Banditry

     “How’re you makin’ out over there, Gil?”

            I extended my hand behind the older woman who was expending some of her well-deserved retirement money, quarter by quarter, and who had not-so-strategically placed herself in the seat between Gilly and me. I gestured to Gilly in hopes that if he didn’t hear me in the madding din of the casino, that at least he’d notice there was a hand coming toward him and that someone wanted his attention.

       “Yeah, Andy, what is it?”

            He looked over, a little irritated, with his lips pursed and pushing themselves against his low ball glass of bourbon, ice tinkling with the tilt of his wrist. Everything on him was thick--lips, gut, fingers, neck, and even the bags of sleeplessness that dragged down towards his cheeks. He was at least a week unshaven, which was usual. He shaved about as often as an Amish kid bathed. He saved the task for some holy day near the end of the week. But this was our holy day, given all the jobs we’d done over the past two years, and instead of looking like he was enjoying the fruits of all our criminal labor (our business is really just a more profitable form of organ donation) he looked beaten down, and distracted. Our holy day in Vegas and here he is sulking. He really knew how to put a damper on what was supposed to be a good time. A wet fucking blanket.

       “Just wanted to know if you were getting lucky over there, is all.”

       “Nah, but this one should pay out soon, I think.”

            He grumbled. What the fuck did he have to grumble about? We’re in Vegas, baby, Vegas! And I wasn’t about to let him ruin my time here. I specifically dressed for this occasion, slicked back hair, snazzy pinstripe pants, black tank, matching fedora and all. It was a throw-back to a different era, crime bosses and gangsters of the twenties, but it seemed just as appropriate now considering where I was both in place and profession. I took back up with my dirty martini and slot machine.

            Funny he should be sitting behind one of these golden, one-armed bandits, considering the bar fight he got into a few days ago left his left arm broken and with only an operable right one. The fight precipitated when Gil got a little toasted and kept making some tactless advances on a lanky, freckled red-head at the angled edge of the bar.

***

            Gilly put his foot to the peddle and sped us away from our last hospital job in the podunk one road town of Cartha, Kansas, and from there we delivered the cooler of stolen livers and kidneys to a middle man not too far down the road, in exchange for a leather briefcase brimming with fat cash from our buyer. Eighteen hours later we arrived in Bullhead City, on the edge of Arizona and Nevada. This city was like a little starter Vegas, all lit up in violent reds and sleepy ambers on the Colorado Riverfront. And here we came upon Lucky’s, a wooden Alamo-esque building in its shape and a saloon plaque, coyly inviting us in. It looked like an appropriately substandard and promising hide out, boards almost imploding into the narrow alley behind it. It was a fitting place we could relax in and take advantage of for a few hours, before heading to our ultimate destination--Vegas. 

            We stepped into the vaccuum that Lucky’s created, a black hole on the other side of the boardwalk universe outside, pressing heavily upon its dilapidated structure. It was ill lit, as expected, and needless to say a total dive. It was perfect.

            Half the occupants of the small room consisted of Gil and me, the other half being the bartender and an older barfly in an aqua camisole, jean capris, complete with a golden anklet and black flip flops.

       “Whaddyu guys want?”

            The man behind the bar was portly, somewhat muscular, nearly bald save the slight ring of graying hair that wreathed his head from the top of one ear to the other. He was covered in an overwhelming glaze of grease, like that of a donut, and wearing a dirty black t-shirt. He looked like he should have been a bouncer instead of a bartender. In a place like this, though, I’m sure he doubled as one.

       “A bourbon on the rocks.”

            Gilly didn’t hesitate. He took a seat on one of the hard wooden stools, (they were spray painted a matte black color), and lit a cigarette.

       “An’ you?”

       “Vodka tonic.”

       “You got a preference?”

       “Absolut.”

       “Alright, then.”

            He grabbed a couple of low ball glasses and, like a claw machine in the foyer of a diner, dropped a handful in each glass. I turned to my right to face Gil, who kept facing straight forward.

       “Can I get a drag of that?”

       “Get your own fuckin’ pack. I only have like two left ‘til we get to Vegas.”

            The bartender placed our drinks on the bar, I nodded my thanks to him, but turned back to Gilly.

       “Aww, come on!”

       “Nah, laws of cig conservation. You get low, you don’t give ‘em out. It’s the rules.”

            The woman at the end of the bar slid a pack of Marlboro Lights down toward me. She smiled at me and Gilly. She had a nasty overbite, but flawlessly and no doubt professionally whitened teeth.  It seemed like such a waste on a woman like that. I took one out and slid them back down to her, putting my hand up and nodding my thanks. This act of generosity on her part, caught Gilly’s eye. And in his gaze, he caught hers. His drink was already gone and he was asking for a second.

