outside of the bag to avoid the tag. Davis continued after the applause subsided, "Baseball seems like a team game but it's not. It's a series of one-on-one encounters: a single pitcher against a series of batters. But the weirdest thing about baseball is that the defense has the ball." The Silverpanners' batter took a called third strike at the knees. The next batter, the Silverpanners' catcher, was a right-handed Neanderthal in red-and-white. Standing tall in the batter's box, he obscured the opposing catcher's view of third base, Carlos, and forty percent of the snow-capped Sierras. "Carlos is going to steal home," said Davis. As soon as the pitcher began his delivery Carlos sprinted toward home. He arrived moments before the ball and danced across for the game's first run.

And the crowd went wild.

"How'd you know that?" asked Tasha.

"Don't you have hunches, educated guesses?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"Same as you," said Tasha. "People, places, things."

"More specific." The Silverpanners catcher flied out to end the inning.

"The other night, at your house. I sensed you were a good guy, an excellent father. And I knew you'd have some decent wine stashed away."

"Me as a father? You didn't see the girls."

"No," said Tasha, "but I saw their fish tank. With ferns and turtles. That takes time and patience." She kissed Davis. "Now look in my eyes and tell me you didn't know that would happen."

"I was hoping. This morning, in Ken's suite— "

"You're blushing."

"No, it's hot out. It's just hot."

She fanned him with her white canvas handbag. "In Ken's suite..."

"I had this, well, Maxfield Parrish fantasy. When you were hanging onto that lamp."

"So you're in a room with five women, four of them bare-ass naked, and you fantasize about the one wearing the gauzy, sleeveless cotton dress?"

Davis rolled the hem of her dress between his thumb and forefinger, "Yep."

Tasha gazed at Davis, she didn't blink for a full minute. "I like that, it means you deal in possibilities." She stood. "But I've gotta get."

Davis stood, "But it's only the top of the fourth."

"Previous unbreakable engagement."

"You should have told me."

She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, "I really didn't think it would work out this well. It usually doesn't, after people start talking. But I like you, Davis O'Kane."

"Stop by John Barleycorn's. Give me a call."

"I will," Tasha skipped down the steps. "Salvage us another bottle of Petrus." Vivid white against the brick dugout she walked away. "I'll make the sandwiches."

Maxfield Parrish does a picnic.

* * *

CHAPTER 38

Following the game, a 3-2 Silverpanners loss in which Carlos went four-for-four, Davis drove to Nightingale's Grange Hall. The Grange was on the western edge of town just past Sagrado State College. Like most Grange Halls, it had been built in the early 1930s, condemned in the middle 1970s, and renovated in the early 1990s to house any number of enlightened civic minded events: bake sales for the homeless, mobile AIDs and cholesterol tests, Tattoo/Body Piercing Fairs.

Today it was Nightingale's polling place.

The turnout seemed brisk, but it might have just been the off-duty employees of Ode to a Nightingale that Rooster Rudd paid to mill around the sidewalk with their placards:

WANNA BE COCKSURE?

ROOSTER RUDD FOR MAYOR!!!

Davis wasn't surprised to see a John Barleycorn's taxi in the gravel parking lot. Roger Trane had adopted not only Len Arizona as his political savior, but the taxi as his private means of transportation. Davis parked his Saab across from the Grange on the corner of Peach Blossom and Delaware. The State Theatre, Nightingale's only movie house—an old-fashioned, single screen house that ran only recent classics—was changing their marquee. It read:

STAR WARs: THE EMPIRE STRIKES GUMP

A solitary, dark, chubby thunderhead hovered over the Sierras. An empty enticement of rain.

In front of the State Theatre, stood a gaunt, angular man smoking an unfiltered cigarette. He wore Levis, a-brim-pulled-down New Jersey Devils cap, and despite the heat, a pumpkin colored windbreaker. He said, "Davis."

"Me?"

"Do you see any other Davis' loitering about, dipshit?" He sucked the last possible wisp of smoke from the stubby cigarette, dropped it to the sidewalk and ground it out beneath the heel of a clunky, black, wing-tip shoe.

Davis recognized the shoe, "Grimes?"

"Walk with me, Davis."

"I gotta vote."

"The polls are open 'til six. Walk with me." Grimes lit another cigarette and waved it vaguely toward the western mountains. A hundred yards ahead Sagrado Boulevard emptied into an abandoned drive-in theater that had been turned into the town's unofficial BMX track. Three helmeted kids on stumpy chromium bikes practiced their slalom around rusty speaker poles.

Davis fell into step with the CLUNK-SCRAPE, SCRAPE-CLUNK of Grimes' gait. The dark cloud above the mountains had been wind whipped into a quasi-profile of wispy-haired Don King. "I didn't know you smoked, Grimes."

"I'm a fucking enigma," said Grimes. "Listen, I don't like you and you don't like me. I don't want to ask you to the prom, I just think both of us could benefit from an exchange of information. Two bits of information."

"I can't imagine you telling me anything interesting or genuine."

"I'll start. I believe you know my cousin?"

"I know a lot of people."

"He looks like a jejune Jesuit priest. His name is Aloysius Tuggnutt."

"He strikes me as more of a fussy Franciscan."

Grimes ground out, then lit another cigarette. "Umberto Cicarrelli pays Aloysius ten dollars for every dollar you bet."

"Say what?"

"Umberto wanted you betting again. He knows you don't frequent the casino, so he loosed Aloysius on you. To hunt you down and start you betting again."

"Sonuvabitch." Davis felt a hollowness in his heart. His Achilles heel, his private vulnerability was common knowledge. The hollowness was replaced with malevolence: he'd been manipulated by that chicken-bastard-Umberto. They had reached the end of the sidewalk. The BMXers were now practicing jumps, using a sandy berm to leap a drainage ditch. Davis and Grimes turned and headed back toward the Grange. "You said two bits of information, Grimes."

"I've been contacted by a government agency, and—"

"Which agency?"

Grimes hesitated, then said, "The United States Navy will pay me ten-grand if I have John Barleycorn's shut down by June first."

"The Navy? Why?"

"I employed the fags in fatigues policy, Don't ask, Don't tell."

"I gotta vote, Grimes. See you."

"Five-grand is yours if it's closed in time, Davis."

"Blow me, I got employees who depend on John Barleycorn's."

"Suit yourself, I gave you a chance." Grimes extended an envelope with the official county seal affixed. "Read. Now."

Davis opened the letter:

DAVIS O'KANE

MANAGING CO-PARTNER

JOHN BARLEYCORN'S STEAKHOUSE.

Mr O'Kane:

John Barleycorn's is being fined $5700 for illegal storage of a dead body (Sagrado County health Code: sec 3, subheading 6). Any and all foodstuffs in the immediate environs (i,e., freezer, refrigerator, and dry storage areas—including those six-year-old Girls Scout cookies—must be destroyed within 48 hours of receipt of this notice.

"Forty-eight hours," said Grimes. "No hard feelings, business is business. But it's only gonna get worse for you, Davis." He turned and scuffled away.

Davis quoted Mark Twain: "A man should not be without morals; it is better to have bad morals than none at all." He stuffed the envelope in a back pocket, crossed the street to the Grange, initialed twice to receive his ballot and cast what he considered a heartfelt, but ineffectual, vote for Len.

* * *

CHAPTER 39

Svoboda flicked on the red lights.

The gleaming black Ford truck kept motoring south on Goldenrose Avenue—speed limit thirty-five—at precisely thirty miles per hour. Svoboda let the siren wail for half-a-block and the truck, driver stoic and unperturbed, accelerated to thirty-five.

"Pull over," said Svoboda through his roof mounted bullhorn.

The driver of the black truck looked into his rearview mirror as if noticing the local gendarme for the first time. He waved at Svoboda and kept on driving.

"Bastard," said Svoboda. Siren shrieking, he followed the truck until the last cluster of Nightingale's homes had given way to true wasteland desert. He accelerated and passed the truck. A quarter-mile in front of the truck Svoboda locked his brakes and skidded the police cruiser sideways so it blocked both lanes. He stood, hand-on-hips, by the hood of his blue-and-white as the Ford shifted into four-wheel-drive and, barely slowing, abandoned the paved road, maneuvered around some sagebrush, and negotiated a sand dune. Once clear of the vehicular roadblock, the truck resumed its speed limit pace, south on Goldenrose.

Svoboda floored it. He was approaching seventy when the Ford truck locked its brakes and skidded sideways to block the road. Svoboda stood on the brakes, stopping nine inches from the truck.

The driver, muscled and mustached, sat calmly with both hands in clear view on the steering wheel.

Red-faced and hatless Svoboda stormed up to the driver. "What the hell is your name?"

The driver's eyes, both of them in the shadow of a single, black-and-bushy monobrow, stared off into the distance. "Fuck you," he said. "That's my name."

"Okay smart-ass," said Svoboda, "let's see some I.D."

"You ever play that game as a kid?" He continued studying the profile of the craggy-based, flat-topped mesas to the east.

"What game?"

"Scissors cuts paper. That game. Paper wraps rock. Remember?"

"Yeah." Svoboda struggled not to look like a fourth grader in front of the vice-principle for the first time.

The interloper removed his hands from the steering wheel, unwrapping each hairy knuckle in turn. "I'm reaching for my I.D. now." He fished in his back pocket and showed Svoboda his I.D. without removing it from the wallet.

Svoboda nodded, whistled, and took a step back.

The stranger put his Ford in gear, "Rock crushes scissors, mother-fucker. Try to remember that."

* * *

CHAPTER 40

"Who the hell is this?" said Rooster. He shifted the phone from his right to his left ear, "Arizona?"

Len said into the payphone by his office, "Roger Trane just called me. He was in tears. He said he's known since right after lunch it was hopeless, but he was holding out for a miracle."

"You had some good people behind you, Len. You threw a scare into me."

"Then it wasn't worthless. Listen, Rooster, I gotta go, I just wanted to congratulate the winner."

"You're a pain in the ass, Len, but class all the way."

"Don't get too chummy. Three years from now I'll be coming at you serious."

"I'd be disappointed to hear otherwise," said Rooster. "There's a hundred dollars worth of chips at the cashier's in your name. C'mon in—"

"Have one of your flunkies cash them in and drop a C-note into Corine Rucker's collection jar. She's probably right out front."

"You're a fucking saint, Arizona."

"What's Corine using for a collection jar since she busted her glass one over your bouncer's head?"

"A gutted-out percolator. Probably a little easier on the old bird's wrists, having a handle and all."

"Congrats again, Rooster. Just do right by the town." CLICK.

"I'll take that under consideration, Len." Rooster slowly hung up the phone, propped his feet on the desk and lit his victory cigar. Following three deep-contented puffs, Rooster stared out the window at TRAINTOWN! That crazy-biker-bastard was CHOO-CHOO-CHOOING a trainload of kids across the trestle over the lake where the waterslide dumped load-after-load of water-logged-brats. Rooster puffed his cigar, unconsciously, in time to the locomotive's steamy exhalations. "Those skinny bastards sure like that water," said Rooster. He thought of the offer he and Woody had received from the United States Navy. If they sold, the Navy would surely start operations again and all the valley's reclaimed water would be needed for the mine. It'd be pretty hard for those little peckers to slide bareass down that twisting sun-baked chute with no irrigation. "Christ," said Rooster, "I must be getting soft in my old age, thinking of other people." He hit a button on his phone, "Send me up a double scotch rocks."

Three minutes later Rooster's office began filling with employees. They lined the walls of the semicircular office two, and in some places, three-deep. "One of you," said Rooster, "sure-as-shit better have a double scotch on the rocks. What the hell's going on?"

Dorothy Sherwood, Rooster's Head Cashier, stepped out of the throng and said, "It's official, you won the election—"

A cheer ensued.

"—so we got you a present." Dorothy stroked her gunmetal gray bouffant.

"I'd be happy with a double scotch."

"But," said Dorothy, "we got you a MAMMOGRAM."

The choppy sound of disco from a portable boombox filled the office. The beat was followed by two young, tanned, cartwheeling women; one clad in a Hot Pink and the other in a Canary Yellow bikini. They bounced and gyrated and shimmied. They vaulted and capered and romped and shook their money-makers in Rooster's face. To his employees' delight Rooster sat stoic, smoking, at a loss for action or words. The song ended and Hot Pink and Canary Yellow jumped like cheerleaders to the applause.

Another tune started and six notes in Rooster yelled, "Turn that bullshit off."

CLICK.

Silence.

"Now," said Rooster, "what the hell is a Mammogram?"

"Hi," said Hot Pink, "I'm Cyndy."

"And," said Canary Yellow, "I'm Joan. And together we are Mammograms. Ready? All right."

Joan and Cyndy placed hands on hips and strode up to Rooster's desk. "Congratulations Rooster Rudd on being re-elected Mayor." They removed their bikini tops. Across their combined breasts, reading left-to-right was written:

M A O R

They jiggled, frisked and flounced and spun; again to a rowdy ovation.

Rooster waved his cigar in the air, "Wait, wait, wait. Girls, I appreciate the peepshow and all, but where's the Y?"

"Ready," said Joan, "all right." She hopped onto Rooster's desk, turned deliberately, slowly for the appreciative crowd, then performed a perfect straight-legged headstand. Inch-by-inch, languorously, she spread her legs—the applause swelled with the increased angle of her gams—until she was a nearly-naked, perfect Y perched atop Rooster's desk.

"Do an O," yelled a bartender.

Joan joined her legs, scuttled sideways, pushed into a handstand and extended that into a full backbend, her feet just millimeters from her hands. A flawless O.

"Gimme a W ," yelled the bartender.

Joan terminated her back bend and Cyndy hopped onto Rooster's desk. Rooster pulled his phone and stapler and pen set out of the ladies' way. They sat side-by-side, legs dangling, nodded and rocked backwards. Backs flat against the desk, their faces less than a foot from Rooster's stogie, they raised their legs. Each spread them into a V, then touched their inside ankles.

"If my third grade teacher had utilized Mammograms," said Rooster, "I just might've learnt that alphabet before I had my driver's license."

"How are you at numbers," said the same bartender, "I want to see a sixty-nine."

"Show's over Ladies and Gentlemen," said Dorothy. "Back to work, gang. Time to separate some tourists from their money."

The employees filed from Rooster's office. For most of them, unless they were caught stealing it would be their only glimpse of the casino's inner-sanctum. Dorothy stood by the door supervising the reluctant exodus. The last to leave, in pink and yellow sweatsuits, were Joan and Cyndy.

"Thanks Dorothy," said Rooster. "That was really something."

"You're welcome, Rooster," said Dorothy. "Can I be straight with you?"

"Please."

"I arranged this victory party out of duty," she said. "I voted for Len Arizona."

Rooster smiled, "So did I, Dorothy."

* * *

CHAPTER 41

"Why didn't you answer the door, Davis," said Joan

Davis, curled on the couch with Alexi and Jennifer said, "Because I thought it might have been you."

"You were right," said Joan. "Girls, kiss your father goodbye." She stood in the doorframe and TACKED her teal, acrylic nails against the doorframe.

"Where are they going?"

"They aren't. You're moving out."

Davis said, "Girls, have you fed the fish today?"

"No," said Jennifer and Alexi.

"Get some brine shrimp from the freezer." Davis scooted them from the couch with playful little swats. "Feed them slowly."

"We know," said Jennifer.

"Little bits," said Alexi.

In almost matching white culottes, pigtails bobbing, the twins swirled through the room like water in a shallow pan; Davis hoped he hadn't tipped that pan too far in his ex-wife's direction. "The judge said I have a week, Joan." Davis flicked off the Cartoon Network with the remote.

"I'm sure you won't mind. My people will be moving me in tomorrow." She examined the TV room like a distant nephew viewing the estate of a recently deceased rich uncle.

"Your people?"

"It's a saying."

"What the hell does it mean? The judge said I have a week."

"I don't care what he said. I don't care what you want or need. I'm moving back into my house and taking control of my children and my life."

"The twins don't need controlling. They need hugs, and macaroni-and-cheese, and popcorn, and a couch-cushion fort to watch "Toy Story" from."

"I've been away from my children long enough."

Davis raised the remote, pointed it at Joan and pushed MUTE.

"I can make life a living hell for you, Davis."

"You have." Davis plopped his size-fifteens on the coffee table. He wore the fur-lined moccasins Jennifer and Alexi had given him last year for Father's Day.

"You haven't seen anything."

"You want the children? You probably still think that colic is a vegetable and Similac is a computer program. I can't remember you changing a diaper or wiping a snotty nose. You've always been busy with your N.O.W. chapter and aerobics and origami and astrology and archaeology classes at Sagrado State." He hesitated, then said, "The kids are yours. I'm outta here. Our relationship is complete."

"And you've been the perfect husband?"

"Of course not. I'm human."

"You've ruined my life. You spineless fucking gambler."

Davis waved away the challenge. "It's over. You win."

"I'm disappointed you didn't put up a better fight. But I'll be back in an hour to pick up the girls."

"Fine."

"And, I'll be sleeping here tonight. You can find a room." She left.

Davis sat a moment, relishing the silence, hoping Ken was right, oh God, he hoped Ken was right.

He checked on the girls.

They had pulled a kitchen chair up to the aquarium. They both stood on the single chair. Alexi shared a strawberry Pop-Tart with the turtles. She munched on the center and dropped the stiff border-pastry to Ike and Zeke. Jennifer had, again, neglected to roll up her sleeves and was soaked to the elbow as she dipped into the tank and hand-delivered slimy, semi-thawed brine shrimp to the fishes.

Davis kissed them both softly and said, "Sonuvabitch."

* * *

CHAPTER 42

Davis entered John Barleycorn's through the bar, leaving the entrance unlocked. He poured a carafe of water, a large iced tea, started three pots of coffee and sat in a booth in the dark, far corner of the bar. He figured he had half-an-hour to relax and re-hydrate before he started pushing tables together for the tipped employees' meeting. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the uneven planking of the booth. Thinking of: Jennifer and Alexi, finding a room for tonight, and barefoot Tasha leaning against that gold lamp he drifted off to sleep. He dreamed that he and Tasha were making love in the visitors' dugout at Silverpanners Stadium. Davis was on the bottom, Tasha wore only her silver hairnet. The sky and mountains in the distance, as if actually painted by Maxfield Parrish, loomed, ominously pastel; topped with huge French-vanilla clouds. Then with a POP, Tasha transmogrified into Joan. The hairnet had turned into a red-white-and-blue Wonder Woman headband. Joan said, "So your meat can't be beat?" and a New York steak materialized in each hand. She started thumping Davis in the face with the steaks while chanting, "Davis is a Pooh-bear Davis is a Pooh-bear Davis is a Pooh-bear."

Davis woke with a start. Rodney Trane stood, looming over Davis, as he reclined, sweating, in the booth.

Pigfarmer Trane didn't need to be announced. Years of living with pigs had either inured or endeared him to the smell of swine, and that odor preceded him. Pigfarmer Trane had a face that resembled Paul Newman's; if Paul Newman had enlisted in the army at fifteen, fought his way out of nearly every bar he'd entered, grown a wiry and braided ponytail, shaved only on Wednesdays and considered Budweiser the Breakfast of Champions. "Big problem, Davis."

"Rodney?" Davis sat up, chugged his iced tea and re-filled the glass with water.

He reached into the pocket of his bib overalls and pulled out the hypodermic that nearly choked Pearl the Pig, "What in the name of America's other white meat is this?"

Davis stared, then spoke, "I don't—"

"You goddam-near-choked a prize porker with this." He tossed the hypo unto the table. "You'll be hauling your own trash and recyclables if your pencil-dick employees put any more of this garbage in my garbage. End of lecture." Rodney turned and stomped out of the restaurant, his rubber boots leaving what Davis hoped was mud on the carpet.

It was time to push some tables together.

Chris, Zenny, and Bob sat at the bar sipping cokes. Jeff stocked the beer and wine that should have been replaced last night. Barbara sat alone at a table reading The New Age Journal. Alvin pecked at the bar's player piano, producing a tune that resembled "Let it Be". Sixteen other foodservers and cocktail waitresses milled about.

No one helped Davis with the tables.

Chris said, "Has everyone voted?"

Nearly everyone nodded. Barbara raised her hand without looking up from her magazine, "Len Lost."

Bob said, "I haven't voted since nineteen-eighty."

"You vote for Dukakis?" asked Zenny.

"No," said Bob. "I voted against Reagan."

The John Barleycorn's staff kept on piano pecking, talking, and sipping. Davis removed a legal-sized piece of yellow paper from his back pocket and sat. In his DJ voice, he read: "Barbara, one-thousand seven-hundred-fifty dollars. Chris, one-thousand four-hundred dollars. Alvin, almost two grand. Bob, fourteen hundred." Davis looked up and surveyed the silent bar: "I seem to have gotten your attention."

"What's up, Davis?" said Chris.

"Sit down."

They did; he continued," These are just estimates, but I've reviewed your W-fours for the past year and have come up with what you'll be owing the Internal Revenue Service."

"Bullshit," said Bob. He lit another cigarette.

"Soon," said Davis, "you'll be getting letters from the IRS with the exact amounts; which of course will include penalties and interest."

"Of course," said Alvin. He plunked an A-minor chord for emphasis.

"And," said Davis, "in direct opposition to the Innocent Until Proven Guilty tenet that this great land was founded on, you owe the specified amount until you can prove you don't."

"Say again?" said Barbara.

"It means," said Jeff, who sat next to Barbara, "that you have to prove that you didn't make in tips what the IRS determines you made. You have to provide documentation; a tip journal that proves you actually made what you declared."

"Let's get a keg of beer and dummy up some frigging tip journals," said Bob.

"That doesn't work anymore," said Jeff. "The IRS knows that John Barleycorn's does thirty-five percent of its business in credit cards."

"So?" asked Davis.

"The IRS takes the tips you made on that thirty-five percent and extrapolates on your total sales to determine what you should have made," said Jeff.

"Credit cards tip better than cash customers," said Chris. "They're tipping on an expense account or they're on vacation."

Jeff shrugged, "I'm just telling you the way it's done. Then a penalty equal to fifty percent, plus interest, is assessed on the portion of the underpayment attributed to negligence or intentional disregard of regulations."

"Jeff?" said Davis.

"Yeah?"

The bartender produced a shy and accommodating smile, but Davis knew there was nothing shy or accommodating about this bartender. "How do you know all this IRS bullshit?"

"I've been audited before," said Jeff. That smile, again.

"But," said Davis, "isn't this a new ruling by the IRS?"

Jeff ignored the question, "What pisses me off is all the billionaires who don't pay a dime."

"Billionaires suck ass," said Barbara.

"If there aren't any questions," said Davis, "that's it. The IRS will be in touch. You've been forewarned."

Except for Alvin and Zenny, the entire crew vacated the bar in fifteen seconds. While Davis and Zenny rearranged the tables Alvin played "Misty" and sang in a plaintive voice that seemed out of place on a six-foot-six, ex-professional rugby player from Nelson, New Zealand. After Alvin left, Zenny said to Davis, "Last night, I dreamed that you were homeless. A premonition dream."

"My ex-wife," said Davis, "kicked me out this afternoon."

Zenny placed a hand on Davis' forearm, "Where you gonna stay?"

"I'll take a room at the Ode to a Nightingale."

"A hotel's no place to stay. No soul." Zenny coughed and said softly, "Since you broke the news to me about Wanda Marie, I feel like we're brothers, man. Come stay at the trailer, with me. It's a double-wide."

"What about your brother?"

"Roget likes to sleep outside. Under the stars."

"So it's a legit offer?"

"An open-armed invitation," said Zenny. "It'll be a hoot."

"John and Rohn," said Davis. "May I speak to you?"

"We're running a little late on our setup," said John.

"It'll take just a minute, John." The twins were good-looking, in the 1950s American ideal: both clean-cut-blonde over smoky-browns and bright-blues, but no one would ever call them handsome. A too-giddy mischievousness leaked out of their eyes that undermined their All-American features. Like puppies, they enjoyed life a little too much; and made everyone else guilty for not doing the same. "I'll talk while you set tables."

"Okay boss," said John. He handed a stack of plates to Rohn.

"You guys have been here for three years, and you're the heart and soul of my bus crew—"

"Thanks," said John. He followed Rohn, placing salad bowls on the plates his brother had set.

"But I've also noticed," said Davis, "that during your tenure this restaurant has experienced fires in wastebaskets, cherry bombs in toilets, stink bombs in the office, a trip wire in the parking lot," Davis suppressed a smile, he had enjoyed seeing Mauro's new suit with holes in the knees. "Dribble glasses, Tabasco sauce in the cooks' cokes, salt in milk, sugar in salt shakers, bits of styrofoam in the sour cream, rubber spiders in doggybags, fake eyeballs in the beans, and clocks that have recorded every time zone in the civilized world." Davis caught his breath. "Are you responsible for all this?"

"Yes," said Rohn. "We are."

"All except the styrofoam in the sour cream," said John. He seemed disappointed.

"Mauro just ruined another suit with a dribble glass and he wanted to fire you—"

"But we have the payment on our truck," said John. He stopped dealing out salad bowls.

"—but I talked him into only suspending you for two weeks."

"But we didn't receive a warning. We weren't written up. What's happened to due process?" said Rohn.

"And there's no proof we drilled one-one-hundred-twenty-eight inch diameter holes in all the plastic water glasses," said John.

Davis smiled. "Except for that admission, no."

"Shit," said John. "Sorry, Rohn."

Davis thought about having to juggle his busboy schedule for the next two weeks. Despite the pranks, the Brothers Theroux were his best, often his only, bussers. "Consider this your warning, I'll deal with Mauro."

"Thanks, boss," said Rohn. "I swear to Christ we'll never pull another practical joke in this restaurant."

John nodded.

"Make sure you don't." Davis walked into the broiler room and yelled for Luc and Mike to fire up the grills.

The twins waited until Davis had turned the corner. "Should we tell him about the milkcrates?" asked John.

"He'd only get upset," said Rohn. "Plus I said, we'd never pull another joke in this restaurant. The milkcrates are technically in the parking lot."

Davis opened the big safe and removed four cash drawers. He counted the banks and initialed the totals. He locked the safe, then dropped a cash drawer at the service bar, the cashier's desk, and two at the main bar. Amazingly, everyone had shown up on time; a half-hour to opening and everything was done. "Zenny," said Davis. "I'm zipping home to pack a bag. Thanks for the invite. See ya in thirty minutes."

Davis exited the cool dark comfort of John Barleycorn's. The heat was palpable; the late-afternoon sunshine, corrosive. He kicked a rock in the dirt parking lot. It skittered up to the rear tire of his Saab. The wind kicked up dust devils which boogied around the abandoned derrick in the far corner of the parking lot. He opened the door, slipped in, started the motor, and eased out the clutch.

The Saab didn't move.

Davis turned the ignition key again and ground the starter. The engine had started. Davis switched off the engine, exited and walked around the car.

The front wheels were spinning.

Davis dropped to his knees and peeked beneath the car. Four metal milkcrates supported the transaxle, holding the front drive wheels slightly off the ground. Davis stood and dusted his knees. "The Theroux Twins' Last Hurrah." He walked to the trunk and popped it; he needed the jack to lift the Saab off the milkcrates.

Inside the trunk, purple and mottled, strangled to death with a leather bridle, was Freddy Finnegan.

* * *

CHAPTER 43

"I fed old Freddy a couple of nights a week," said Davis. "He was a harmless old drunk."

"There's no such thing," said Svoboda, "as a harmless old drunk. The majority of society's ills are directly related to the consumption of alcohol." Svoboda opened a desk drawer and removed a virgin bottle of Canadian Club. He cracked and uncorked it; offered the bottle to Davis.

Davis took the bottle, shrugged, and swallowed twice.

"I don't know how Prince Frederick got in the Saab's trunk," said Svoboda. He pronounced Saab to rhyme with cab. Svoboda motioned for the bottle and drank, his turkey-wattled Adam's apple bobbing four times. "But I recognized the murder weapon."

"The bridle?"

"Monogrammed FG—"

"For Future Glue."

"—which makes Woody a suspect."

"Woody just had twenty people at the ranch. Future Glue's stuff is all over the ranch and Nightingale Meadows. Half the population of Nightingale should be suspects, Svoboda. Are you arresting Woody?"

"I know where to find him, and he ain't going nowhere." The cop plopped his feet on the desk and cradled the Canadian Club like an infant. "You vote today?"

"Twice."

"I'd have enjoyed it if that Arizona bastard won."

"Why?"

"He'd shake things up a bit."

They shared fifteen seconds of silence.

"Who'd want to kill this booze hound, Davis?"

"Who'd want to stuff him in my trunk, Svoboda?" Davis noticed the heels of Svoboda's boots were worn on the inside: a pigeon-toed cop.

Svoboda burped and settled deeper into his chair. "Why'd you pop your trunk?"

Davis explained the Theroux's sense of humor and the milkcrates.

"A man," said Svoboda, "was just found strangled to death with an item your former partner will admit to owning and the body found in your car. Earlier this week another corpse was discovered in a restaurant you run." He drank. "Do you realize what kind of trouble you're in?"

"I called the cops both times, Svoboda." Davis massaged his temples and decided to shut up. He stared at Nightingale's Police Chief. His face always seemed freshly shaven. He had a thatch of thinning, choirboy hair. His plump lips were chapped. This banal, delicate face masked deceit and treachery and peril. "Do I need to call a lawyer?"

Svoboda reached tentatively toward the computer on his desk. He regarded computers as a caveman dealt with fire: necessary, but mysterious and capable of inflicting pain if you came too close. After several hunt-and-peck keystrokes he said, "After Wanda Marie got whacked I entered the names of John Barleycorn's ex-and-present employees. Then I did a universal search on criminal records. Nothing much. A couple of DUIs, outstanding tickets. The only one who did time was Woody."

"That's common knowledge."

"Damn near folklore," said Svoboda. He placed his feet on the floor, the bottle on the desk, and his chin in his hands. "But I did discover that you were convicted of manslaughter."

Davis nodded and ran his hand through his hair.

"Explain."

Davis pointed to the computer. "Consult your data base."

"I have, the case file has been closed by the Supreme Court of the State of Nevada. I'd need a court order."

"Get a court order." Davis stood and turned to leave.

"Sit your ass down and explain or I'll arrest you for the murder of Freddy Finnegan."

Davis leaned against the wall and teeter-tottered on his boots.

"The truth is the only thing keeping your ass outta jail, Davis."

"The day," said Davis, "I decided to kill him I sat in the hospital waiting room—Veteran's Hospital in Reno?"

Svoboda nodded, letting Davis find his own pace.

"Other people, nurses, relatives from both sides of the family, wandered in-and-out. I smiled and chatted with everyone. After dinner, finally, he and I were alone. I looked at him, studied him, in his bed. He was mute, unconscious, drooling. He wasn't the man I knew. He wasn't human. I already considered him gone; I knew he was gone. I unplugged the monitor, that beeping flatliner thing over his head. Then I switched off the machine that kept him alive. He shuddered and died. Neat and clean and simple. Ashes to ashes and all that sanctimonious shit. It was on my eighteenth birthday."

"Who was he?"

"My father."

Svoboda offered Davis the bottle. He waved it away: "Dad had a stroke and it fried my liver seeing the cantankerous old sonuvabitch lying there diapered and drooling. So I pulled the plug. I should have done twenty years, but I walked on a technicality: the official time of dad's death was thirteen minutes before my time of birth and I couldn't be tried as an adult. The Supreme Court didn't want a precedent like this on the books, so they buried it. Bob's hardly spoken to me since. We haven't really been brothers since."

Svoboda drank, "You got ballsack, O'Kane. I'll give you that. Real sack."

"Are you booking me?"

"No. But I have to impound your car."

Davis shook his head; he'd lost a house today, now a car. Someone knocked, tentatively, at the door. "Yo," yelled Svoboda.

Yurri Briscoe, rotund, with basset-hound eyes, entered. "Chief," we have a problem. A dilemma. A quandry."

"What?"

Yurri filled the doorway with his bulk, "It's the girl."

"What girl?"

"The deceased one we had on ice downstairs." Fig Newton crumbs clung to his upper lip.

"Wanda Marie?" asked Davis.

"Yeah," said Briscoe, "that one."

"What about her?" said Svoboda.

"Ah, sir," Yurri wiped the crumbs away. "She's gone."

* * *

CHAPTER 44

Davis walked out of the police station and burped sour whiskey into his left hand. He began hiking towards KFLO. LesJimCarl drove by in their van. Davis waved with both hands, but instead of stopping they simply returned their boss' wave and motored down Sagrado Boulevard. Joan sped by in her Acura; Davis glimpsed the tops of two pigtailed heads in the backseat. His ex-wife, distracted and distant and serious, didn't see Davis.

He paced down the boulevard, the setting sun at his back, heat from the pavement burning his feet through the soles of his Tony Lamas. Yurri pulled up in his police cruiser, "Where you headed?"

"KFLO," said Davis. "I need to borrow Dirk's HumVee."

"Hop in."

"Thanks." Davis slid into the air-conditioned vehicle.

Yurri merged into traffic. "I hope Svoboda wasn't busting your balls too badly. He can be so...discourteous...uncivil...and insolent."

"Screw him," said Davis. "I haven't done anything."

"Except find two dead bodies in the same week."

"Boy," said Davis, "what a wacky coincidence."

Yurri crinkled some cellophane and offered Davis a Fig Newton. Davis waved it away. Yurri popped two in his mouth, munched and said, "You didn't kill Freddy Finnegan. You were the only guy in town who treated the old dipsomaniac with any dignity. And you sure as shit didn't kill Wanda Marie."

He munched another Newton and said, "Because you loved her."

"Right."

Policemen—since the first Neanderthal picked up a club and beat someone to death for stealing a saber-tooth-tiger steak—have shared a common trait. They are addicted to control. They crave that extra bit of knowledge that gives them command of a situation. Then they can divulge the tidbit of information and take advantage of their adversary's confusion. Yurri pulled the cruiser over, shifted to PARK, stared at Davis and said, "It's what she had written in the letter."

Davis had to nibble, "What letter?"

"The one I found on Wanda Marie's body. It was addressed to you and tucked into her panties."

The day that Woody told Davis he had sold John Barleycorn's, Davis threw what had to be called a tantrum. He hurled his coffee mug across the office, kicked the safe and used every swear word he possessed. Woody waited until Davis had finished and said, "You don't know it yet, but your character has been strengthened by this encounter with Woody McGuire."

That's when Davis trashed Woody's desk and headed into the kitchen. Davis threw plates, glasses, silverware, coffeepots, and produce. Seven minutes later John Barleycorn's kitchen had suffered $4700 in damages and Davis stood panting by the dishwasher, the knuckles on his right hand bloodied. "When," said Woody, "someone pisses you off like I just did, go hollow inside. Make yourself feel nothing. Slow down your thinking and change the subject—turn the situation inside out."

Davis, knees cramped near his chest—the five-foot-seven Briscoe needed the seat set forward to reach the pedals—said, "KFLO's another mile up the road."

"Aren't you curious?"

"I'm extremely curious," said Davis, "why do they call you Yurri?"

"About the letter, smartass."

"My father told me," Two mentions of the old guy in less than an hour, "that you wet the bed on an overnight football trip in high school—"

"Adolescent incontinence is a serious and embarrassing affliction."

"—and the coach nicknamed you Urine which got shortened to Yurri."

"Get out and walk," said Yurri.

Davis untucked his sweat-soaked shirt and mopped his face with the shirttails. "Sonuvabitch it's hot out there."

"What's up?" said Dirk.

Davis told him about Freddy, Svoboda, the impounded Saab, and Wanda Marie's missing body. He was interrupted four times by people stopping by the radio station to drop off sealed envelopes. After Raymond LeBlanc, the fifth interruption, placed another envelope on Dirk's desk, Davis said, "When did KFLO start handling overflow from the post office?"

"I agreed," said Dirk, "to hold bets on the Sagrado Derby for Woody. Big mistake."

"Dealing with Woody usually is. Who is everyone betting on?"

"Against. Future Glue."

"Future Glue isn't entered in the derby. You have to qualify."

"Been studying "The Racing Form", Davis?" asked Dirk.

"Yeah, I have. I placed a bet the other day. I won and rolled it over on the election. I lost." Davis removed his shirt and slipped on a red-and-green t-shirt with KFLO's slogan in white—KFLO 98.7—SLIGHTLY HOTTER THAN HUMANITY.

"Davis, don't start betting again. Take this as it is: a setback, which you'll get over."

Davis nodded.

"I don't want to be a bitch about it, but stay away from the track."

"Thanks, Dirk. I should get back to some GA meetings." They shared a moment of silence. A stifling wind howled down the valley, "Have you seen the girls?"

"I stopped by this morning. You owe me fifty bucks."

"Why?"

"Babysitting. That kid next door—"

"Lisa?"

Dirk nodded, "She's practically living at your place. Joan's going apeshit. She's a terrible mother. It's an embarrassment, as her father, to say that."

Davis checked his wallet, "How about we go halfsies, seeing how Joan's your daughter?"

"Fifty is half. I gave Lisa a hundred. She's a sweet kid."

Davis gave Dirk the money and asked for the keys to the KFLO HumVee.

He parked the HumVee across the street from his former residence. His key still worked, Joan hadn't changed the locks. He packed an overnight bag, remembering at the last moment to snatch the final bottles of Petrus from the cellar.

* * *

CHAPTER 45

"How'd you get in here?" asked Bob.

Davis had parked the HumVee in front, was asked to move it around back; then he needed to show two pieces of ID to enter the building. "I told the nice gray-haired security guard I wanted to see my brother."

"Where's the Saab?"

So dear brother Bob had observed the obstacle course Davis had negotiated in order to enter the building. Davis sidestepped the question as deftly as a politician, "He said you didn't have a brother. I had to show him an ID. Same last name, same birthdate. Stuff like that."

"What do you want?"

"Sure is hot out, eh?"

"What the hell do you want?" said Bob. He hit the screensaver; a geometric overlay of Celtic crosses filled the screen.

"We were just talking about dad, and I thought of you," said Davis. Except for Bob's sweat-stained Polynesian shirt and the computer he worked at, everything was government gray and green. Davis wondered if, in Polynesia, the offices are painted fuchsia, ochre, and vermillion and the drones who worked there wore green and gray.

"We?" said Bob.

Davis explained The-Drunk-in-the-Trunk, Svoboda, and his now-impounded Saab. Bob listened with his eyes half-closed; fingers resting almost daintily on the computer keyboard's spacebar. "I can't believe Freddy's dead," said Davis. "Who'd wanna kill the harmless old sonuvabitch."

"Maybe," said Bob, "his son thought he was useless, you know, just taking up space. And strangled him. Technically—"

"Cute."

"—that's what you did, unplugging dad's respirator." Bob pushed off the desk with his hands. His castered chair accelerated backwards and smacked into a drab green filing cabinet. He raised his arms, laced his fingers and cradled his head.

"Would you really be happier if I were locked up in Carson City, sharing a cell with a tattooed biker who called me Ingrid?"

Bob moved his head twice, almost imperceptibly. The movement was so slight Davis couldn't determine whether it were YES or NO.

A definite maybe. "I want," said Davis, "to talk to my brother."

"About what?"

"Anything."

"About you?"

"Sure." Davis THUNKED his toe against the metal desk.

"I have a theory."

"Shoot."

"You've used gambling to subconsciously mess up your life."

"So now you're a psychologist?"

"I'm a geologist; but you've got a head full of gravel. So it'll work."

"Gambling," said Davis. "Enlighten me."

"You pull the plug on dad and mom pulls her own plug ten years later—"

"Thirteen," said Davis. "She was at my wedding."

"It's still your fault."

"Don't blame me for mom's suicide, Bob."

"I don't need to blame you; I read the note when I found the body: 'I can't live any longer knowing my son killed the man I loved.'"

Davis realized there was nothing he could ever say to Bob about their mother's death. Ever.

"Since then you've been using gambling to ruin Davis O'Kane."

"I've made some mistakes." Including coming here to try and talk to you.

"All on purpose. And all gambles."

"Besides the money I've lost," said Davis, "name one?"

"Marrying that self-centered bitch was the second biggest gamble you ever took."

Davis scuffed his heels, "What was the first?"

"Having children with her."

Davis hesitated, listened to the THRUM THRUM of the air-conditioning and studied the granite mountains framed in the window before he said, "Familiarity breeds contempt—and children."

"I hit a soft spot and you run and hide behind a smoke-screen from Mark Twain's ceegar," said Bob. "You are such a chickenshit."

Davis briefly considered punching Bob, then remembered the whuppings Bob had put on him over the years. "Let me ask you a question?"

"What?"

"How long have you been working for Ciccarelli?"

"Since he bought into Barleycorn's. Same as you."

Davis pointed to a file on the desk and read, "USGS Survey 678-P. CICCARELLI ASSAY."

"That's privileged information."

"What's Ciccarelli up to with the USGS?"

"Get outta my office."

* * *

CHAPTER 46

Nightingale's Police Station had been, in the 1930s, the largest mortuary in the state of Nevada. In what is basically a two-city state, ninety percent of the population and businesses are situated in Reno and Vegas. But the folks who live in the sand and the sagebrush do their share of living and dying and are in need of the same essential services as cityfolk: restaurants for the hungry, motels for the weary and adulterous, hospitals for the sick, and mortuaries for when the hospital are done with their sick. Evitch's Mortuary, established 1929, serviced the entire top third of Nevada, from the California to the Utah border, for forty-one years. Franz Evitch designed the white building from its Ionic columned anteroom to the living quarters on the third story.

In 1970 when the Nightingale police force had outgrown its silver-rush era jailhouse it was a no-brainer to convert the mortuary. It featured a boulevard-width driveway and a large windowless chapel that was easily transformed into a bank of holding cells. Viewing rooms were retooled into offices and interrogation rooms. And the mortuary already featured, of course, a morgue in the basement.

It was when speaking about this basement morgue that the original owner, Franz Evitch became excited: "It features with new electric refrigeration units and old-fashioned ice blocks," he'd say in his almost incomprehensible Slovenian accent, "for caring of the clients both ways good." Throughout the Depression and into the latter years of WW II the mortuary would have been shut down if not for the old-fashioned method of laying the corpses out on ice, because electrical failures were commonplace. When the electricity failed, Franz would light a few more candles and send his son to the icehouse. The younger Franz Evitch II would return in the mortuary's flatbed Ford filled with iceblocks packed in sawdust. Young Franz would open a large hinged door over the ice chute, and slide the hundred pound blocks of ice down to the basement. When the Nightingale police force had first occupied the building the ice chute's door was nailed shut and forgotten about. In the years since, the back of the building had become overgrown with sagebrush and greasewood. The old ice-chute had nearly been forgotten.

It was through this nearly forgotten chute that a ski-masked, black clad person entered the basement morgue of the Nightingale police station. By starlight and with the aid of a winch on his four-wheel drive vehicle, he pulled the frosty remains of Wanda Marie Tounens up through the ice chute. Headlights off, he motored away through the trackless sage. It had taken less time to liberate Wanda Marie and veil her in a tarp than it had been to order at Burger King, wait for and receive two Whoppers with extra bacon that he ate in the truck on the way back to Mauro Ballatore's.

* * *

CHAPTER 47

After work, Davis cruised the HumVee past his old house three times. The canvas top was folded down, allowing the night air full access to Davis' sweat-soaked work clothes. He had to keep his jacket buttoned all night to hide the garish KFLO t-shirt. On each lap he slowed and almost stopped, staring at the twins' dark bedroom window. On the fourth lap he stopped and said, "Good night, girls."

The all-weather track at Sagrado State College was a solid urethane compound designed not to crack or fade in the desert sun. At forty degrees the track became as inflexible and unforgiving as concrete. At sixty degrees it was slightly spongy. At eighty-five degrees, the precise temperature at 12:07 A.M., the running surface was perfect. The urethane was pliant and giving when the foot struck and springy as the runner rocked from heel-to-toe and pushed off. Davis, barefoot and stripped down to the black-and-orange-striped-Tigger-boxers the twins had given him for his thirty-ninth birthday, started his second lap. A three-quarter moon, bright enough to cast a shadow, lit his way around the oval. When Davis ran alone he always ran counter-clockwise around the track; opposite the direction that races are run. At work that evening he'd consumed seven mineral waters and four cups of coffee in an effort to dilute today's—and this week's—whiskey intake. He ran to chase away the aftertaste and mental cobwebs produced by the booze.

As Davis started his third lap he became aware of a legion of devils, but he couldn't decide if he were the pursuer or the pursued:

DIVORCE: I can't stand Joan, but sonuvabitch, I'm pissed and more than slightly embarrassed my marriage failed.

THE ELECTION: Rooster disproves Mark Twain's statement: "It's so hard to find men of a so high type of morals that they'll stay bought."

JOHN BARLEYCORN'S: The White Albatross around my neck. My unsanitary nestegg.

ALOYSIUS TUGGNUTT: Len lost; we're even. I'm done gambling.

WOODY McGUIRE: The weasel who talked the farmer out of the keys to the henhouse. What's he got going with Future Glue?

SVOBODA: Pig.

LISA: Bless you for taking care of my babies.

WANDA MARIE: I was just in love with the idea of being in love after a dire and arid marriage.

YURRI BRISCOE: I want Wanda Marie's letter.

Davis used to think that each run had a life of its own. Ten years ago, after he'd stopped training for 10Ks and marathons, he realized that every run is a life of its own. In its course, no matter how long or short the run, there are twangs of pain and despair; flickers of joy and release. There are the opposites of ease and exertion. And on rare occasions, catharsis.

He started his fifth lap.

DIRK: Here's my resignation. Thanks for the shot at radio, I love it, but I suck.

FREDDY: He's dead and not coming back in a sequel. I'll miss the polluted, sirloin-mooching sonuvabitch.

JOAN: Goodbye and good riddance.

FUTURE GLUE: It's the old gambler's saying, I'll bet this one sure thing, then I'm done.

BOB: You're fired. I can't see you four days a week and not treat you like a brother; even if you are in bed with Ciccarelli.

He started his sixth lap.

BLUE SAMSONITE: Two-hundred and seventeen thousand in cash. Hmmmm.

KAITLYN McGUIRE: Not just the kept woman. Not just the Keep Your Boobs woman.

MAURO BALLATORE: You're being used worse than I am, Amico, but you're still an intolerable prick.

UMBERTO CICCARELLI: Stromboli the Puppet Master; but who's hooked to strings and who isn't? Who's pulling Umberto's strings?

JEFF: All is not what it seems.

GAMBLER'S ANONYMOUS: I hate those inane meetings, but I'm slipping out of control—which ironically, is the attraction, charm, and allure of gambling.

JENNIFER AND ALEXI: I can't live without them.

TASHA: I really don't know...

He started his seventh lap.

Polonius asked the reading Hamlet, "What's the matter?" and the Prince of Denmark replied, "Words, words, words."

That's all that filled Davis' head: Words, words, words.

Davis had always felt the lack of a Unified Theory in his life. Something that connected his mind with his emotions, his mystical musings with his rational reality. Most things he tried—running, corporate America, meditation, cynicism, music, immersion in Mark Twain—he attempted wholeheartedly, but none of them worked and all of them left him feeling stupid, used, and incomplete.

That's when he'd immerse himself, again, at the horse track.

The track was a microcosm that accepted and encouraged all modes of human thought-process. Pouring over Speed Ratings and numerically, logically, eliminating each horse until you established a clear favorite was an intense, engrossing, and rewarding-unto-itself activity. But equally acceptable and exciting was a bet placed on a hunch. The horse's gait; its name. A gut feeling that today is the day for this horse. An implacable, serene certainty. These were the times Davis felt most alive: the divergences of human thought and emotion were unified at the track, and Davis loved it. He'd skip work at Shearson and drive down to Del Mar or over to the Orange County Fair and spend his days handicapping; surrounded by horses, harmony, jockeys, concordance, odds, bliss, and contentment.

Until the cash advances on his charge cards were disallowed.

Davis always knew that there was more to the world than rational scientific skepticism: reducing it to that single dimension did the world and yourself an injustice. But he also knew that giving away his rational thought process to a cult or a guru, to a religion or an outmoded ancient tradition was surrendering a large and important part of his individual human identity and responsibility. The three situations in life when he felt whole and happy and non-self-conscious were at the track; when he was cross-eyed and drooling during an orgasm; or on those rare occasions when his running clicked.

Ten strides into his eighth lap Davis' mind, that insistent, irritating, always talking persona faded.

The only thing that existed for Davis was the muted slap and recoil of his naked feet after each stride. The temperate, almost cool, night air on his sweat-sopped chest and back. The ebb and flow of air in his lungs. The active relaxation of his limbs as he pumped around the track. There is a moment, when you're on your stride, warmed-up and running in perfect time with your breathing that it feels like flying. Your feet touch the ground because your humming gyroscopic gravity pulls the earth toward you. You're the center of creation; the night air is created for you to breathe, the moon is there to light your way, the speed and momentum of Davis O'Kane's body keeps the universe from spinning out of control.

Davis, mindless—aware of nothing and everything—started his ninth lap.

And he flew.

* * *

Barefoot, shirt unbuttoned and still sweating, Davis arrived at Zenny's trailer twenty minutes later. He reviewed the, fairly typical, Friday evening at John Barleycorn's on the drive across town: a fight in the bar, a greasefire that—had the sprinkler system been operable—would have shut the place down, a visit from Grimes, and a shouting match between Jeff and Barbara. But Davis handled it all perfectly.

He sat in the office, drank coffee, and listened to the phone messages accumulate on the office line:

"Davis-ah? This is Umberto. Pick up."

"Hello Davis? This is Joan. Where do you keep the children's aspirin. Pick up? Goddamit—please just pick up?"

"Davis? Len here. Shit, I guess I cared more than I let on about that election. I'm at my uncle's now, and if I don't stop drinking right now I won't be able to run with you tomorrow. Later."

"Rooster here. What do you know about that horse of Woody's? The old fart is covering side bets for the Sagrado Derby. Big, serious bets. He's giving odds and wants to bet his half of the mining company against mine. Call me. I'll pay you a consulting fee. Call me."

"Davis? I had fun at the Silverpanners' game today. Let's do lunch before the Derby tomorrow. Le Bistro at 11:30? I just assumed we were going to the Sagrado Derby. Together. I left my number at the bar. Call me."

"Davis? This is Lisa. Your babysitter? Joan keeps calling me, asking about bedtimes and baths and aspirin. I'm going over to take care of it, I just thought you'd like to know the girls will be okay. I'll spend the night if I have to."

"Davis, this Kaitlyn McGuire. Have the Theroux boys call me. I have some work for them at the ranch. Toodles."

"Davis, this is Mauro. Answer the phone, you prick. Umberto's been calling me every ten minutes. I know you're in the office drinking coffee, Porco Dio, answer the phone."

"Davis, this is Woody. You just remember what I said about investing Futures in my Glue industry, boy. Am I right?"

"This is Len. You're running alone tomorrow."

"This is your MCI customer service representative. Are you satisfied with your current long distance service?"

Then finally, the twins: "Goodnight, Pops. Mom went for a drive and Lisa let us sneak out of bed to call. We love you."

Davis erased the messages. He had heard, years ago—probably in college—that a person's life is like a sculpture. You begin as an unblemished and virgin portion of stone; then parents and preachers and teachers start chipping and polishing until you're shaped and final and whole. Davis' sculpting process for the past few years more closely resembled a pack of vandals gouging, scraping, defacing. He felt less like a proportioned statue and more like an amorphous, shapeless, meaningless exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

Three hours later Davis, while closing up, had popped a steak on the grill before he remembered Freddy was dead, his car impounded, and he would be spending the night at Zenny's

* * *

CHAPTER 48

Zenny's trailer sat on a bluff overlooking the desert to the east and the twinkling little burg of Nightingale to the west. Davis parked the HumVee next to Zenny's Saturn. A strange light flickered inside the trailer, like the reflections from a mirrored disco ball. Davis, small suitcase in hand, walked up the three steps to the front door and rang the bell.

It didn't work.

"Hey Zenny," yelled Davis. But his voice floundered in the CHUFF-CHUFF, CHUFF-CHUFF of a US Navy helicopter that bulleted down the valley about forty feet off the ground. Davis spit out sand and tried again, "Hey Zenny?"

"It's open, man."

Davis pushed the wafer-thin door open. The kitchen, spotless and polished, was to the right. A pot on the stove simmered, filling the small trailer with a humid saffron smell. In the hallway, a framed portrait of Carl Sagan, and three guttering votive candles stood watch over an open copy of "Cosmos." Davis looked to his left. Zenny and Roget stood beneath a hooded light fixture. The green-glass fixture illuminated a spinning roulette wheel that had been erected in the center of the living room. The wheel was a B.C. Wills with electrical wires protruding from it like a patient on life support. One of the electrical leads connected to a hand-held calculator cradled in Zenny's left hand. Three stacks of chips stood like sentinels on the emerald, numbered grid. Without looking up, Zenny said, "Welcome. Grab a beer, wine, smoke, whatever."

Davis tossed his suitcase onto an opened sofa bed. The brothers continued their intense vigil over the wheel. Roget, the same height as Zenny, seemed taller because he shaved his head. The intense light reflected from his pate.

"One. Two. Three," said Zenny.

On three Roget started the wheel spinning clockwise and a roulette ball into a counterclockwise orbit. Zenny punched buttons on the calculator. As mesmerized as the Creator after setting Newton's Universe in motion, the brothers tracked the ball. "Octet six, octet six," said Zenny.

Roget spread five bets on 00, 27, 1, 13, and 36.

The ball PLIK-PLOK-PLUNKED into 36's cup.

Roget smiled and paid himself from a rack of chips beneath the table, "What's up, Davis?"

"I was about to ask you," said Davis.

"One. Two. Three," said Zenny. He punched, Roget spun and launched a ball. "Octet three, octet three," said Zenny.

Roget scuttled chips across the table to 7, 11, 26, 9, and 30.

PLIK-PLOK-PLUNK. Lucky number 11.

"Sonuvabitch," said Davis. "Hitting back-to-back field numbers at thirty-five to one? With a ten-dollar bet that's twelve-thousand two-hundred and fifty dollars."

Zenny nodded. "One. Two. Three."

With accuracy nearing eighty percent the brothers hit bet after bet for the next forty minutes. Then Roget said, "I'm tired." He walked across the room and stood silently, eyes averted, in front of Carl Sagan's picture. His lips moved, barely.

"Roget," whispered Zenny, "is into Saganism."

"Isn't that Paganism?"

"No," said Zenny. "He worships Carl Sagan. Since nineteen eighty-one he reads one page of Cosmos before bed."

Davis nodded and watched Roget turn the page. Roget performed a convoluted Sign of the Cross that included his ears, nose, and testicles. Then he exited the trailer.

"Davis," said Zenny, "would you like some paella?"

Halfway through his second bowl of paella, Davis said, "What's up with the wired roulette wheel?"

"Roulette is the only game of chance whose outcome relies on the same Laws of Physics that govern planetary motion, man. The rotor spins this-a-way, and decelerates at a given rate." Zenny gestured and gesticulated, bobbing and twirling his fingers, arms, and torso. "Different for each wheel, but it can be determined easily enough. The ball orbiting that-a-way also decelerates at a given rate, depending on altitude, humidity, temperature, initial speed and whether the ball is made of Teflon or ivory. C'mon."

Davis followed his host to the roulette layout with his paella and ate during Zenny's explanation: "In order to develop a computer program which predicts where the ball will fall on the wheel you have to take in the parameters of tilt, bounce, scatter, and drag. Tilt is obvious, the wheel can't be perfectly level. Bounce and scatter is the equal and opposite reaction of the ball hitting the wheel."

"And drag," said Davis, "is dressing like a woman."

"Surprisingly, wind resistance is more responsible for the drag than friction. That's why altitude and humidity must be factored in. On the same wheel a ball will decelerate slower at sea level than up here."

"Thicker air down there. Got it."

"Anyway, we divided the wheel into eight pizza slices. Octets. When the little computer I built is tuned in accordance with the predictable variables it will forecast, more often than not, which octet the ball will fall into."

"That's impressive. Hell, amazing. But Zenny, no casino in the world will let you wire up one of their wheels and take their money."

Zenny walked over to Sagan's picture and removed it from the wall. He pulled what looked like a credit card from the frame's back.

"What's that?"

"A miniaturized microprocessor that runs my roulette program. It should be twice that size, but I stacked it like a sandwich and filled the circuits with micro crystalline wax." Zenny touched four copper leads, "The wires from the battery pack plug in here. These output switches send out a pulse of electricity. I've tried several ways of using it at a real roulette table. One almost worked."

Davis finished his midnight meal. A good run and some real food had fortified him. "What was that?"

"I mounted it on the back of a gutted thirty-five millimeter camera. The f-stop and focus knob I rigged to set the wheel's parameters. I pretend I'm taking pictures while I'm setting scatter and bounce. The camera body contained a big battery pack.

"Why?"

"To indicate the octet with a number of shocks. Three shocks, octet three. Eight shocks, octet eight. And it worked. It predicted three straight numbers. I didn't double up my bets 'cuz I didn't want t draw attention to myself."

Davis looked at Zenny's unruly ponytail, beard, and multiple turquoise earrings. "Good call."

"I was up over six-grand. A crowd started gathering, along with a couple of Rooster's goons. I started sweating, the croupier spun the wheel, and my moist shirt caused the electrodes to arc and the batteries discharged and almost electrocuted me, man. My knees buckled and I stumbled backwards and fell. Shit, what a mess. They rushed me to the hospital—heart failure—but not before Rooster's goons busted up my camera."

"I remember you calling in sick from the emergency room."

"And you thought I was shitting you." Zenny smiled. "The system works, but I need some heavy duty NiCads and a housing to smuggle it into the casino. And I'm outta money."

"How much do you need?"

"Fifteen-hundred. Maybe two-grand."

"What'd you do with the Samsonite?"

"Hall closet, between the Geiger counter and Roget's spare parachute."

"Woody swears Future Glue's a lock tomorrow."

"You shouldn't be betting."

Davis waved that away, "Let's put down a couple thousand each. We'll leave IOUs."

Zenny switched on the hall light and retrieved the suitcase. He opened the valise and counted out equal stacks of twenty, one hundred dollar bills. Davis scribbled out an IOU which Zenny initialed. Before re-locking the case Zenny pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Read this." He handed the letter to Davis.

dearest soulmate zenny:

i know you understand when i say: "life is a mountain and death is a feather." both of us, having had a furtive taste (what else is available, tell me please?) of the infinite, intimate reality know the frustration of having to function in this tedious, aggravating, infuriating, insane daily grind.

that is the mountain.

make your unique sojourn up that mountain easier by betting on my horse in the sagrado derby. this tip about future glue is my favor to you. please do this for me in return:

try to explain to davis about the feather.

wanda marie

Zenny held one pile of cash just out of Davis' reach, "Is this a sure thing tomorrow on Future Glue?"

"Yes."

He handed Davis the cash, "With Wanda Marie's blessing, and only because of her."

He returned the letter to Zenny. "What about this feather?" Davis could hear the sounds of the desert: the echo of a far-off coyote above the wind.

Zenny crinkled his brow, "Who taught you how to run?"

"Various coaches. Books. Runner's magazines."

"They improved your running; who taught you how to run?"

"My mother?"

"She helped you to walk. I see you jogging around town with Len. There is a practiced and carefree confidence in your stride. Who taught you how to run?"

Davis sat stumped and silent; like a third grader puzzling over his first long division problem.

"Answer that question by forgetting that the question exists," said Zenny, "and you'll understand the feather."

"Sounds complicated and mysterious," said Davis.

"A bean burrito would be complicated and mysterious if you could only talk about it and never taste one."

"Too much for tonight." Davis yawned and then removed his cowboy boots. "Thanks for letting me crash here."

Zenny pointed at Davis' boots. "Do you special order those gunboats?"

"There's a Big-and-Tall shop in Reno that sells them."

"I'm gonna check on Roget." He left.

The trailer swayed and rattled. The gusting wall of wind sweeping down from the Sierras sandblasted the town of Nightingale. The lights in the trailer flick-flick-flickered. "Everyone talks about the weather but no one does anything about it." Davis plopped down on the sofa bed and began counting the cash. Three bills into the stack he noticed the words IN GOD WE TRUST had been overwritten with BULLSHIT! On every bill in a broad black Keno crayon. "Sonuvabitch," said Davis. "Wanda Marie had Woody's money."

There was no reply from the roulette wheel or Carl Sagan.

* * *

CHAPTER 49

Vergil Waitzin held his hand two inches above the burning candle and smiled. "Do you know how many hundreds," he said, "shit, thousands of dollars I've won in bars doing this trick?"

"You sicken me," said Mauro.

"Shut up and get me a beer," said Vergil. He removed his karate-callused hand from above the flame. Vergil spat into his palm and rubbed it on Mauro's olive-green crushed-velvet couch. "A cold one."

"Mange il canna di conotti."

"I speak passable Italian and perfect Spanish and—"

"Perhaps a benefit from spending weekends in Tijuana whorehouses?"

"—I understood that. And I learned Spanish at the US Army Language Schools, Fort Ord, Maricon. You know what it is now?"

"It? What it?" He opened the refrigerator and removed two Moretti beers.

"Fort Ord," said Vergil. "That motherfucker Clinton closed it down and Monterey County turned it into a California State University. One of these days the centerfielder on their baseball team will be chasing a flyball and step on a fucking landmine. BOOM! Fielder's choice." He stood and strode to the kitchen. Despite seven beers in the previous hour, the former Navy Seal walked without a wobble. He grabbed a Moretti and sucked it down. "Gimme a cold one from the back."

"Speaking of cold ones," said Mauro, pointing to a puddle on his terra cotta floor, "she's melting."

"The doctor will be here within an hour."

"Are you certain it is safe to land a Navy helicopter on my patio?"

"Did you close up your delightful little Cinzano umbrellas?"

"Yes."

"Fine." Vergil nudged Wanda Marie with the toe of his combat boot. "I better get some more ice. Besides, we need more beer."

"We?"

"Is there an all-night liquor store in this pissant pueblo?"

Mauro told him and waited until Vergil climbed into his black Ford 4 x 4 and roared down his driveway. Then he dialed Umberto and said, in Italian, "We seem to have developed some extremely intense scrutiny from the United States Navy."

* * *

CHAPTER 50

Rooster parked his blue caddy near the stables at Nightingale Meadows. His arrival caused no alarm: owners, trainers, veterinarians came and went at all hours, administering medications, checking on lame horses, meeting with trainers and jockeys. Any observer, curious or casual, would naturally assume that Rooster, wearing a black suede cowboy hat and Levis, carrying a black medical bag was a vet or owner on a late PM visit. Rooster, eyes concealed by the hat, nodded at the shit-shoveling-stableboys as he walked the soft, cinder path to the stables. Horses of all descriptions neighed, whinnied, and bucked. Future Glue, predictably, leaned torpid against the side of his stall. Rooster, alone in the paddock, patted the horse's forelocks. He removed a hypodermic from the black bag, swabbed an area with alcohol and deftly injected the horse with morphine.

He removed the needle, closed the bag and nuzzled against the horse. "That's not gonna hurt you. I just need to see how well you can run with a hangover. Sleep well; dream of cloverfields and cowparsley." Rooster walked to a pay phone and dialed John Barleycorn's office line: "Rooster here. What do you know about that horse of Woody's? The old fart is covering side bets for the Sagrado Derby. Big, serious bets. He's giving odds and wants to bet his half of the mining company against mine. Call me. I'll pay you a consulting fee. Call me."

He hung up.

"Maybe betting that mining stock ain't such a bad idea. After I win, I just might send ole Woody a Better Luck Next Time Mammogram."

* * *

CHAPTER 51

"Jennifer and Alexi," yelled Joan. "Hurry up and eat." Then she said into the phone. "Sorry, Jeff."

"Jennifer's voice echoed from the kitchen, "We can't hurry up and eat. There's no cereal."

"Try some waffles." Joan lit a cigarette. She had stopped smoking for nearly two years, but these kids were driving her crazy. They weren't bad, they just always needed something.

"The only thing in the freezer is brine shrimp," said Alexi.

"And we're not fish," said Jennifer.

"Or turtles," said Alexi.

"Goddamit, I don't see how Davis could live without a cellular phone." She spoke into the old, wall-mounted, rotary-dial phone, "I'll just meet you at the track, okay? Later." She hung up and walked to the kitchen. The girls, still in their pajamas, stood on a kitchen chair in front of the refrigerator. Both doors were open.

"The only thing to eat is pickles," said Jennifer. "You need to go shopping, Mom."

"Get dressed, you'll be late for swimming lessons."

Alexi pointed at the clock, "We're already late."

"Jesus Christ, just get dressed. We'll stop for breakfast on the way."

"At John Barleycorn's?" asked Jennifer. "So we can see Pops?"

"John Barleycorn's is a night-time place, Jenn," said Alexi.

The phone rang. "I'll be right back." Joan left the kitchen.

Jennifer and Alexi climbed down from the chair and closed the refrigerator doors. "Let's get dressed," said Alexi.

"Living with mom bites," said Jennifer.

"It bites hard."

"I heard that," said Joan. "Now get upstairs and get ready for your lessons."

The twins—in the plodding, knock-kneed, snail-paced, drag-shuffle-walk of all pissed-off children—made their way toward the stairs. As they passed the aquarium Jennifer screamed, "HOOVER'S DEAD."

"HE'S FLOATING UPSIDE-DOWN," Alexi echoed Jennifer's wail, "MOM KILLED HOOVER."

"What the hell are you two screaming about?" Stretching the phone's cord to the utmost Joan could just poke her head around the corner.

"YOU ARE A MURDERER," said Alexi.

"HOOOVVVERRR'S DEADDDD," sobbed Jennifer.

"Dad bought us that fish when we were little," said Alexi, "and you killed it because you didn't go SHOPPING."

"Mom," said Jennifer, "is a fish killer." Solemnly, she grabbed the tiny net and trawled Hoover's pale and bloated body from the aquarium. "We're gonna have a funeral, and you're not even invited."

"Poor Hoover," said Alexi.

They paraded to the stairs, leaving a trickle of aquarium water across the hardwood floor.

Joan watched them ascend the stairs and turn right toward the bathroom. She heard muffled sobs and then the toilet flushed twice. She didn't know whether to walk upstairs and try to talk or just get them dropped off at the pool as quickly as possible. She hung up the phone and said, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

* * *

CHAPTER 52

The USGS field office in Nightingale assayed several tons of rocks a year. Most of the actual work was performed by graduate students and interns from University Nevada Reno. The work was tedious and boring, usually had nothing to do with the assayist's field of study, but the pay was okay and it was nice to have something besides a Master's Degree and a stint as a bartender on your résumé when you applied for a working position with an oil company or a teaching slot at a university.

Bob O'Kane, right now, wanted nothing more than to beg, steal, find, earn, borrow, or print enough money to accompany a geological expedition to northern China to study a recently discovered layer of sedimentary rock from the Permian Period. The end of the Permian, 250 million years ago, is famous for the most extensive mass extinction in the history of this little green, white, and blue planet. The comet or asteroid that hit the earth 65 million years ago killed off the dinosaurs and what amounted to fifty-percent of the species alive at the time of impact. The Permian extinction destroyed ninety-five percent of all species.

Bob knew, theoretically, how and why the mass extinction occurred, but he needed to analyze some sedimentary rocks from the Permian to prove that life was nearly eradicated by, well, Alka Seltzer.

During the Permian the continents as we know them were linked into a single Super Continent called Pangea. An uninterrupted sea covered the remainder of the planet. Bob had run computer simulations re-creating the oceanic currents that had to have existed in this scenario. Today, and for the last 110 million years, seawater at the poles grows cold and dense and sinks to the seafloor where it flows around the world before warming and resurfacing. The Permian's ocean was too hot for such convection currents to exist. Instead, the enormous ocean would have to be nearly stagnant. Over millions of years, millions of tons of dead and decaying biomass settled to the bottom of this saltwater pond. The putrefying material sucked all the oxygen from the seawater, while carbon dioxide, the by-product of organic decay, increased. This concentration of CO2 in the deep oceans reduced the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere which cooled the entire planet by undermining the greenhouse effect. As a result, reasoned Bob, polar ice caps appeared, cooled the surface water which sunk and pushed the seltzer sea into shallow, life-filled regions.

And the extinction had begun. CO2 poisoning, death by Alka Seltzer, nearly eliminated life in the sea and affected nearly every land animal and plant.

This wasn't sloppy or fanciful thinking on the part of John Barleycorn's Bob. There is evidence of this exact mechanism occurring four or five times during the Neoproterozoic Era, 800 to 540 million years ago. Chemical analyses of the sedimentary rocks from this era show millions of tons of carbon dioxide were trapped in the deep ocean and then released when the glaciers were born.

If Bob could come up with the scratch necessary to venture to China he could prove the same thing happened in the Permian, triggering the greatest mass extinction in history. That is why, even though Bob despised and abhorred Umberto with his suits and Gucci loafers, the bartender accepted five thousand dollars, cash, to secretly analyze three different rock samples. Even if Bob were stupid he'd have made the connection between the abandoned derrick in John Barleycorn's parking lot and the existence of the samples he was analyzing.

That's why he was alone on a Saturday morning in the USGS offices. To secretly and quietly ascertain if Umberto's illegally obtained samples from beneath John Barleycorn's parking contained any uranium.

* * *

CHAPTER 53

Woody bumped up the hill toward Lake Wally, a horse trailer in tow, when he saw Dirk's KFLO HumVee flashing his highbeams in his rearview. Woody flipped open the glovebox and extricated his .32 caliber Beretta. Woody removed his hat and eased the pickup to a halt. He wiped sweat from his forehead, replaced the hat and tugged at the brim. He tucked the Beretta snug beneath his right thigh. The HumVee circled around Woody's truck and stopped, facing downhill, driverside to driverside. Woody squinted through the dust, "You're up early, Davis." He saw the newly-risen sun in his side-view mirror.

"I'm losing enough sleep to supply a worn-out army," quoted Davis.

"Why are you driving that war wagon?"

Davis explained. Woody had heard most of the story about Freddy, the bridle, and the Saab. Davis motioned at the horse trailer, "Where are you headed with the trailer?" On cue, the trailer's occupant unleashed a minute-long torrent that drummed against the trailer's floor. The stream of urine trickled out the back of the trailer and puddled in the sand. "Doesn't Future Glue run in five hours?"

"Yes."

"No one's stupid enough to have a horse work out the morning of a race." Davis fumbled with the HumVee's door and walked to the trailer—Woody monitored his motions in the mirror. Future Glue lolled against the padded and blanketed side of the trailer, held up by a bridle and three straps. The horse's tongue protruded, gray and dry, from the side of his mouth. Davis jogged back to Woody; "You've been doping Future Glue?"

"Davis," Woody's hand tightened about the Beretta's cherry-wood grip, "pretty please mind your own fucking business."

"The IRS is knocking on John Barleycorn's front door, you're giving odds on a horse that can't run, how Wanda Marie is involved I don't know, why Freddy ended up in my car I don't know—"

"You don't know a hell of a lot, do you?" The men sat silent for a moment, listening to the world wake up.

"Rooster told me you're betting control of M & R Mining."

"The horse will win. Bet a few bucks and just shut up. You're worse than my wife."

"Tell me why you bet the mine and I'll butt out."

"Okay. I owe you that." Woody removed his hat and again wiped away the sweat. "The US Navy has contacted me about buying the old tungsten mine. Since the USSR split up, the largest tungsten mines in the world are now in Uzbekistan, which has a volatile relationship with Russia and America. To cover their asses the Navy's buying up marginal mines. They've offered me ten times what that bastard's worth."

"But—"

"Trust me and wait until tonight."

"When the bullshit continues?"

"We'll sort it out. Man to man. I'll show you the real books, explain about Umberto, the Navy, the IRS—"

"You know about the audit?"

"The audit is the least of your IRS worries, Davis. And I swear on my father's grave I'll buy you out. Cash. Tonight."

"Bullshit. Sonuvabitching bullshit, Woody. Tell me now."

"I've got a horse to attend to." Woody eased out the clutch.

Davis hopped on the running board, "C'mon Woody."

"Make sure you bet on Future Glue this afternoon. I'll see you tonight." He brought the Beretta's barrel down on Davis' knuckles. Davis lost his grip and tumbled to the ground. Woody trounced up the rutted road. Davis remained on the ground a moment before he dusted himself off and returned to the HumVee. "If you show up tonight, I'll tell you about a suitcase full of cash you gave Wanda Marie to lay off on that horse."

* * *

CHAPTER 54

"What happened to your hand?" asked Tasha.

"I slammed it in the car door," said Davis.

Tasha reached across the table and caressed his bruised left hand. "Poor baby."

Davis peeped over the top of the menu: Tasha wore a scallop-necked, rust-colored blouse that brightened her eyes and darkened her hair. The old-fashioned blouse—buttoned to the neck—made her look demure, like a soon-to-be-naughty school teacher in a smutty movie. Davis hadn't seen if she had been wearing pants or a skirt, she'd been seated when he arrived. As nonchalantly as possible he glanced around the small, round table. He spied snug, faded Levis, black heels and a full-face Shoei motorcycle helmet. "Whose helmet?"

"Mine," said Tasha.

"You ride a motorcycle?"

"I've been driving everywhere with Ken this week, but yeah, I ride a nineteen-sixty-seven BSA Victor."

"In heels?"

"That's how my mother taught me." Her smile was radiant. "It has an electric starter."

Davis was dazzled. "A sixty-seven BSA?"

"If you're a good boy, I might let you ride it," said Tasha "Would you like wine?"

"I'm sticking with mineral water," said Davis. Jennifer and Alexi would be arriving home after swimming lessons and a session on the water slide at TRAINTOWN!

"Earth to Davis?" said Tasha. She squeezed his hand again.

"Sorry. Let's start with the Hearts of Palm salad and a French onion soup? Then Caesar salad and split a Coq au Vin?"

"Perfect.

The waiter arrived and Davis ordered. Tasha and Davis joined hands in the center of the table. "I'm not used to this," said Davis.

"Romance in the afternoon?"

"No, linen napkins." Davis released Tasha's hands and plucked a white napkin from the salmon colored tablecloth. "My linen bill would be ten-grand a month."

Raymond Le Blanc, LA chic in a brown sportcoat over tight black t-shirt said, "It would not; your clientele couldn't operate such technology." He snatched Tasha's napkin and, with a flourish, flicked it flat on her lap. Davis situated his own napkin as the waiter arrived with a bottle of white wine and three glasses.

"We ordered Perrier," said Davis.

Raymond winked, scooted the waiter away, and popped a Macôn Blanc. "French food demands French wine." He poured three tastes and SNIFF-SIP-SLURPED his wine.

Tasha, diffident but playful, drank.

Davis sat back and crossed his arms. "What do you want, Raymond?"

"I want you to enjoy your Macôn Blanc."

Davis swirled a mouthful and swallowed.

"Yes, now," said Raymond, "in your opinion as a professional gambler—"

"Who told you I gambled?"

"Aloysius Tuggnutt dines here often."

Raymond poured more wine, "Does Woody's horse have a chance of victory this afternoon?"

"Half the handicappers would say no; the other half would say hell no."

After lunch Tasha thumbed the starter on her BSA, adjusted her helmet, stood on the pegs and pulled the front of her blouse through the VEE of her legs and sat. Toeing the bike into gear she rocked it forward off the kickstand and popped the clutch. She ignored the stop sign, exited the parking lot and accelerated to merge with the traffic on Sagrado Boulevard, the tuft of her blouse billowed behind her like Baby Huey's tail feathers. She returned to the one-bedroom house she rented near the Paiute reservation.

Davis followed in the HumVee.

Tasha kissed Davis; Davis kissed Tasha—they never quite made it to the single bedroom. But neither of them were overly concerned with the cottage's floorplan. Tasha's fat black cat willingly surrendered the couch.

And it was good.

"How'd a nice Irish family like the O'Kane's get to Nevada?" Tasha sat lithe, comfy, and naked across Davis' thighs. He reclined on the frayed but cozy couch. She twisted and twined his chest hair; he stretched like the cat they'd displaced.

"Have you ever heard of the Crimean War?"

"I saw Mel Gibson in Gallipoli."

"That was World War One. The Crimean war was Russia against England, Turkey, and France—mid-eighteen-fifties. The war is famous for two reasons: The Charge of the Light Brigade and Florence Nightingale. My great grandfather, Flannery O'Kane, was a member of the Light Brigade."

"I thought you were Irish?"

"England actively recruited soldiers from Ireland." Davis propped himself up on an elbow and placed a hand on Tasha's shoulder. He massaged the soft concavity fenced in by her collarbone. "My great grandfather was wounded at the battle of Sevastopol and treated at Scutari Hospital by none other than Florence Nightingale."

"Really?"

"It gets better."

"The O'Kane's, back then, were barbers. Barbers also performed minor surgery—"

"So gramps went to work at Scutari hospital?"

"And that's when he had an affair with Florence Nightingale. They had a torrid affair that lasted for years; until the start of the Civil War."

"Our Civil War?"

"Yeah. The US government sought out Florence Nightingale's help in setting up field hospitals. Flannery emigrated to do just that. Then he came west as a Federal Agent, assigned to set up hospitals on Indian Reservations. He settled, finally, in this valley because it was the opposite of green and rainy Ireland. He named the town he founded Nightingale after his lover. He obviously married and started a family, but he and Florence corresponded until her death in nineteen-ten. She never married. He died three months later."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Tasha kissed Davis.

Davis kissed Tasha.

* * *

CHAPTER 55

"Shoot," said Tasha. She ripped up her tickets for the fifth race and tossed them in the air. They melded into the confetti of broken dreams that floated down after every race at every racetrack in the world. "Another loser."

"You didn't have a chance," said Davis. "Davidowitz says—"

"You quote these guys like Kahil Gibran citing the Koran."

"—when a three-year-old is assigned actual top weight in a race for horses three years and up, the three-year-old has little or no chance of winning."

"You should have told me four dollars ago." Tasha had changed to a blue tank-top, pleated white shorts and white sandals. She was the first woman Davis had made love to that didn't shave her armpits.

"I tried to," said Davis, "but you had The Sniff."

"What's that?"

"It's when a bettor can smell a winner. You can't say why you think a horse will win, but you bet it anyway."

"Which horse should I have bet?"

"You should have laid off. There was no clear cut favorite."

"You make betting sound like a business."

"It is."

"When does Future Stew run?"

"Glue," said Davis. "The race after next."

"How much are you betting?"

Davis figured two-hundred from this week's envelope from Mauro plus Woody's BULLSHIT! bucks he'd liberated from the Samsonite. $2200. "A couple of shekels; four drachmas; some kopeks. Not much."

Tasha smiled, stood on tiptoes and kissed Davis on the cheek, "I could get used to having you around."

Davis peeped into Tasha's impossibly innocent eyes. He had resigned himself to the fact that mid-life dating was the equivalent of buying a sturdy stick which would be honed, sharpened; then used to impale yourself. His stomach, his guts were telling him to stay the hell away from women; but, there was an effortless, undeniable something here with Tasha. Joan had been young love turned tasteless, then sour. The last month was hot sex—and sex is sex—with Wanda Marie. Davis exhaled and, for the first time in his life allowed himself patience with all the questions, the doubts that haunt and doom a relationship: What if? How serious? Why bother? He was here at the track—today—and so was Tasha; he decided all those questions were written in a foreign language in a closed book on a high shelf. He kissed the top of Tasha's head, barely brushing her hair.

She smiled and said, "How much should I bet on Future Glue?"

He spoke, "Woody's been sandbagging. All season long he's been setting this race up by slowing the horse down."

"How?"

"A simple way is to cinch the saddle and bridle so tight it constricts the horse's breathing. Keeping a rail-shy horse on the rail makes it run tentatively." Davis spoke slowly, like a schoolboy reciting a recently memorized poem. "Then there's drugs." Davis described the woozy horse he'd seen this morning.

"That's terrible."

"It's a dirty little world, Tasha."

They watched the next race unfold from the shade of the grandstand. The favorite ran true-to-form, leading wire-to-wire. Davis said, "C'mon let's get in line. They hiked to the pari-mutuel window.

Waiting in line, Tasha asked, "Will Future Glue win?"

"I doubt he could beat a three-legged cow."

"Got The Sniff, Davis?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then why are you betting?"

"Because I smell Woody McGuire."

* * *

CHAPTER 56

Jeff Curtis—who tended bar at John Barleycorn's as Jeff Thomas—loved hot dogs. He ate them twice a day, at least. His favorite breakfast was a hotdog omelet with chili, onions, and pickle relish. Jeff's favorite type of dog was a Skillet Dawg that his Scout Master had taught him to make. Slice six hotdogs open and place them face down in a cast iron skillet with some diced red onion, sauerkraut and bacon. Cover the skillet and turn up the heat. While the dogs were sizzling, prepare six toasted buns: a thick coating of mayonnaise on one side and good old plain yellow American mustard on the other. None of this fancy French gallimaufry made with white wine and spices and shit. When tendrils of smoke curled up from the skillet the dawgs were done. One per bun with the bacon and onions on top.

That, and a thirty-two ounce Pepsi, serves one.

Jeff's Scout Master, a retired Army Colonel named Ronald King had lost his right leg, from the knee down, in a Korean foxhole. Colonel King, ret., was a surrogate father to Jeff, who had lost his real father in a foxhole in Vietnam. The Colonel was always there for Jeff, Little League coach, Scout Leader, and high school tutor. Jeff—a stereotypical athlete—was none too bright. He could only learn, barring Divine Intervention, by endless rote and repetition.

The Colonel reckoned Jeff would do splendidly in the Army.

Jeff was just dumb enough to mindlessly follow any order, but competent enough to carry it out properly. He sported an All-American crewcut, a body like a statue, reverence for the Stars-and-Stripes, he didn't trust gays or minorities, and he treated women like shit.

Officer material.

The saddest day in Jeff's life was when he had been turned down by all four service branches and the Oklahoma National Guard because he had only one testicle. Indoctrinated from childhood by the Colonel for Love of God and Country Jeff knew he must find a job that would serve the greatest country in the world, the United State of America. The FBI turned him down for lacking a college degree. The CIA laughed after he left the office. The US Postal Service hired him as a temp but didn't renew his contract. The USDA had nothing for him. His search for GOVERNMENT EMPLOYMENT degenerated to the point that Jeff removed his autographed picture of Oliver North from his bedroom wall because the youth felt unworthy to be in the same room as patriotic Ollie. That's when the Colonel suggested he apply for a position with the Internal Revenue Service.

A perfect marriage.

Everything in the IRS was codified and laid out for Jeff. Again, he was smart enough to execute orders and stupid enough to not realize that he was implementing procedures designed to keep the middle-class struggling, kicking the poor while they were down, and catering to the rich: all-the-while collecting enough money to enrich the economically imperialistic bureaucracy he worked for. So it was off to the Treasury Law School in Washington DC where Jeff learned how to fire a pistol, plan a raid, seize proper evidence, make an arrest, and testify in court. He rose through the ranks and became the youngest Inspector in the history of the IRS.

Life was good, working, finally, for an important and initialed branch of the United States of America. His picture of Ollie had been re-enshrined. For the last six-years, Jeff had moved around the country working for restaurant chains. He never had a true alias because he couldn't quite muster up enough acumen to answer to anything except Jeff. He'd bartend for eight or nine months, then come to work one day in a suit, carrying a briefcase. The suit was tailored to accommodate his beefed-up chest, thighs, and biceps. The briefcase contained audits and summonses for his fellow-workers. John Barleycorn's was the first non-chain restaurant he'd inspected in several years and he was disappointed until he'd been informed as to the involvement of reputed mobster Umberto Ciccarelli and that the information he gathered would be shared with the FBI. And even though Jeff earned nearly sixty-thousand dollars a year from the IRS, hotdogs remained the mainstay of his diet.

He returned from the concession stand at Nightingale Meadows with four hotdogs, two beers and a whirring microcassette recorder in his shirt pocket. He handed a beer and hotdog to Joan O'Kane.

"I hate mustard," said Joan.

"Scrape it off," said Jeff.

"Mustard doesn't scrape. Once it's on it's on."

"Then I'll eat it." Jeff reclaimed the wienie.

"Which horse did Davis bet on?" asked Joan.

Jeff dabbed his mouth, daintily, with a napkin. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Tell me," said Jeff, "more about the success of his handicapping system."

WHIRR, WHIRR, WHIRR.

* * *

CHAPTER 57

"Dirk," said Woody, "you're notarized, aren't you?"

"Just one of the many hats I wear at KFLO, Woody."

"Take a peek at these papers I drew up." No briefcase for Woody, he pulled the documents from a rear pocket. "I'll summarize for Rooster and Raymond. I've parceled off two fifty-five acre portions of my ranch. Both prime, with Lake Wally water rights and a western exposure. That means a view of the mountains, Ray."

"I know east from west, garçon."

"And," said Woody, "if you two gents have the balls, I'd like to toss these parcels into the pot. Backing my Future Glue, of course."

Rooster recalled Future Glue, torpid and unfeeling as he jabbed him in the haunch with the needle. "Against what?"

"Your half of M & R Mining."

"I am interested," said Raymond, biting his lip. "What have I to bet?"

"Le Bistro," said Woody.

"The fruits of my sweaty brow? My restaurant wagered on a horse?"

"My horse."

"That makes the difference," said Raymond, "where do I sign?"

"Gents," said Dirk, "these papers, in legalese, entail exactly what Woody just explained. There is no fine print, no addenda, and no contingencies. If Future Glue wins, you lose a restaurant and a mine. Glue loses, well, welcome to the neighborhood."

Woody extracted a gold Cross pen from his pocket. He held it, silent, midway between Raymond and Rooster. Six seconds, then ten; not a word spoken. Then Rooster, motivated by adventure, greed, or boredom took the pen between his hairy knuckles and signed the document. He extended the pen to Raymond.

"It's shit or walk, Frog Boy," said Woody.

Raymond seized the moment and signed.

"I'm gonna clean your clocks," said Woody. He inhaled deeply and, equine, rattled the air out his nose. "Just smell that air. Desert heat tinged with the smell of horseshit—what a day for a race."

"Can't we," asked Kaitlyn, "turn on the air conditioning?"

"Not today," said Woody. "Today's my day."

The horses were being warmed up. Woody poured champagne. Raymond continued chewing his lip. Rooster raised his binoculars and squinted. He had placed a hundred on the favorite to win, but he really didn't care, the big action were the off-track, tax-free dollars he'd wagered with Woody.

Not to mention control of M & R Mining.

No matter what that sneaky bastard McGuire had planned, there was no way that Future Glue could win against a field of this quality. With or without a morphine hangover.

No way.

But studying the horse through the field glasses, there was something different about Future Glue today. He looked sleeker; healthier. The horse's blue-black coat rippled when he walked. No, the horse wasn't walking, Future Glue sauntered and promenaded; gamboled and swaggered. The horse, it seemed, wasn't capable of leaving his hooves in contact with the earth for more than a millisecond. And, if this were possible for a horse, it appeared happier. Rooster rotated his torso in a slight arc, following the cantering Future Glue. He squinted again, his graying bush-monkey eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The goddam map of Louisiana in the middle of the forehead; that's Future Glue. The morphine should have removed any bounce from the horse's gait, but it seemed to have augmented the muscular tension and added boldness and assurance. "I'm just nervous 'cuz I bet the mining stock," said Rooster. "I'm hallucinating."

"What?" said Woody.

"Nothing," said Rooster. "Nothing."

The horses broke cleanly from the starting gate. The track had been watered, which kept the dust down. No single horse had established a lead going into the first turn. The jockeys bore down on their horses, trying to eke out position. Future Glue was trapped on the rail. Midway through the first turn Future Glue faded to dead last.

THE LUXURY BOX:

"Cmon Glue," said Woody. He banged his head against the box's insulated plate glass.

"Tres bon," said Raymond. He mentally converted the sale of his fifty-five acres into francs and knew that his dream of owning a cafe in Paris would, in another four-fifths of a mile, become a reality.

Dirk was more enthused about getting that load of cash out of KFLO's safe than the thousand he'd win.

Rooster lit a cigar.

Kaitlyn said, "Woody? Why isn't Future Glue winning?"

THE GRANDSTAND:

"Shit," said Chris. "I bet my student loan money."

"I bet two-thousand stolen dollars," said Zenny.

"The horse isn't losing," said Davis.

"Why," said Rohn and John in harmony, "is he in last place?"

"You lied to us from beyond the grave, Wanda Marie." Zenny, Lear-like, shook his fist at the heavens. "Future Glue is losing."

Ken said, "Fuck it." He'd already decided this was his first and last trip to Nightingale Meadows. He contemplated a disguise that would allow him another trip to the baccarat table; but he didn't have a kimono and couldn't allow himself to dress like an American woman.

"That horse isn't Future Glue," said Davis.

"I can't believe," said Tasha, "your great grandfather slept with Florence Nightingale."

THE TRACK:

Falling to the rear was strategy, not fatigue. At times the only tactic available to a boxed-in horse is dropping back and going wide. The jockey, a wiry, red-bearded Scot named Ian Ridpath had never ridden a horse this responsive before. The horse was overjoyed simply to run. It ran with the enthusiasm of a rookie mount savoring the rush of the race for the first time. Ian decided to reward that enthusiasm by going wide in the backstretch and giving the horse its head.

It paid off.

Future Glue glided wide, striding even with the pack, then the leaders. The race announcer's patented drone grew fervent: "A surprise entering the final turn as Future Glue is on the same lap with the leaders....Glue is even with the leaders...Glue is PULLING AWAY....GLUE IS PULLING AWAY....GLUE BY A LENGTH....IT'S GLUE, OH MY GOD!, CLEAR AT THE WIRE IT'S FUTURE GLUE."

THE GRANDSTAND:

Chris and Zenny spun like dervishes. They moshed their neighbors sending hats, beers, and hotdogs flying.

"My roulette stake," said Zenny.

"My college fund," said Chris.

Bob, sitting apart from the John Barleycorn's crew said, "I'm China bound and I'm gonna miss this town like a case of impacted hemorrhoids."

Rohn and John high-fived.

Len decided to bank his winnings in a two-year, high-yield CD and use the money to run a real campaign next election.

Davis said, "It wasn't the same sonuvabitching horse."

THE LUXURY BOX:

Raymond's dream of boating on the Seine, past his riverfront café, disappeared like a broken-stringed kite on a gusty Parisian spring afternoon. Kaitlyn opened a bottle of champagne and began pouring. Svoboda took the entire bottle, sat in a corner, and drank. She opened another bottle and circulated, the perfect hostess.

Woody sat quietly. He had already prepared himself to be a gracious, only slightly condescending winner. He shook Dirk's hand, slipping him back his marker, "For the trouble of storing the bets," said Woody. "We're even up."

"Thanks," said Dirk. "Just get that cash out of my office pronto."

"On my way home, Dirk." Woody extended his hand to Rooster.

"You cheated," said Rooster.

Woody pointed at the phone, "Call the Track Steward."

Rooster smiled, thinking of the Steward's ruling when he found morphine—a banned substance—in Future Glue's blood. Rooster made the call. Woody and Kaitlyn tinked their champagne glasses. Raymond studied the carpet. Svoboda drank, mumbling, "Retirement. Impossible. Oh God."

"We'll be okay," said Rooster, "Svoboda. The horse will be scratched."

"Why?" Dirk asked over his coffee cup.

"'Cuz I whacked Future Glue with enough pharmaceutical grade morphine last night to keep it cross-eyed and bow-legged for a week."

"You just admitted to tampering," said Dirk.

"And all we have to do," said Woody, "is wait an hour."

TICK.

TICK.

TOCK.

Rooster answered the phone, then threw it across the room. "You bastard, Woody McGuire. How'd you rig the test?"

"His horse ran and won; then passed the drug test," said Svoboda. He licked the final drops of champagne from the bottle. "He wins."

"I'll get the result overturned. You bribed track officials to get the fleabag entered."

"I chased that angle for KFLO Sports," said Dirk. "He paid three horse owners to scratch right before the race. The track stewards, in order to start a full field had to select replacements from Nightingale Meadow's paddock. No full field, no race and the bets are off."

THE GRANDSTAND:

Yurri mentally calculated his winnings and said, "Thank you Ms Tounens, for the tip." He patted the shirt pocket that contained the letter Wanda Marie had written to Davis. Yurri tucked away his winning tickets and, as always did when confused, massaged his temples. He knew, to avoid suspicion, he'd have to be last in line to cash in his tickets. His confusion stemmed from the fact that he didn't know, now, how he could best use Wanda Marie's letter. If he turned it in as evidence he'd be responsible for solving a murder and could, probably, parlay that into a position with the State Police.

Or he could just blackmail Woody McGuire, have the cash up front, and take an early retirement.

* * *

CHAPTER 58

Corine always placed a shallow pan of water alongside any cake she baked in her oven.

Why?

Because her two older sisters did. Corine asked her sisters "Why?" and they said, "Because Mom always did."

Corine asked her mother "Why?" and she said, "Because my mother always did."

Before Grandmother died, Corine asked why she always placed a shallow pan of water alongside any cake she baked in her oven, "Because," said Grandmother Rucker, "my oven rack is broken and the pan of water balances the goddam thing out."

"Oh," said Corine.

But family traditions, irrational or not, prevail and to this day Corine placed a shallow pan of water alongside any cake she baked. Today's carrot cake, as usual, was black on the bottom and runny in the center. As fearless and effective as she was about approaching people for donations for the Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins Indian School, Corine was just as hapless, hopeless, and helpless in the kitchen.

But she always tried.

"Shit-and-Molasses," she said as she dumped the carrot cake, pan and all, into the rubbish bin. "I wanted something nice for you, Woodrow. This is your big day."

"Let's dance," said Woody.

"I'll put something on the phonograph."

"Something jazzy." Around Kaitlyn he'd never utter words like 'Jazzy' or 'Peachy' or 'Zippy.' But this was Corine.

They were the same age. They been bruised and battered by life in precisely the same era and according to the same rules. They shared a million-and-one subtle, mutual experiences that no one who hadn't struggled through puberty during World War Two could possibly comprehend or appreciate. Woody always considered it ironic that his Affair would be sexless. He never imagined or expected it would be simply to sit in the same room and talk, drink tea, and dance with someone his own age.

He knew Kaitlyn didn't love him; she wasn't capable of something as selfless as love: she'd been battered and bruised by a different era and different sensibilities. She hooked up with Woody for the house, the money, the Jag.

That fucking Jaguar: even the color, Burgundy, was pretentious.

But it was fitting, both Kaitlyn and the Jaguar were high maintenance pieces of window-dressing that didn't satisfy a legitimate, practical, or sensible function. The Jaguar needed bi-monthly tune-ups; Kaitlyn's bi-weekly tune-up was screwing those twin busboys from John Barleycorn's. Woody really didn't mind, he knew when you're nineteen a warm-and-wet-one is a warm-and-wet-one, no matter who it belonged to—he didn't blame the Theroux twins in the least.

The only thing that pissed Woody off was that affair she had with that cop.

Fucking Svoboda.

He walked and talked like a cop; even naked you could probably guess the bastard was a haughty, presumptuous, insolent, fucking cop.

Woody wondered what was in it for his lovely spouse?

The sex can't be that good if she's used to balling two nineteen-year-old-pneumatic-drills; or even with me, for that matter. Hmm, keep an eye on Svoboda; bullshit, keep an eye on Kaitlyn.

"Here," said Corine. She handed him a small box, wrapped in the funnies from Sunday's Reno Democrat.

Woody held the package as if it were a wounded sparrow. "I hope you didn't buy me anything," said Woody. "You remember our agreement?"

"It's a gift, but not a purchase." Corine placed a thick 78 RPM record on the turntable. She guided the needle onto the disk's outer orbit.

CRACKLE CRICKLE CRUNCH CRINKLE

Anticipation.

Woody stood stupidly with the tiny package in his hardened hands. Yeah, screw Kaitlyn. Woody smiled and thought of those two pig-tailed twins of Davis'.

My little heiresses.

Today he added a huge chunk of change to their pot. Full ownership of M & R Mining. Screw you Rooster. Screw you Svoboda. Screw you again Kaitlyn.

Woody opened the present almost delicately. He used a sharp thumbnail to slit the cellophane and carefully peeled the paper back, liberating the white box from Garfield's pranks and Doonsebury's self-indulgent cynicism. He opened it: curled into a bed of slightly-yellowed cotton lay a horse whittled from piñon pine.

"It's Future Glue," said Corine. "Took me about six tries to get the proportions right."

Woody placed the miniature horse on the kitchen table. He centered the wooden figure in a kidney-shaped puddle of sunlight that splashed across the table. The steed balanced on three legs with the right forelock poised above the table. The head cocked to the left; the tail cascaded. "A spitting image, thank you, dearest Corine."

"Don't get blubbery on me, Woodrow," said Corine "Let's dance."

The furry sound of a cornet filled the room as Woody bowed to Corine and extended his left hand.

She curtsied and placed her right hand in his left.

Her hand to his shoulder.

His hand to her hip; and away they twirled.

"'Is this Do, Re, Mi?'" asked Woody.

"I know how much Woody McGuire likes Woody Guthrie."

Woody guided Corine across the room.

"They just don't make 'em like this anymore," said Corine.

"No, my dear," he pushed aside a tendril of gray hair from Corine's forehead. "They sure don't."

"Look," said Corine, "it's raining."

Woody walked out into the rain and inserted a plug of chewing tobacco. He removed his hat and allowed the drops to splat and plop on his hair while he worked the chaw. Woody felt the slight bulk of Corine's carved Future Glue in his shirt pocket. He replaced his hat, worked up some spit and inserted the key in his truck's door. A hairy-knuckled hand stabbed out from the truck bed and immobilized Woody's wrist. "Got you, Woody."

Woody knew it would be impossible to break the grip.

So he spit fresh tobacco juice into Vergil Waitzkin's left eye.

"Shit, Woody, what'd you do that—"

Then Woody jabbed him in the forearm with his truck's ignition key. "A big, dumbshit guerilla-fighter like you should know better, Verge."

"That hurt." Vergil sat and massaged his forearm, smiling. "Dirty old bastard."

"Who you working for these days?"

"Would you believe I'm an Independent Contractor?"

"You're too goddam stupid to make decisions. Someone has to tell you exactly what to do and when to do it."

"Ever get the itch to get back into combat, Woody?"

"Nope. I'm content in Nightingale. Running the ranch and enjoying my Golden Years."

"How long has it been since Belize?"

"Seventeen years or so," said Woody. "Reagan sent us down there in what, eight-two? Eighty-three?"

"I need an answer," said Vergil.

"What's the question?"

"I need to know who killed Wanda Marie."

"Get your ass outta my truck." Woody opened the door and slid in.

Vergil jumped from the bed and wedged his shoulder against the door. "I said I need an answer."

"I killed her."

"Bullshit," said Vergil. "I remember her calling you Tio."

"Stay out of it Vergil." Woody started the truck and dropped it into gear.

Vergil stepped back, impervious to the sudden downpour. "I'm already in it. Up to my pecker."

* * *

CHAPTER 59

"Hey Rooster?" Jeff leaned against one of the olive trees that screened employee parking from the general lot at Ode to a Nightingale Casino. He held an empty purple-and-black gym bag loosely with the pinky of his left hand. The rainy wind that had descended from the Sierras had swept some white olive blossoms from the tree and deposited them on Jeff's thick shoulders. He swept them off like dandruff, unraveling the precisely folded cuff on his skintight GOLD'S GYM~MALIBU t-shirt.

Rooster slammed his caddy's door. He blinked away some raindrops until he recognized Jeff, "Don't fuck with me. I'm not in the mood."

Jeff burped softly, re-tasting the hotdogs he'd eaten at the track. He ended up wolfing down all four of them: Joan wouldn't touch hers because they'd been tainted with mustard. What a fussy bitch, Davis is better off without her. "I need some of your money right now," he waggled the gymbag, "or my evidence goes to the IRS."

Rooster strode up to Jeff and stopped with the toes of his cowboy boots an inch from Jeff's unlaced Nike crosstrainers. "What evidence? You got shit." Rooster laughed; a soprano chortle you'd expect to hear from a spindly, spinster librarian.

"A former employee, Bud Mulligan, worked here for years as Head cashier. Before Dorothy what's-her-name."

"I remember."

"I ran his name through an old database. He filed a complaint, late-seventies against, the Ode to a Nightingale and Mister Rooster Rudd."

"We can talk in my office."

When the useless-bartender-weightlifter-piece-of-shit put his feet up on Rooster's desk, the mayor reached for the .38 he kept strapped in a holster taped to the bottom of his desk drawer. He smiled, imagining Jeff's bullet-riddled body dropped into one of the mineshafts at M & R Mining. Let sole proprietor Woody McGuire explain that one; after I drop the gun in Lake Wally and tell Svoboda where to look.

"What's so funny, old man?" said Jeff.

Rooster removed his hand from the pistol and flicked the silent, Teflon-seated toggle that started the tape recorder in his desk drawer. "We may as well be civil about this. Cigar?"

"I'm in a hurry. And, I don't smoke."

Rooster took his time selecting an Esplendido from his humidor. He licked, sniffed, and clipped it with his pocketknife. "Now, tell me exactly what you've got so I can pay you off." Rooster puffed. "Or have you killed."

Jeff studied his reflection in the picture window, "Bud Mulligan, upset from what he considered was an unfair demotion, submitted to the IRS two sets of books from this casino—"

"Why wasn't I busted in seventy-nine?"

"You used a little muscle and a lot of money to make the problem disappear."

"Why, then, am I sitting here listening to a gorilla turd like you?"

"The younger generation of agents see the writing on the wall. The IRS of the new millennium will be a streamlined, computerized system collecting a flat tax from businesses and citizens. So, a few friends and myself have salvaged a few old files and are collecting privately for our Early Retirement Fund." Jeff refolded his cuff. "Pay me fifty-seven thousand dollars and I'll return the file to the computer junkyard."

"I don't keep that kind of cash in my office."

"I'd bet you do." He scanned the office. "No pictures, so I'd guess a floor safe."

Rooster puffed his cigar in silence for eight minutes, trying to sweat Jeff. It took Rooster nine minutes to reach the same conclusion the Colonel had reached: the boy was too dull and dense and dim to ever become worried, anxious, or excited. Strong as an ox and sharp as a bowling ball. Rooster clenched his cigar between teeth that were all his own and stood. He walked to a potted four-foot ficus. "Gimme a hand."

Jeff, knees bent with his back straight, lifted the ceramic pot and horsed it to his right shoulder, wobbled across the room and dropped it on Rooster's desk. The pot quavered at a crazy angle, vibrated, then split open. Dirt spilled across the desk, the larger ceramic shards tumbled to the floor. Rooster rotated the dial on the floor safe, clicked it open and withdrew several stacks of timeworn hundreds. "Clear off a place to count this, asshole."

Jeff did.

"Fifty-six thou, nine-hundred," Rooster dropped the final c-note on his ruined desk.

Jeff opened his gymbag.

"Momentary delay," said Rooster. He removed five bills from Jeff's pile. "For a new desk." He peeled off another hundred, "For a new tree."

Jeff glared at Rooster. "If you're thinking of using that tape recorder you switched on earlier, forget it." Jeff unclipped what looked like a pager from his belt. "This messes with the magnetized heads. Makes a conversation sound like, well, a rooster choking."

"If," said Rooster, "I ever hear from you again, I'll have you killed."

Jeff laughed, but scooped the money into the bag more quickly.

"It's a big fucking desert out there. Don't flatter yourself by thinking you'd be the first carcass I've planted in it."

Jeff grinned, inflated his chest and tried to intimidate Rooster.

That's when Rooster stomped, then ground the heel of his left cowboy boot into Jeff's right instep. Jeff collapsed to the floor. That's when Rooster kicked Jeff square in the crack of his ass. Jeff struggled to his feet; Rooster tossed him the gymbag. "Big don't mean tough, boy. Tough means tough. Get out."

Jeff hopped out the door with his money.

Rooster examined his desk. "Fucking amateurs."

* * *

CHAPTER 60

Davis said, "Hi, my name is Davis and I'm a compulsive gambler."

"Hi Davis," said the group.

He paused. No one discouraged, hurried, or encouraged the speaker. Davis smiled and squeezed Tasha's hand; that was one of the Twelve Steps, he'd forgotten which one. He used to have them memorized. "I've got the best reason in the world to get back to these meetings. I just hit a longshot in the Sagrado Derby. Knocked down nearly thirty grand."

Despite themselves, a murmur of approval circled the room.

This GA meeting convened in a downstairs banquet room at the Ode to a Nightingale. Unlike other meetings Davis had attended in drafty high school cafeterias, plaid-couched hospital conference rooms, and clammy church basements, this resembled Hemingway's Clean, Well-Lighted Place. Canapés and finger food, in the shadow of a silver, rooster-shaped coffee urn, occupied a table to the left of the door. 'Fessing up in air-conditioned comfort: Rooster Rudd bandaged and tended his wounded. "I'm pretty much a horse guy," said Davis. "And sports book. I never played cards or casino games; I just don't like to hang out with gamblers."

"Present company," said a familiar voice behind Davis, "excepted?"

Davis turned and spied Judge Roger Webster sitting by the sandwiches. "Hey Jud—"

"Roger," he said. "I'm not sitting here for no good reason."

Davis faced front and crossed left ankle over right knee. He wore his comfortable but unkempt Father's Day moccasins. When he awoke this morning at Zenny's, twisted in the sheets of the sofa bed, Roget, Zenny, and his boots were gone. Davis searched everywhere, behind the Geiger counter, beneath the roulette layout, but his Tony Lamas were MIA. He'd hunted down Woody, lunched and smooched—he supposed smooched was the proper word, it wasn't a-roll-in the-hay and it wasn't love-making; just yet—with Tasha, and visited the track; comfortable but self-conscious, in the frayed mocs. "I came to a conclusion standing in the pari-mutuel line today. I fingered and fondled the bankroll I was going to bet and I realized I dug the rush, the risk, the odds of success weighed against the prospect of failure, the thrill of getting a shitload of money just for laying a few bucks down on a horse." He sipped his coffee and extricated his hand from Tasha's, "I anticipated the crispness of the bills, man, on the cold steel of the pari-mutuel's window. The stiffness, newness, of the markers I'd receive. When that bell sounds and the horses pound away from the starting gate my world is enhanced and enchanted. Every stride of every horse; or decision by the jockeys mean something. Something as trivial as a broken strap on a pair of goggles or a horse that had been fed too much this morning means the difference between winning and losing for me...I can't explain it to you guys."

Again, a respectful silence: fourteen people carving out a sanctuary for a stranger. "Davis," said Tasha, "just explain it to yourself."

He sat, motionless, but far from tranquil, for an extended minute. "Today I decided that I loved gambling. The best part was standing there next in line to bet. I could feel the adrenaline seethe and surge. I'd forgotten about Wanda Marie and Freddy and the twins and the divorce and the restaurant. But as soon as it was my turn—once I was no longer next—it was over. It was back to mundane reality where I'd win or lose. I felt trapped; but I've felt trapped and helpless before. Today, I decided I never wanted to feel that good, ever again, about being next in line for anything." Davis handed his coffee to Tasha and spent the remainder of the meeting with his head in his hands.

The meeting ended with a prayer for serenity that neither Davis nor Tasha participated in. Holding hands, again, they scuttled through the crowd to the coffee urn. Davis blew on his black coffee while Tasha stirred in three sugars and a spot of half-and-half.

"Hey Davis, nice speech."

Davis turned, Aloysius Tuggnutt's wan smile greeted him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You'd be surprised how many of my clients I meet here."

Davis he located Judge Webster put his arm around Tuggnutt, and said, "Roger, here's someone I'd like you to meet."

Then Davis and Tasha finished their coffee and returned to Tasha's cottage in the desert.

And they made love.

It was the first time, in a long, long time, for both of them.

* * *

CHAPTER 61

"I've been a bad boy, Mama," moaned Svoboda.

"How bad?" asked Kaitlyn.

Svoboda rattled his handcuffs against the brass bed rail in a mock-effort to escape, "Real bad."

"Have you been revoltingly evil?" If the Spanish Inquisition were being held at the Marquis du Sade's Chateau, Kaitlyn would have been perfectly outfitted. She poised the cat o'nine tails above her head.

"Yes," said Svoboda.

Eight of the tails in Kaitlyn's whip were knotted black corduroy, only the ninth was leather. But during an hour or two of bondage, mock interrogation, and flagellation one leather thong was enough to rip an adult diaper to shreds. Her voice muffled by the leather mask she wore, Kaitlyn repeated, "How bad?"

"I've been depraved. Abdominal."

"Perhaps you mean abominable?"

Svoboda rattled his handcuffs, "What'd I say?"

"Abdominal." She pointed at the cut-out-oval-midriff of her skin-tight, black-leather inquisitor's outfit. "Abdominal. You know, tummy muscles?"

"Is this a vocabulary lesson?"

Kaitlyn stung him across the gap between his diaper and his stuffed lilac brassiere. His abdominals. "This lesson," said Kaitlyn, "is what I say it is."

Svoboda bit his tongue. Kaitlyn was good. Those MAMMOGRAM bimboes have no imagination and that guy in Reno charges $200 a session.

KA-WHACK. "You were smiling. Mistress Kaitlyn does not tolerate smiles. Only one expression of joy is permissible." KA-WHACK.

Svoboda started whimpering.

Kaitlyn extracted a phallus-shaped pacifier from her bustier and jammed it between Svoboda's pursed lips. Policeman Bill squinted his eyes and sucked like a famished goat at the TRAINTOWN! petting zoo.

"Flip over."

He complied and Kaitlyn KA-WHACKED away at his back and legs and booty until Svoboda could personally attest to the absorptive powers of this particular brand of adult incontinence appliance.

Even after it had been flogged to shreds.

They reclined in Svoboda's hot tub, eating the Princess Vegetable Sauté with chopsticks from to-go containers adorned with red pagodas. Kaitlyn speared a water chestnut and scooped up some eggplant. She lifted her chin, revealing a profile that would have attracted attention on Cleopatra's barge.

"You're gorgeous," said Svoboda.

Kaitlyn chewed and swallowed. "One of these days you should get really kinky, I mean down-and-dirty and try it missionary style."

"I'd miss hearing you talk dirty."

"How can wearing a Depends turn you on?" The afternoon sun burned through the latticed patio, creating a checkerboard effect on Kaitlyn. Today's brief, intense rain brought no relief; just a momentary respite from the spring inferno. "If you get promoted to the FBI do you graduate to a dress, like J. Edgar?"

"Do not mock this country's finest—"

"Cross dresser?" She bent a chopstick and launched a mushroom at Svoboda. Wide right. "Seriously, how does a bra and diaper do it for you?"

"I wear a uniform all day. Even without it, everyone in the county knows who I am. If I'm out with a woman, or hire a hooker, I have to screw like The Man. The Boss. Wearing a diaper makes everything feel right."

"You sick, deluded bastard."

"What's in it for you, Kaitlyn? Sexually?"

"It's not sexual. I get to see a man I don't like or respect humiliate himself."

"Is it the power?"

"More power than you know."

"I didn't like the way you said power."

Kaitlyn dipped her chin, blew bubbles, and said, "What would you say if I told you I know who killed Wanda Marie?"

"Do you?"

"Say she was in on this Future Glue thing—"

"Future Glue scam."

"—and she wanted out."

"Why?"

Kaitlyn sat up and crossed her arms, "Because it meant the death of one of the principals. In the scam."

"You?"

"One of the principals."

Svoboda thought and said, "Rooster?"

"Rooster was the big loser, Sherlock."

"Woody?"

She smiled, "You and I both know that Woody will probably live forever."

Svoboda smiled; it was his professional interrogation smile. The practiced, non-committal cop grin. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Just in case." Kaitlyn blew more bubbles, "And because you like to take naps."

Svoboda joined his hands and made circles, like a riverboat's paddlewheel, with his thumbs. "Naps?"

"Cute little naps in your delightful bra and a Depends that looks like its been through a Pentagon paper shredder. Handcuffed, with a little smile on your lips that are wrapped around the tip of your silly plastic willy."

"So? We're consenting adults."

"And this adult," said Kaitlyn, "like most, owns a camera."

* * *

CHAPTER 62

"When in doubt," said Jeff, as he HUFFED out another rep, "bench press." Despite the acquisition of over fifty-six thousand dollars for twenty hours' worth of computer work and a visit to the casino, Jeff felt sad. Most people would have described the feeling as shown-up, but Jeff didn't draw succinct distinctions between degrees of emotion. He'd certainly felt embarrassed, chagrined, mortified and devastated, but to Jeff they were simple variations of sadness.

And right now, Jeff was sad.

First, the six-hundred dollars—fucking desk, fucking tree—he let Rooster skim off the top. Second, he couldn't do leg presses, squats, or the Stairmaster 'cuz his foot hurt.

The first thing Jeff did after moving to this Godforsaken pimple on the butt-cheek of Nevada was enroll at the Sagrado Shapemaker Spa. Like the piece of shit town, it was a piece of shit gym: museum quality barbells, one lousy duct-taped bench press, and showers that spit lukewarm water.

HUFF, HUFF, HUFF. His fifth set almost pressed Rooster's image from his mind. Jeff liked repetition: in his job, in his workout, in his life—it soothed and sustained him. It wasn't confusing or contrary.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Jeff smiled and reclined for another set, but he leaned back onto a size eleven combat boot. The voice belonging to the boot said, "Why not give someone else a turn?"

Jeff swiveled to face the idiot in combat boots: Typical fifty-year-old asshole: When I was your age I could bench press a cow, two pigs, and a tractor. Assholes, the older they are the better they were. This dork wore white knee socks under honest-to-shit combat boots, baggy cutoff fatigues and a GO NAVY! sweatshirt. The only flesh you could see on the guy, besides his face was an inch of bony kneecap between the bottom of the cutoffs and the top of the knee socks. "What?"

"My turn."

"One more set."

"I've been waiting and you're done."

"Not done."

"Way done."

Cyndy and Joan, stretching nearby, overheard. "Such repartee," said Joan, "Extraordinary."

"Hey SILICONGRAM," said Jeff, "shut up."

"What?" said Joan.

"You heard me."

"I'll give you," said Joan, "one chance to apologize."

"Blow me," said Jeff.

"C'mon Cyndy," said Joan. "There's a little too much testosterone for me to handle." They exited, matching strides in their Pink and Yellow leotards.

"You were rude to those gals, Buddy."

Jeff said, "What's your name?"

"Vergil."

"That's a fag name." Jeff stood and placed his hands on the barbell, next to Vergil's.

If Oliver Stone had filmed this bench press showdown the camera would swivel and spin around Vergil and Jeff as they jutted their jaws and inflated their chests and inched forward toward a confrontation. But Frank Capra, who found humor in the midst of despair and a displayed a lifetime of brotherly love in the close-up of a handshake, would have caught the subtle psychological brutality of the scene. Instead of a head-butt or any number of pressure-point holds at his command, Vergil simply leaned forward and kissed Jeff on the lips, then turned and walked away.

Jeff, stunned, stood holding onto the barbell. His world, built on unquestioning service to himself and America—as long as hetereosexual, male, white people were in charge—had been shattered. As long as he could remember, calling someone a fag ended up with Jeff fighting and winning or the other guy running away: time-after-time that was the way it was; the way it had to be. Now this old fart kissed him. Jeff couldn't swing at him or move. This was just wrong.

"Hey sonny, you done with that bench press?" said a frail and ashen old man who had somehow avoided being crushed to death by the leg press. "I mean shit or get off the pot."

Jeff, shoulders slumped, walked away.

Now he was real, real sad.

* * *

CHAPTER 63

"This prime rib isn't hot," said Mr Brock. "Every time I eat here the prime rib isn't hot enough." Little tufts of white hair stood above each of Brock's ears. He would have resembled an owl if his eyes evinced even a modest spark of attentiveness.

"It's extra-rare, like you ordered it," said Chris. "If we cooked it any more, it wouldn't be rare. Then you'd complain that it was overdone."

"I want a hot, extra-rare slice of prime rib. Right now, you gimp schoolboy."

Chris dropped his waiter book to the floor and said, "Twenty-two thousand dollars."

"I'm not paying anything like—"

"That's what I won this afternoon," said Chris, "and like an idiot, I still came to work."

"What I want is my dinner. I don't care about you."

"I know. Believe me, I know." Chris removed his nametag and dropped it, and his tips for the night in the Muscular Dystrophy donation jar. And on his way out, limping slightly—he had been one of Jerry's Kids—he left Davis' restaurant for Davis' replacement as KFLO Radio Personality.

"I'm not paying for this," said Mr Brock to Chris' back. In righteous indignation and rage Mr Brock—who looked like a kindly old grandfather—stomped through the bar, flipped-off Davis and exited John Barleycorn's forever.

Davis, filling in behind the bar for Bob, said, "Another satisfied customer."

On his way out the steakhouse's door Mr. Brock collided with a tall, halter-topped blonde. He was so irate he failed to notice, even though he stood eyes-to-nipples, that she was shaped, except for those nipples, like a real life Barbie doll. This replica placed one hand on her hip, with the other she fanned herself with a bulky manila envelope. After several seconds in this pose she recognized Davis behind the bar. She sidled up and sat next to Tasha who sipped a flute of champagne and Ken who nursed a double Loch Gilhaven. "Hi."

"Hi," said Davis. He looked up from his sheaf of waiter tags. "Can I help you?"

"You don't remember me?"

Ken choked slightly on his scotch. Tasha smiled at Davis and leaned closer.

Davis assembled three Long Island Iced Teas and drew a pitcher of Miller. "I must confess that I don't. Sorry."

"I was in here about a week ago," she lowered her voice, "the night you found—you know—in the freezer. My name is—"

"Joan, from MAMMOGRAMS! I have your card."

"Yes," said Joan, who had not been forgotten by a male since sixth grade. "What did you do to your hand?"

"It's nothing," said Davis.

"Mammograms?" said Ken.

"Cyndy and I left with your bartender. Jeff Curtis."

"Jeff Thomas," said Davis, "we don't have a Jeff Curtis."

"Mammograms?" said Tasha.

"It's my business. I'm an entrepreneur," said Joan. She handed Tasha a card.

Tasha read the card and forwarded it to Ken. "My referral, my commission, partner."

"Done," said Ken. They switched barstools.

"We don't have a Jeff Curtis." Davis poured a trayful of draft beers, "May I buy you a drink."

"A Bloody Mary, please."

Davis mixed Joan's drink, dropped in three pickled green beans, and served the young lady. He was alone behind the bar. Bob saved Davis the trouble of firing him by not showing up and Zenny was two hours late. But what truly bothered Davis about tending bar tonight was that the ambient gunk on the bar mats had soaked through his soft-soled moccasins. "Did Jeff tell you his last name was Curtis?"

"I insist on no last names on a one-night stand," said Joan. "It is one of my rules."

"What are your other rules?" asked Ken.

"I don't cook breakfast."

"Hang on Ken," said Davis. "How do you know—"

She pushed the manila envelope across the bar. "He left these at our apartment. They look important." She drank. "Actually, they look incriminating."

"Joan," said Davis, "I'm also a business owner and one thing I notice is what my employees have in their hands when they leave. Jeff left empty-handed. Where'd you get this?" He tapped the envelope and smiled: he had used precisely the same tone of voice he used with the twins when he needed to discover Who-Spilled-The-Milk?

And Joan blushed like a schoolgirl. "I'll tell you a secret."

"What?" said Davis, Tasha, and Ken.

"I have a problem with stealing. Ever since I was a small child. I just can't help it. I steal hotel room towels, fruit, office supplies—things I don't really need. I always return it; except the fruit." She took a fortifying slurp of her Bloody Mary; "Jeff didn't leave it at our place. I stole it from his apartment. I was going to return them, but he was rude to me at the gym today. So they're yours."

"Thank you," said Davis. He stashed the papers behind the cash register.

Davis concocted and garnished another round of drinks while Tasha admired her new beau at work.

Ken said, "Joan, do you like to travel?"

"Yes."

"Ever been to Japan?"

"No, but I drive a Subaru."

"You're perfect."

"Thanks, I needed that."

They smiled.

She said, "Are you asking me out?"

"No," said Ken. "I hate American women."

A cacophony of breaking dishes, followed by cursing in English, Spanish, and Cambodian wafted in from the kitchen. "Ken, I need you to jump in."

"I don't tend bar," said Ken. "I'm a pimp."

Davis was already moving toward the dining room. Tasha finished her champagne and said, "I got it, Davis." Like a WWF tag-team she jumped in and continued the bout; they even slapped hands in passing.

"I think that's it for the night, Roger," said Davis.

Roger Trane nodded and left without a word; he was taking Len's loss hard. Davis, once again, stood alone behind the bar. Sounds of leisurely late-Saturday-night-dining drifted in from the dining room. Davis poured himself a Metaxa and offered a sample of the liqueur to the trio at the bar. But Tasha, Ken, and Joan had all switched to coffee—they were talking business. Davis sipped and recalled his afternoon with Tasha. Not one physical sensation or impression stood out; rather just an awareness that they fit together, that they belonged together. This phenomenon was only heightened by both of them realizing that words would only interfere. They coupled, weightless, like young dolphins in a warm sea. Then Davis fell asleep and was wakened, hours later, by Tasha's supple fingers on his lips.

"Davis," said Ken, "we're heading back to my suite to sign some papers."

The trio stood; Davis wanted to spend the night at Tasha's but knew he shouldn't push it. "Okay," he said, "alright." He pulled two twenties from the tip jar and slid them to Tasha, "Thanks for covering."

She left the twenties on the bar; "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes. You will." They each leaned in, like two halves of an arch, and kissed. Ken and Tasha ambled toward the exit; Joan lingered behind, "I have another confession."

Davis chewed his lower lip and thought about Tasha and tomorrow—the first time he'd looked forward to a tomorrow since...

"I stole something else."

Davis O'Kane: father, recovering gambler, confessor: "Yes?"

"It was at your fishfry, out at the ranch?"

"I didn't see you."

"You'd left for," her sideways glance encompassed John Barleycorn's, "work. Cyndy and Jeff and me and a few friends arrived later."

"What'd you borrow?"

"I gave it to Jeff to give to you to return to Woody."

"Gave what?"

"I stole a horse thing. One of those leather things that go on the horse's face?"

"A bridle? Monogrammed with FG?"

"I knew you'd understand. I can really talk to you, Davis. Toodles."

* * *

CHAPTER 64

John Barleycorn's phone rang as the wooden door banged shut behind Tasha, Ken, and Joan:

"Davis? This is Woody."

"Congrats. I didn't see you after the race."

"Did you bet like I told you?"

"I bet," said Davis. Mammogram Joan's forthright disclosure had affected him, "Hopefully for the last time. I'm back to Gambler's Anonymous. Kind of ironic, my last bet being on a horse you own."

"You've always been big on irony, Davis."

"It's an ironic world. You grow up expecting to be one thing, you become another, you eat a lot of Chinese food, then you die."

"My, what a ray of sunshine. Pour yourself a drink."

Davis did. "What'd you take in today?"

"Twenty grand at the track's window. Just shy of four-hundred thousand total."

"Not bad for a day's work."

"I've been working on this for a year-and-a-half."

"Can I assume you'd been working Future Glue at the ranch?"

"Sure," said Woody. "Assume that."

"Who jockeyed your ranch workouts?"

"Meatcutter Jim. Hell of hand with horses and fifteen pounds heavier than any licensed jockey in the state. Am I right?"

"No wonder I don't trust you."

"And this from the only guy who ever hustled me."

Intentionally ambiguous, Davis said, "Future Glue was a different horse today. How'd you get him to run?"

Like the kid who robbed the cookie jar and needs to share the Oreos with a buddy, Woody said slowly, "The original idea was Wanda Marie's."

"I didn't realize you knew her. I hired her after you'd bailed out."

"Right after I got out of jail, early eighties, I signed on as a CIA mercenary. Accomplish some dirt in Panama for that Howdy-Doody-Asshole-Reagan. The plan blew up, we split to Belize—outlaws, Beyond Salvage, is the CIA term—and I met the Tounens family. Lived with them for two years in the jungle. Wanda Marie was six, seven—if that. A skinny drink of water with blue eyes the size of teacups. Barefoot, half-naked, shinnying up trees for plantains, spearing fish, throwing rocks at condors. Shit, what a lovable kid. Am I right?"

The former partners and adversaries were wordless.

"I've lied to you a lot, Davis. I've used you like a farmer's-snot-rag. But in half-an-hour, I'm settling up with you. I've got your money, and you're done with John Barleycorn's."

"What about Umberto?"

"I took care of that bastard this afternoon. Davis, you're a free man. You signs this here paper, then you takes the money and runs."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"I'm being goddam straight with you. A half-hour."

Woody slammed down the phone before Davis could reply.

That was two hours and seventeen minutes ago.

Davis sat alone at the bar, still waiting for Woody to arrive and un-mortgage his future. The contents of Jeff Thomas/Curtis' manila envelope had been laid out on the bar like showroom carpet samples. The sneaky peckerwood had enough tax dirt on Davis, Mauro, and Umberto to deep freeze all their futures. That's why Jeff had volunteered to take all of Bob's closing shifts. The closing bartender, who locked up, had the combination to the office safe and an empty restaurant to poke around in. The small upstairs safe—where all this incriminating shit was hidden—would be a cinch to open, rifle for documents, then photocopy and return said documents. All while being paid as a bartender.

"Sonuvabitch," said Davis, recalling Jeff's knowledge of the McQuatter's ruling, "he works for the IRS."

Worse, the envelope also contained transcribed conversations with ex-wife Joan about Davis' handicapping system and money Joan had won with illegal bookies and never reported to the IRS. Davis finished his second Metaxa and realized that these illegally acquired papers would never be admissible in court.

They were all going to be blackmailed.

Davis returned the bottle of Metaxa to the top shelf and grabbed three bottles of Everclear. He placed the bottles of 180 proof liquor—illegal in every state, except Nevada—in an empty Heinken's case with Jeff's stash of papers. He carried the box to the office and emptied the safe: cash, receipts, register tapes, ledgers and charge card receipts into the box. He fetched an empty Frosty Acres box from the dishwasher's table, went upstairs and emptied the small safe. He trundled the booze and all the paperwork to the booth nearest the broiler. He jammed the cash into his coat pockets. He opened his wallet and removed Grimes' letter stating that everything in the proximity of Wanda Marie's frozen form would have to be destroyed within forty-eight hours. "Well Grimes, it'll be a broad interpretation of proximity." He added the notice to the paper kindling. He stuffed his wallet with the remaining cash and unscrewed a bottle of Everclear. He doused both boxes with the rocket fuel and tossed in a match.

WHUMP.

They sprouted aflame. Flames licked at the booth's wooden beams; the varathaned table melted like Crisco in a skillet. Davis tossed four or five chairs into the booth. The beams were charring nicely. He walked, in his squishy moccasins, to the broiler and blew out eleven pilot lights while singing Happy Birthday to You. He returned to the dining room and added more chairs to the pyre, which had spread to three adjacent booths and was trespassing into the bus station. Davis lobbed, hand grenade style, an Everclear bottle into the bus station and watched the flames grow and engulf the coffee machine, then rocket up the far wall. He twisted a clot of paper napkins into the remaining bottle and ignited it from an ember that had fallen to the carpet. He gawped into the kitchen as if expecting a phantom Johnny Bench to flash him a sign and signal location. "Now and then," he quoted, from Huckleberry Finn, "we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates."

He chucked the Molotov concoction into the kitchen.

The resultant explosion was a teensy bit more powerful than Davis had anticipated. It overturned nine tables, three-times as many chairs, and toasted Davis' eyebrows. He retreated to the bar and watched the fire develop. It swarmed across to the salad bar. It climbed the internal support beams like a crazed crimson ivy. Then the flames hit the ceiling, flattened out and billowed through the restaurant. Davis retreated hastily through the bar, pausing just long enough to remove his sopped moccasins and fling them, like sacrificial tidbits, into the advancing flames. "I wonder," he said, opening John Barleycorn's door for a final time, "what the hell happened to my cowboy boots?"

* * *

CHAPTER 65

Zenny and Roget stood over the roulette table like the Weïrd Sisters over their cauldron. Zenny had his gutted-out 35mm camera around his neck. Roget had his arms inserted, up to the elbow, in Davis' cowboy boots. Zenny said, "One. Two. Three." Then he spun the roulette wheel and loosed the ball in the opposite direction. He clicked the camera's shutter.

Roget wiggled his arms, "Octet six."

The Teflon roulette ball roosted into number 13.

"We got it, Bro." Roget removed his right arm and high-fived Zenny.

"What are you doing with my boots?" said Davis. He squinched his toes into the thin carpet. He was barefoot, having tossed his wet socks out of the HumVee on his way home.

"This is it, Davis," said Zenny. "I saw the size of your boots last night and BOOM, it hit me."

Roget tossed Davis the boots and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Where are my running shoes?"

"I cut them open and used the lasts as templates for the solenoids I installed in your boots. Why?"

"Just curious," said Davis. "And barefoot."

"Put on socks and your boots," said Zenny. "I mounted four solenoids down the center of each boot. One-through-four, left. Five-through-eight, right. The Ni-Cad batteries are in the hollowed out heels."

Roget returned and distributed three Dos Equis.

Davis stood, wiggled his toes, then drank some Mexican beer.

"We finished fine-tuning the frequencies right before you got here. In the casino it'll take eight, maybe ten, minutes to calibrate the computer. When I'm tuned in you'll feel this." Zenny nudged the camera's shutter causing all eight solenoids to fire.

"That tickles," said Davis.

"That's the signal we're playing for keeps. Do you remember the octets from the other night?"

"Pretty much. I wasn't really cramming for a test."

"Roget, drill Davis on the numbers, I'll put fresh batteries in the heels and we're off to Ode to a Nightingale."

"You want me to place the bets?" said Davis.

"If the shoe fits, wear it," said Zenny. "We hit three straight times—let it ride—and we're out of there."

"I'm back to Gambler's Anonymous, Zenny. And I'm serious, I can't gamble anymore."

"This ain't gambling, Davis," said Zenny. He drained his Dos Equis. "It's stealing."

Davis thought a moment, then nodded.

"Roget," said Zenny, "get the suitcase."

"I can't," said Roget.

"Why not?"

"I gave it away."

Zenny removed his camera, "You what?"

"The money. I gave it all away."

"When?"

"This afternoon."

The brothers stared each other down. Davis removed his boots. The solenoids, though prophetic, were also uncomfortable. He started in on Roget's beer—it had been a long day.

"Who'd you give the money to, Roget?"

"An old lady in a green-and-red beanie who was collecting for a new Indian School."

"Corine Rucker," said Davis.

"She seemed nice," said Roget. "Sweet and dedicated."

"So you handed her two-hundred thousand dollars?"

"Yeah."

"You crazy bastard," said Zenny. "I love you."

The brothers embraced and exchanged noogies.

"But how do we fund our game?" said Roget.

Davis rummaged through his coat, mining cash from every pocket. "With our John Barleycorn's profit sharing, Zenny."

* * *

CHAPTER 66

Davis shuffled in his electronic footwear through the Ode to a Nightingale Casino. Zenny had instructed him to stand at the roulette table closest to the rear exit. He'd already purchased $2000 worth of chips. The five, ten, and fifty dollar chips were in his pants pockets; the hundreds stuffed into his corduroy jacket. He nodded at the croupier, a short, scowling man with horn-rimmed glasses. Two players, a woman who resembled Imelda Marcos and a triple-chinned walrus of a chap, placed bets across the green. Both seemed to be playing a system. Casinos provided pads of paper and pencils for system players: any system at roulette is doomed, therefore encouraged.

Unless the system is a computer in your size fifteen EEE cowboy boots.

"Good evening," said Davis.

"Only in Nevada is one fifteen AM," said the croupier, "considered evening. Place your bets." Davis watched Imelda and the Walrus play twice, then he ventured five dollars on EVEN. He lost. Davis played ODD-EVEN with five dollar chips for ten minutes. Roget played blackjack across the casino. Zenny was missing in action. The Walrus lost interest and wandered away.

"Are you planning a robbery, Jack?" said the croupier. His nametag read ERIC~Nebraska.

"What?"

"You ain't a roulette player," said Eric. "Your attention is everywhere except the table."

Davis placed a hundred dollars on 00. "I am, in fact, planning a robbery."

"Well don't shoot me, Jack. I'm only the piano player."

Roget joined them at the table.

Tasha picked up Davis' chip. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. "You sounded so convincing this afternoon, what are you doing at a roulette table?"

The croupier spun the wheel. The ball clacketed into 00.

"Sorry," said Tasha.

"Done with your contracts?" He handed Tasha a stack of ten dollar chips.

"The last of them," said Tasha. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me, I'm not gambling."

An immaculately groomed, clean-shaven yuppie wearing sunglasses, a chronograph, and too much aftershave completed the group.

"Now we're cooking with gas," said Eric. "Place thy bets, all."

Everyone bet. Everyone lost.

Davis played ODD-EVEN and the occasional field number for the next twenty minutes. He repeatedly tried to make eye-contact with Roget, who ignored him. "C'mon Tasha, let's get something to eat." As he turned to leave all eight solenoids tickled his feet. He checked out Roget, the tiny lady, and the yuppie. The yuppie opened his jacket, touched the shutter release on is 35mm and the solenoids danced again.

"Place your bets," said Eric. He set the wheel and the ball in motion.

The solenoid indicating octet seven tickled Davis' foot: "Six, eighteen, thirty-one, nineteen, eight."

"What?" said Tasha.

Davis spread five ten-dollar bets. Just before the ball TOCKED into a cup Davis realized he'd bet octet eight's numbers. The croupier cleared the chips, paying Imelda on a column bet.

Davis sneaked a look at Zenny. He'd shaved and wore a wig, a light-weight suitcoat over a yellow t-shirt, and Davis guessed, tasseled loafers. He'd changed the leather camera strap to a woven one reading: MANHATTAN, KANSAS: THE LITTLE APPLE.

Eric spun the wheel and launched the ball.

Left midfoot—octet two—35, 14, 2, 0, 28. Like a housewife chasing scuttling cockroaches across a yellowed linoleum countertop, Davis covered all but the 0 with ten dollar chips.

"What's wrong with you?" asked Tasha.

"He's playing octets," said Imelda. "Your boyfriend is a smart smart man."

"Nothing wrong," said Eric, "with playing a system. House pays fourteen." He counted out two columns of chips and slid them across to Davis. Eric spun the wheel and dispatched the ball. Right toes—octet five—24, 3, 15, 34, 22. Davis fumbled a fistful of hundred dollar chips from his coat and spread them like a farmer sowing corn. Imelda chased his bets, adding a two dollar chip to each number Davis had bet. Zenny played 00 and a column bet. Roget and Tasha played BLACK. The ball's trajectory deteriorated. It skittered and hopped before perching in number 3's hollow. Eric calmly adjusted his horned rims and counted out $70 for Imelda and $3500 for Davis.

"You," said Imelda, "are lucky for me."

"Give that disk a twirl," said Davis.

Eric smiled and spun.

Tasha scrutinized Davis. His attention was diverted, it was as if he were listening to a symphony through invisible headphones—he was absorbed. She played BLACK.

Roget played ODD; Zenny fingered his camera and Davis felt octet three—9, 26, 30, 11, 7—but instead of nudging the sole of his foot it burned: Zenny's electronics were overheating. Davis spread his hundred dollar bets.

Imelda chased Davis with ten dollar chips.

"House pays twenty-six," said Eric. He paid Imelda and said to Davis, "You are hotter'n pistol shit, Jack."

Davis winced—all eight solenoids were heating up—and said, "You got that right."

"Are you okay?" asked Tasha.

"I'm on fire," said Davis.

Rooster, who apparently slept at the Ode to a Nightingale, appeared at Eric's elbow and said, "How much are we down?"

Eric said, "Ten-thousand, eight-hundred and change."

"I didn't know," said Rooster, looking rumpled and feeling his age, "that you played roulette, Davis."

"First time. Beginner's luck," said Davis. "What's the table limit?"

"Five-hundred," said Eric.

"No limit," said Rooster. "But this is the last bet you place in this casino."

"What's that smell?" said Tasha.

Eric spun.

Solenoid one burned through Davis sock. He frenetically placed stacks of hundred dollar chips on 21, 33, 16, 4, and 23.

"No one," said Rooster, "hits eight out of ten field numbers. The house gets even right now."

Davis cringed and hopped. The ball banged into 6's groove.

"Shit," said Zenny.

Then the ball popped out and settled into the neighboring number 21.

Davis had already retreated from the table, "Eric, cash me out and send the check up to Ken Moro's suite. Tip yourself. Big. Later, Rooster." Tasha in tow, Davis hopscotched through the casino.

Eric figured Davis' winnings and wrote the number down for Rooster. "Pissant restaurant manager," said Rooster.

"Smart smart man," said Imelda.

Eric spun the wheel. Roget played $10 on ODD; Zenny $2 on BLACK. They both lost and left the Ode to a Nightingale casually, slowly, through two different exits.

* * *

CHAPTER 67

Davis opened a bottle of Petrus and poured Tasha a glass. His feet had frozen vegetables ace bandaged to the soles—emergency ice-packs. Tasha's black cat purred in his lap; Tasha snuggled, rubbing her chin against his shoulder. They TINKED glasses, kissed, and Davis explained about the solenoids, the camera, and the fact that he was, in truth committing a felony, not gambling.

"You look terrible." She spit on her fingers and smoothed his scorched eyebrows.

"It's been a hell of a week."

That's when the doorbell rang. Tasha yelled. "It's open."

Yurri Briscoe, looking awkward and on the verge of tears, entered and said, "I've been looking for you, Davis."

It only took the cops three hours to discover John Barleycorn's burned down, thought Davis, I love this town.

Yurri swallowed with difficulty and said, "Woody McGuire's just been killed."

* * *

CHAPTER 68

Woody sat in the darkness. Felicity bobbed up and down. The hot wind from the eastern desert had whipped Lake Wally into near whitecaps. "Goddam," he said to the water, "I might regret not pulling the trigger." He started the boat, motored to the dock and moored it. The moon slowly appeared above the desert, illuminating Paiute Mesa and the rutted road to the house. Woody had been in such a shitty mood that, rather than taking his pickup, he'd walked up to his racetrack with the rifle on his shoulder. Throughout his life, whenever an unpleasant task faced him, it seemed a good walk helped. It wouldn't cheer him up, but a stroll fortified and allowed him to accomplish the task at hand. And again, throughout his life, he occasionally needed a moment of solitude to break down and cry; to violate every macho principle that had been beaten into him by his father.

This evening, for the first time in his life he'd let his emotions interfere with the task at hand. He needed to destroy evidence; to wrap up this Future Glue thing so the money he'd won would be free, clear, and forgotten. But he just couldn't force himself to pull the trigger.

Now, one more task he'd been putting off; but a more pleasant task. He needed to drive down to John Barleycorn's and settle up with Davis. He shouldered his rifle and walked back home.

Woody plopped onto a sofa with the rifle across his lap. Kaitlyn watched a videotape of "On Golden Pond." She said, "I didn't hear a shot."

"I couldn't do it," said Woody. "Goddam, but I love that horse."

"You're a cast-iron marshmallow, I'll shoot the horse tomorrow morning."

"Can't we just put it out to pasture?"

"You knew that destroying Future Glue was part of the plan. What if Rooster or Raymond or Svoboda came out here and saw—"

"Shit. It's almost not worth it."

"It's decided," said Kaitlyn. "Now shut up and watch the movie."

"I've got to get down to John Barleycorn's. Davis is expecting me."

"He's gonna hemorrhage when you give him the money."

"I know. Do me a favor? Get me Davis' money?" She nodded and skipped down the stairs. Woody picked up the phone and called Davis at John Barleycorn's.

Woody tucked the Nike box full of cash under his arm. He walked outside and breathed deep. He looked up at the stars. "There's Orion." He made a resolution to learn the names of a few other constellations. Maybe that would be his new hobby, now that he was finished with horse racing.

But how could you bet on a star?

He unlocked the truck, then withdrew the key. Kaitlyn had to drive to Nightingale Meadows and pick up the horse tomorrow. If he took the truck tonight she'd have to stop for gas in the morning.

He opened the Jaguar's trunk and tossed in the box o'cash. He slipped into the leather seat and adjusted the mirrors. He fastened his seatbelt and turned the key.

Almost a mile away Woody's nearest neighbor, Dirk Januleski, heard the explosion.

* * *

CHAPTER 69

Davis slipped the KFLO HumVee in gear and aimed the vehicle down Sagrado Boulevard. Although the sun had just risen the bank's thermometer blinked 96 96 96. Corine walked by, no collection jar and, Davis noticed, in a black tam o'shanter. He pulled into the 7-11 across from the Calvada Ecumenical Church of Meditation. The Most Holy Consecrated Reverend Susan Marshall, in mauve short-shorts and a tie-die halter, was letter-by-letter removing the Thought for the Day from the billboard. Davis noticed the two falcate moons of consecrated white flesh that peeped from beneath her shorts as Reverend Susan stooped to retrieve an L. She opened a loose-leaf binder and located a quote certain to inspire the citizenry of Nightingale. She began placing letters on the board.

Davis massaged the hand Woody had thumped with the pistol yesterday. Twenty-four hours ago, almost exactly. Driving a drooling, stupefied racehorse up to Lake Wally. The same horse that won the Sagrado Derby six hours later. The same horse?

Sacred Susan, working out of two plastic buckets—consonants and vowels—had finished the first line of the quote:

DO NoT TELL FISH STORIES WHeRE THE PEOPLE KNOW YOU;

Davis' hand ached; his solenoid-scorched feet throbbed—he needed coffee. He hobbled into the 7-11.

He returned to the HumVee and removed the lid from his 20 oz coffee. He blew on it, sipped and burned his tongue. Like a child in a candy store confronted and confounded by too many choices, Davis said, "Woody's dead. Freddy's dead. Wanda Marie's dead."

He thought about horses and Woody and horses and Wanda Marie and horses. You just can't make a horse run, man; it's in the blood. He sipped again; burned his tongue again. He blew on the coffee and read the completed Thought for the Day:

DO NoT TELL FISH STORIES WHeRE THE PEOPLE KNOW YOU; BUT PARTICULARLY, DON'T TELL TheM WHERE THEY KnOW THE FISH.

He smiled: Reverend Susan had just quoted Mark Twain.

And he thought about Wanda Marie's hallway.

All the pretty pictures of all the pretty horses.

And he thought some more about Mark Twain's advice about fish stories and Woody's call into his radio show last week.

Then again: Wanda Marie and all the pretty pictures of all the pretty horses. And a single picture of one person, Wanda Marie, standing on two identical black horses. "Sonuvabitch."

* * *

CHAPTER 70

Kaitlyn stood on the dock at Lake Wally. The black horse with the map of Louisiana in the center of its forehead stood on the shore. The placid and docile beast wore blinders, a bridle, and two one hundred pound sacks of concrete strapped across his back. Kaitlyn, in a white tube-top beneath blue overalls, held Woody's 30.06 hunting rifle beneath her left arm. With her right she tugged and jerked and strained, attempting to move Future Glue onto the sturdy homemade dock and closer to the water. Felicity bumped softly against the dock. "C'mon you silly-shit-horsey," said Kaitlyn. "Please stand on the dock so I can shoot you."

Kaitlyn stomped her foot in frustration. She had it all planned. This was the deepest part of the lake, the drop-off directly behind the dam. She would place the weighted Future Glue on the end of the dock and shoot him in the head. One shot; one dead racehorse. Dirk or anyone crazy enough to be hiking or mountain biking in the triple digit heat would dismiss the gunshot as target practice or varmint hunting. The timing was perfect: the cops had just left her house with what was left of the Jaguar on a flatbed truck—and with what was left of Woody. She had answered all of Svoboda's questions simply and honestly: "I don't know."

Directly after the explosion—the house had been rocked—she ran outside and saw her Jag in flames. Then, slowly, the way a geometry theorem leaks into a sophomore's brain, Kaitlyn realized that Woody had been killed. Dirk arrived minutes later in his old Jeep Cherokee. He skidded to a halt on the McGuire's front lawn where Kaitlyn stood outlined in the flames' stark relief. The Jag blazed bright on the concrete carport; the flames were not in danger of spreading to the truck, the house, or the surrounding sagebrush. Kaitlyn and Dirk stood like sentinels, both with tears in their eyes: his from the oily smoke, hers from crude emotional confusion.

A manipulator like Kaitlyn doesn't just miss out on relationships; they forfeit all spontaneous and honest emotion. Every smile or frown or moan between the sheets is calculated and measured, designed and determined to produce the expected response. When they are faced with an unequivocally tragic or joyous situation the manipulators are at a loss. The manipulator's knee-jerk-reaction, the question ingrained and asked automatically at a visceral level, "What would best suit me here?" is the only improper response.

And this was the source of Kaitlyn's confusion. She stood with Dirk thinking: Woody's dead, a shitload of cash, Davis', is gone. I'd seen Woody reading his will last week. Shit, I hope the house doesn't catch fire—no it's safe.

It wasn't until Dirk asked, "Why was Woody driving your Jaguar?" that Kaitlyn had her first honest response. She stopped crying tears of vague confusion and started weeping when she realized: That bomb was meant for me.

Dirk, and later Svoboda, mistook Kaitlyn's self-indulgent tears for grief and loss rather than fear and dread. The men consoled and comforted her as the Sagrado County Volunteer Fire Department—on their first of two calls tonight—put out the blazing Jaguar. Dirk offered to sit with her through the night. Svoboda suggested she procure a room at the Ode to a Nightingale; this was, after all, an attempt on her life. She refused offers of brandy, wine, and tranquilizers. When the men left, shortly after sunrise, Kaitlyn changed into boots, tubetop, and overalls, checked that the 30.06 was loaded and walked up to the dam to shoot Future Glue and dispose of the carcass.

"C'mon." Kaitlyn placed the rifle on the dock and used both hands on the bridle's rope. She dug in like a Tug o'War contestant and managed to move Future Glue five inches nearer to the dock. She wrapped the rope around her right hand and faced the lake. In a sprinter's crouch she strained and groaned, a teardrop of sweat dropped from her nose as she leaned into the rope.

Future Glue retreated five inches to his original location. Kaitlyn collapsed to the dock. Rooster's blue caddy accelerated down the hill in a cloud of dust. Before she could hide the 30.06 the caddy skidded to a halt beside the dock.

Future Glue blinked twice and relieved himself.

Rooster ambled to the dock, eyed the rifle and the horse. "Sorry to hear about Woody. I really am."

"Thanks."

"How'd you do it?"

"I didn't."

"I mean win the Sagrado Derby," said Rooster. "Swimming with a tenth-of-a-ton of concrete is your secret workout?"

"Yeah. You got us."

"I'm going to drive down to the house and pick up a few things."

"Mementos?"

"The mining stock. I wouldn't have minded Woody running the company. But you? No way."

Kaitlyn picked up the rifle, still seated, she said, "Svoboda would never look for you and your car at the bottom of Lake Wally."

"Or you." He took a step forward.

She said, "Shit, Rooster. Turn around."

Something in her tone—a plaintive dejection—caused him to stop and turn. Svoboda's blue-and-white rumbled down the hill and parked behind Rooster. Svoboda got out one side and Jeff the other. Jeff had his nickel-plated .45 pointed at Kaitlyn. "Lift the rifle over your head and throw it in the lake."

"Or what?"

Splinters from the dock hit her in the face; the .45's bark echoed across the water. Kaitlyn lifted the rifle above her head and, feeling Jeff's eyes on her, sat a trifle straighter, held the pose and tossed Woody's deer rifle into the lake. She lowered her arms deliberately, winked at Jeff and said, "May I stand?"

Jeff nodded and observed as she popped to her feet and brushed her face and hair clear of docksplinters.

"That goddam horse didn't flinch," said Rooster. "I don't think it has a nervous system."

Kaitlyn didn't question why the John Barleycorn's bartender was tooling around with Svoboda. She knew if she didn't speak, the man who most wanted to have sex with her would tell her what she needed to know.

The trio and the horse stood silent for three minutes.

"I work," said Jeff, "for the United States Government—"

"He's a fucking IRS man," said Rooster.

"Up yours." Jeff pointed the .45 at Rooster. "You ain't the baddest dude in town."

Jeff was right.

Kaitlyn pulled Woody's .32 Beretta from her bib overalls, aimed quickly and snap shot the .45 from Jeff's right hand. Jeff, for some reason, fell to the ground. "Get the gun, Rooster."

Rooster picked up the .45 and pointed it at Svoboda. The cop helped Jeff to his feet. Rooster smiled, knowing he wasn't Jeff's only shakedown victim.

Jeff stood and said, "You shot me in the hand, bitch."

Kaitlyn pulled the trigger again. "And now I just shot you in the shoulder."

* * *

CHAPTER 71

Vergil said, "What's this, a coffee klatch?" Through binoculars, then through the scope of his Russian made Dragunov sniper rifle, he'd watched that brickshithouse-of-a-wife of Woody's drag a cement-laden horse to the dock, then the arrivals of the three men. And now, civilians shooting civilians. "If I hadn't handcuffed Mauro to the oven he'd be here, slobbering on everything."

That had to be the surprise of that twisted Italian's life. Two nights ago, when the Navy doctor from Naval Air Station, Fallon, Nevada landed on his flagstone patio, Mauro thought he was through with Vergil. But then the doctor field-autopsied Wanda Marie—Vergil had been keeping her chilled, packing her and eighty pounds of ice into an inflatable kiddie pool he'd bought at Nightingale's Value Fair Garden Center—and decided to stay for a few beers. Mauro, gracious host that he was insisted on appetizers so he straps on a yellow apron and cooks for the doctor, the pilots, and Vergil. Then Wanda Marie was loaded onto the chopper and when Mauro was cleaning the kitchen, Vergil cuffed him to the oven. Vergil now brought his host food, pillows and a blanket, and even a Cinzano Bianco nightcap. The Italian didn't like it, but Vergil couldn't afford another excitable civilian running around, so fuck him.

He'd heard from the doctor since: cause of death, congestive heart failure. Blood work had been done, over five times the normal amount of potassium in Wanda Marie's blood. Someone killed the poor dumb bartender: she'd been in the wrong place; wrong time.

But Woody always ran with a tough crowd.

So Vergil slept for twelve hours, woke up, went to the gym and ran into that IRS agent; Vergil would have taken him out, but he had strict orders to leave the twerp for the Feds. After a short workout, he returned to Mauro, fed him and let him use the facilities, then monitored police calls. Officer Brisco had arrested two people for being drunk in public. Then he heard that Woody had bought it. War is hell, thought Vergil. I'm gonna miss that old fart. He was one of the best; he and I am a dying breed.

Responding to another police call, Vergil drove out to John Barleycorn's—he beat emergency services by twenty-three minutes—and watched that bonfire. The sprinkler system hadn't kicked in and Vergil knew it was arson. Multiple combustion points equals arson, plain and simple. The firetruck—singular—arrived and pumped water onto the blaze.

Like pissing into Mount Pinatubo.

When the restaurant had collapsed in on itself and the fire crew determined that the fire wouldn't spread across the natural firebreak the parking lot provided, they split and Vergil left his truck and walked to the goddam derrick that started this whole fucking mess.

There are so many uses for uranium in modern warfare—beyond the simple, boring, all-out nuclear holocaust—that the public simply isn't aware of. Depleted uranium shells are the primary ammunition utilized by anti-tank platforms like the Apache and Comanche attack helicopters, the A-10 warthog, and the Marine Corps' harrier jump jet. The radiation depleted rounds are heavy and hard enough to penetrate an enemy tank's armor. Although the Pentagon denies it, Hot Rounds are also used if the situation dictates. These are radioactive—not nuclear—shells and bombs that can be lobbed into an insurgent city, country, or continent. When the shell explodes a certain amount of uranium oxidizes into an airborne radioactive soot. Beyond the damage done by the explosion the survivors breathing this venomous filth are exposed and in six months to a year parts will start falling off their bodies until they eventually die a writhing death from radiation poisoning.

High tech, baby.

These soldierly necessities was why the United States' military-industrial complex was scouring the deserts of the Great American West for what were previously considered marginal veins of uranium. One of the best indicators of uranium was tungsten; the minerals appear in nature together. So Vergil chose Nightingale as a likely spot because of the old M & R Mining's tungsten supply. With the need for U-232 rising and improved retrieval techniques available, uranium prospecting had become a viable and profitable business. And whenever greed cloaks itself in patriotism the competition is cutthroat.

But you just can't waltz onto private land and start prospecting for uranium. It had been Vergil's idea to cover this operation by having the drillers pose as free-lance water-wildcatters. It had worked perfectly for nearly a decade—the program had begun right after the Gulf War—until Umberto Cicarelli decided he wanted to invest in the drilling company that was drilling in his parking lot. His lawyers researched the company and discovered that, technically, it didn't exist.

Mama-fucking-mia the shit hit the fan. Umberto bribed a core sample away from a driller and the CIA didn't want Umberto to discover that John Barleycorn's sat like a lugnut on a decent sized hub of uranium so they called the IRS to put the screws to Ciccarelli. But it had turned out he had been busted the previous year, and in addition to paying penalties and interest he agreed to allow the IRS use John Barleycorn's in a covert sting operation to incriminate a rogue agent.

Umberto wouldn't go to jail for the uranium theft unless he blabbed to the press. The IRS would use the stinking steakhouse to set up and bust that Jeff asshole, then send him to jail quietly and avoid this NY Times headline:

IRS AGENT BLACKMAILING TAXPAYERS

Vergil sighted down his German-made scope and watched that smartass-bodybuilder-IRS-scumbag writhe in pain. If Waitzkin hadn't had specific and forceful orders not to interfere with the IRS sting he'd have shot the fucker in the left ocular socket.

With a smile on his face.

But he had another target. With Woody dead Rooster owns M & R Mining. With Rooster dead, the Navy picks up the mine for a song.

Anchors aweigh.

He inhaled and held a lungful of air to block out all distractions and lower his heart rate. What the hell is that noise? A chainsaw? A tractor? He exhaled and inhaled again. He aimed and precisely, almost daintily, squeezed the trigger.

* * *

CHAPTER 72

Corine's only concession to the news of Woody's death was her Tam o'Shanter. She'd swapped the red-and-green cap for a solid black beanie. She had decided in 1973, at the funeral of an eleven-year-old niece, to exclude death from her personal experience of the universe.

This wasn't a naïve and innocent assertion that death didn't exist; Corine realized that people were dying daily and that someday she, too, would cease breathing, but that wasn't The End, so why mourn it as such?

Even after Corine had side-stepped mortality by interpreting her essence as the electricity that powers the bulb—rather than the bulb itself—a quantum bound was necessary to clear the mental, instinctual, and emotional hurdles that assert: You are this body.

She leapt this hurdle one February afternoon while watching Jerry Springer. The show that increases your self-esteem by sheer default blinked across her TV. Nevada's winter windstorms rocked her house. She sipped tea and considered buying a puppy to keep her company. Then the electricity failed. She sat silent, for one hour; then two.

Until the power was restored five hours later she sat mute and solitary in the chilled-but-cozy house and listened to the wind. In those hushed hours she experienced the non-existence of death. Her belief wasn't superior or righteous, it was, now, simply solid. Corine was too old a person to justify her own beliefs by convincing others of their truth. She'd been alive long enough to distrust people who preached; she was too old to attempt proselytizing. But she was exactly the right age for silence, certainty, and serenity.

And that's when she truly stopped mourning the dead.

Corine abandoned all those confused and selfish feelings of grief she harbored for her late husband, her too-young niece and all the friends and family she'd lost through the years.

And now, Woody.

After she'd heard the news Corine adjusted her hair beneath her black tam, went for a long walk and watched Nightingale—her world—awaken. Then she ate breakfast, laughing after she'd set out, by habit, two teacups. She had a cup of tea, alone, and thanked God—wherever She was—that Woodrow McGuire had been a part of her life.

* * *

CHAPTER 73

Davis gunned Tasha's BSA Victor up the shale access road that led to the hills above Lake Wally. He'd borrowed the motorcycle with the intent of sneaking up on Kaitlyn before she killed Future Glue and buried him or dumped him in Lake Wally. But the BSA was too loud to sneak up on anything except a locomotive. Even so, it would be a moral triumph if he saved the poor dumb horse's life.

One too many horses with the map of Louisiana on his face, could mess up the scheme; and there was already one stabled at Nightingale Meadows, Davis had checked on his way out of town. He toed the shift lever down into second and popped the clutch at the crest of the hill. He got some air and landed on what appeared to be a duffel bag. What he actually hit was Vergil Waitzkin. Vergil was in black face and camo fatigues and had just pulled the trigger on his Dragunov rifle. Davis brought the front wheel down a little sideways and sloughed, then yawed across the gravel road and into the sagebrush. He turned and powered back to where Vergil lay in the fetal position, struggling to regain his breath. He kickstanded the bike, but left it running. He picked up the Dragunov and pointed it vaguely in the camouflaged Waitzkin's direction. "Sorry," said Davis. "I didn't see you."

* * *

CHAPTER 74

"Kaitlyn," said Rooster. "Somebody just shot Future Glue."

* * *

CHAPTER 75

"Who were you shooting at?" said Davis.

"The Lord Mayor, Rooster Rudd." Waitzkin explained his involvement with John Barleycorn's and Woody McGuire and uranium and Mauro and M & R and Nightingale, Nevada.

"Since you are probably the only guy in town I can trust," said Davis. "I know who killed Wanda Marie. And Freddy."

"Since I know who popped Woody," said Vergil, "I guess that makes us the fucking posse."

Davis lowered the rifle and handed it to Vergil. "Hop on."

The former Seal tucked the rifle beneath his good arm, winced, and mounted the thrumbling BSA.

* * *

CHAPTER 76

Future Glue, from the force of Vergil's misguided bullet had been knocked down. Glue neighed and struggled to his feet. Concrete from one of the hundred pound sacks flowed like viscous liquid onto the dock. Jeff whimpered and rolled in the sand. Svoboda pulled his .38 and waved it at Davis, who motored down the hill on the BSA with Vergil, and his Dragunov, riding shotgun.

"This should be fun," said Rooster.

Davis and Vergil coasted to the verge of the dock. He killed the engine and Vergil dismounted. He said, "I've already called the Mounties."

"Too bad this ain't Canada," said Svoboda. He pointed his .38 at Vergil, which was a mistake, because Vergil fired his Dragunov from the hip and, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, Svoboda was dead.

"I apologize," said Vergil.

"A little late," said Davis. He shook his head; despite the number of dead bodies he'd seen, in one short week, he could not, would not, become inured. Each death affected him. Svoboda, moments before, was a living, breathing, pain-in-the-ass cop; now he was dead. Jeff lay bleeding into the yellow sand and sage.

Davis had been made to believe that life was complex, tedious, and esoteric. But having seen, this week, several bodies with that wisp called Life removed he realized—had been made to realize—that Life was effortless: when you eat, Eat; when you sleep, Sleep; when you love, Love. And with the word love came a crystal vision of his daughters and an intimation, an inkling, of a life with Tasha; and, amazingly, sympathy and forgiveness toward Joan who showed him everything attraction was and love shouldn't be.

He hoped she'd learned the same.

Guns and dead bodies and people-stories and horse-stories and fish-stories and Davis knew who did what to whom. Time to tell and get on with life.

"I apologize," said Vergil, "not to him. To you guys. That wasn't professional, it was personal. Woody was my friend. We soldiered together. And now the fucker who killed him is dead."

"Svoboda killed Woody?" said Davis.

"Yeah," said Vergil, "but he was aiming for her." He pointed at Kaitlyn.

"I had some pictures of him," said Kaitlyn. "Leverage."

"The idiot paid for the dynamite with a credit card," said Vergil. "My sources found out almost immediately."

Two black cars cruised down the hill toward the lake.

"The Mounties?" asked Davis.

"Federal agents," said Vergil, motioning toward Jeff, "for asswipe."

Rooster tossed the .45 in the lake. "At least the mayor's clean."

"Since he," Davis pointed at Svoboda, "is gone. Who will be arresting Kaitlyn?"

"For what?" said Kaitlyn.

"Killing Freddy Finnegan," said Davis.

"I didn't do that," said Kaitlyn. "He did."

"I hate this fricking town," said Jeff. He struggled to his feet and said softly to Kaitlyn, "But you said you loved me."

"I say that to everyone I fuck," said Kaitlyn. "Grow up."

"No one's ever said it to me," said Jeff. "Not even the Colonel."

"I'm gonna puke," said Davis.

"Was Davis," said Vergil to Kaitlyn, "the only one in town you weren't screwing?"

"She screwed me," said Davis. "With Freddy's body in my Saab," said Davis. "And Wanda Marie's body in my freezer."

"She killed Wanda Marie?" said Rooster. "Why?"

"Two horses," said Davis. "Two twin horses. One could run. Wanda Marie brought them to Woody, who, I figured, came up with the plan. Train the quicker of the two out here. Stable the hoofer at Nightingale Meadows."

"How—" said Vergil.

"There's a picture of Wanda Marie standing atop them. I remembered the horses when I read the Twain quote and thought of Woody fishing where he knew the fish."

"Shit," said Rooster, "I doped the wrong horse."

Davis said, "And Woody knew his fish. You guys. That's the hustle. Lose money all year on the slow horse, then cash in. But Wanda Marie loved horses and, correct me if I'm wrong, Kaitlyn, part of the plan was to kill the slow horse." That, thought Davis, was Zenny's premonition dream about twins—Castor and Pollux—in jeopardy: the twin horses, not my girls. "Wanda Marie couldn't go along with that, so you killed her. At John Barleycorn's, with an injection of potassium sulfate—to cause congestive heart failure—the official cause of death." Davis nodded at Vergil, "Which his government doctors confirmed after he stole Wanda Marie's body and had it flown out on a big-ass helicopter. Did you think no one would notice?"

"I didn't think anyone was awake that late," said Vergil.

"Kaitlyn threw the syringe in the wrong trash barrel at the restaurant and Pigframer Trane returned it to me. I didn't know what to think—a syringe? I don't have any diabetic employees and Zenny doesn't shoot his drugs, and," Davis motioned toward the dead Svoboda, "he told me that Evitch told him that Wanda Marie—young athletic—died of heart failure."

The black cars loomed closer, Kaitlyn dropped the pistol. "And I showed you the jar of potassium sulfate when I explained the KYB formula."

"I knew when I saw the Sagrado Derby it wasn't the same horse that had run before. I'd been arguing with my twin brother, thinking about my twin girls, twin busboys—I'd done a talk show on twins—"

"The most exhilarating thing about twins," recited Kaitlyn, "is climbing on top and riding them. Woody McGuire, after a lifetime of bluster and bravado, had been touched: softened by the woman he'll always remember as the tomboy in Belize. He didn't want to kill the horse either. So I killed her."

"Just like that?" said Davis.

"Just like that. I told her I needed to see her at John Barleycorn's. I had secrets from Woody; he had secrets from Wanda Marie—he still had the restaurant keys. I jabbed her in the armpit with the syringe. Left armpit. Brachial artery—my KYB research, again—near the heart. The stick would look like she nicked herself shaving."

"Sonuvabitch."

"I carried her outside to the Jaguar—planning to toss her in Lake Wally—but this Frosty Acres semi pulled into the lot." Her voice had changed; it acquired the dull, flat, lethal monotone of a person confessing to an atrocity, as if the stale tone could somehow atone for the sin committed. "I pulled her back in. Hid in the women's bathroom; then stashed her in the freezer. Two days later Freddy reads the paper—which jogged his booze-addled memory—and decided to shake me down. So I accidentally-on-purpose bump my crotch against his—"she pointed at Jeff, who was now ashen, losing blood, and reclining in the dirt, "—and get him to kill Freddy. It was his idea to stick him in the Saab. He got the keys, and that's not all, from your ex-wife."

If Ta-Da were a pose, that's the pose Kaitlyn struck. "You fed that bum Freddy every night. If it weren't for him, I'd be free. Thanks, Davis."

The two black cars arrived at the dock. Black suits flowed out of them and accomplished official tasks.

"Kaitlyn?" said Davis.

"Yeah?" This was the first time in her life she wasn't smiling and moaning while in handcuffs.

"Woody was the guy who started feeding Freddy."

* * *

CHAPTER 77

Davis made good on his promise to eulogize Woody—and not use the word God. The funeral took place in early June on the forested shore of Lake Wally. As a camouflaged OV 10 Bronco, flown by Vergil, approached from the south, bearing Woody's ashes, Davis said, "An Irishman walks into a bar and says, 'I'll take three shots of Irish whiskey.' The bartender pours them and the Irishman drinks them down, One Two, Three. The next day he's back, 'I'll take three shots of Irish whiskey.' The bartender says, 'I could put those in one glass for you.'"

Davis spoke not softly, but deliberately, as if he were delivering a soliloquy instead of a eulogy. The crowd assembled for Woody McGuire's final services closed in around Davis like rose petals after sunset; automatically, just knowing they needed to gather closer together through unspoken necessity. Rooster, Alexi and Jennifer, Dirk, Tasha, Ken, Umberto and Mauro, Len, Roger and Rodney Trane listened as Davis continued, "'You don't,' said the Irishman, 'understand the logic behind my drinking in such a manner. This shot, of course, is for me, these two are for my brothers William and Thomas, both of whom still reside in Ireland. Drinking in this manner serves to warm my heart as well as my liver.' Every day for two years the Old Irishman comes in and has three shots. Then one day he enters and says, 'Two shots of Irish whiskey, please.' The barman fears one of the old man's brothers may have died so he asks, 'Are your brothers okay?' The Irishman replies, 'They're right as rain, it just that I've quit drinking.'"

The laughter started as a shrill chortle from Rooster. Dirk and Len and Ken and Tasha picked it up and it spread throughout the group; including Umberto and Mauro who considered this casual, outdoor funeral a sacrilege.

Jennifer said, "I don't get it, Dad."

"Jenn," said Alexi, "he was out of money, get it?"

The twins joined in the laughter as the Bronco circled the Lake and waggled its wings as Woody's ashes were scattered over Woody's lake. The group stood silent for three minutes, then drifted, singly and in pairs, back to their cars. And so it was goodbye to Woodrow McGuire.

Corine, had she attended the funeral, would have approved.

* * *

EPILOGUE

When Joan O'Kane signed up with Ken to Tour the Orient she returned custody of Jennifer and Alexi to Davis. Although Woody's will granted Davis—as Jennifer and Alexi's legal guardian—ownership of Nightingale's only, now that John Barleycorn's was soot and cinders, sitdown restaurant, Davis had cashed out Raymond LeBlanc who returned to France.

There is honor among restaurateurs as well as thieves.

He had used the money he earned by selling Rooster's lost shares of M & R Mining back to the mayor. Davis and Rooster deemed the waterslide at TRAINTOWN! a more valuable resource than tungsten and agreed not to sell the stock to the US Government. Davis painted and renamed Le Bistro, Les Gémeaux, The Twins. Davis' twin brother had made it to China and was working his conclusions into a paper for "Scientific American." The twin horses, Future Glue and Super Glue had the run of Woody's ranch. Jennifer and Alexi, supervised by Grandpa Dirk or Tasha, rode the horses regularly. Super Sitter Lisa was Davis' new busgirl. Rohn and John worked as waiters at Les Gémeaux. There had been, so far, only one practical joke. A spring-loaded snake popped out of the register during training.

The snake had been placed there by Davis.

Wanda Marie hadn't left a will, but Davis had her ashes scattered over Belize's rainforest. With no restaurant to oversee, Mauro eloped to Spain with Pietro Ciccarelli.

Umberto was distraught.

A despondent Jeff Thomas-Curtis attempted suicide in a federal holding cell in Reno. Using the top bunk as a springboard he tried to smash his skull open on the cement floor. He cracked three cervical vertebrae and now suffers from double vision.

Kaitlyn's KYB was DOA because she now resided in a cell at Carson City's Fifth Street Hotel. Before she was incarcerated she managed to post Bill Svoboda's pictures on a free access porn site. Svoboda's body was shipped back home to Sacramento for interment in the family plot.

Vergil retired from the CIA and is a personal trainer for several Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The passenger-side door on Davis' Saab was still broken.

Les Gémeaux' first function was an invitation only buffet following the groundbreaking for the Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins School. The new Principal, Len Arizona, acceded to Corine's wishes, and allowed Roget the honor of cutting the ribbon. Judge Roger Webster—who'd recently had Aloysius Tuggnutt arraigned on racketeering charges—removed the first shovelful of sand. Then the delegation, which included TRAINTOWN!'s locomotive operator and three friends, gathered at Davis' new restaurant. Chris came out of retirement for the event and helped the Theroux twins distribute glasses of champagne. Davis and Tasha sat, content and cozy, at a corner table with Jenn and Alexi.

Until Nightingale's new Chief of Police, Yurri Briscoe, pulled up a chair.

Tasha and the twins left. Yurri said, "Where'd you hide the money?"

"Congratulations on your promotion."

He nodded. "The money at Wanda Marie's? Woody's stake? The suitcase?"

Davis sipped a glass of Sancerre. "How'd you know about that?"

Yurri tossed a piece of folded stationery onto the salmon-colored tablecloth. "The epistle I told you about. She tells you all about the twin horses, about arguing with Kaitlyn over killing the dud horse. About Woody and your inane radio show. And a suitcase full of money that I couldn't find at her house the night she was killed. She was supposed to lay off bets for Woody so nobody'd be the wiser."

"That suitcase full of money," said Davis, "is building this new school."

"You gave it to Corine?"

"It was donated."

"Fucking amazing." Then he laughed and said, "Ah hell, at least it's a good cause. You got any real booze in this shithole?"

Davis pointed to where Zenny was pouring drinks. He was working today, with Chris, then, with a computer in his shoe he was off to Vegas. Yurri crossed the room, managing to down two glasses of champagne en route.

Davis tapped Wanda Marie's letter with his index finger. He finished his Sancerre and picked up the letter. He read in lowercase letters exactly what Yurri had told him. But the cop didn't mention the postscript:

p.s. when we remember we are all mad, the mysteries of life disappear and life stands explained. mark twain said that.

love,

wanda marie

THE END

# # #