            Every time the bartender turned his back to tend to tasks behind the bar, Gilly would make eyes with this woman, and she would try to sexily squint hers at him, but missed the mark of sexiness completely. She looked more like she had a nervous tick. Her hair was carnelian in color, and it would have been beautiful had it been lustrous, but in fact, it looked as though it had been overexposed to the heat of a blow dryer. Gil’s taste level in women is seriously questionable, at least it would be, if he were me.

            The bartender went through a pair of hinged doors to the back room. I took this time to survey the area around the bar. It was nothing much but a bunch of wooden panels with a thinning layer of glossy varnish, revealing its matte dullness in spots. A couple of buzzing neon beer signs, the “r-s” missing at the end of Coors, but Bud Light was still intact. There was a mess of dirty, water-spotted glasses near the sink, and on the wall across from it was a newspaper clipping. The bolded headline read “Local Man’s Parts Go Missing.” I became a little uneasy, only a little, because there was no way this big greasy bartender could have known that that was our job, probably about a month ago.  Maybe we were in Ohio, or the one before that in North Carolina. North Carolina. We should have stayed there a little while longer before heading out, it was nice while we were there, and plenty of opportunity to hit up a beach for the day before making our liver steal. I guess that could have been his cousin, or brother, but he was dead anyway so why would it even matter now. He kept the clipping though, so it must’ve mattered to tender Glazed-in-Grease back there. My attention found its way back to Gilly, who was wasting absolutely no time with this less-than-charming barfly.

       “Come on over here honey.”

            And lo and behold, she sauntered over, swaying a little from the Sea Breeze that pushed her in Gilly’s direction. I couldn’t really say anything. Who am I to get in the way of a man and his prospects? I wouldn’t keep him from getting what he wanted, so I played oblivious, turned a blind eye, but watched peripherally. He looked up at her, locking his eyes on hers, and pulled her closer to him by means of a crooked arm, hand on her ass.

       “Hey!”

            She quietly objected to his hands being on her. It’s like a drunk to want something one moment, and to change their mind once reality flashes in front of them for a split second.

       “Yeah? Big Red, I got something for you.”

            He took her unmanicured hand and placed it in his lap. This didn’t look like it was going to end well. I felt disaster slowly, but surely coming on. She looked surprised, in a hazy, confused, drunk way. By this time the tender was just coming back through the doors.

     “I’ve got a tongue you wouldn’t believe and I got a craving for something hot and cinnamon sweet, Red.”

            The bartender heard this, and immediately started furiously toward Gilly, his eyes bulging and ablaze, like light bulbs whose glass expands with the heat of their output.

       “What…the FUCK?!

            He had both hands pushed hard against the bar. His fingers curled and clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white. Red the Barfly backed away, nearly in tears.

       “What’s it to you?” Gil grumbled.

       “That’s my wife, you dirty fuck.”

       “Well, what can I say? It looked like she needed it.” Gil snarled in an unaffected tone.

            Immediately, the tender grabbed the arm that Gilly had previously wrapped around Red, and pulled it across the bar. He had such a grip that Gilly couldn’t pull away from him, and finally Gil looked nervous. I didn’t know what exactly I should do, but I just sat, wide eyed, and watched Gilly take what he had coming to him. Making tasteless advances on a stranger was his action, and having the bartender yank, bend, and break his elbow over the bar was his consequence. However, I also had to endure hearing the crack and split of his bones, which was my consequence for being affiliated with a person so tactless. Gilly’s scream pierced the hollow atmosphere of the room. The bartender still had a hold on his arm, and while Gilly grunted and moaned, he leaned in towards Gil’s sweat-beaded face and whispered something. Gilly’s eyes got wide, and I knew whatever the tender had said, it was good and terrifying. The bartender let go of Gilly’s disconnected bones.

       “Now get the fuck outta my bar. The both of you.”

            Gilly scampered out the door. It was the quickest I’d ever seen him move. I quickly took the last glug of my drink, and followed hurriedly behind.

       “You’d better hope I don’t find you again! Don’t think I don’t know who you shits are!” he called after us. “Sleep Well!” and he laughed.

And that was that.

***

            I had headed to bed not soon after I had tried to question Gilly about his anxious, but zombie-like disposition. By “headed to bed,” I mean that I drunkenly stumbled up to our assigned room, and finally found it after trying the card key in two other rooms on the same floor. I passed out on the bed, face down and still clothed. When I woke up, Gilly still wasn’t anywhere in the room. I found some aspirin and water and took it with me as I headed downstairs again. I wandered outside hoping to catch some fresh, cool air, but all I caught was the nasty smoggy humidity of the city. I walked over to the nearest shaded alley, hoping to evade the heat of the sun and put my forehead against the cool brick, but it was only a slight relief. The sickening smell of garbage beat at my nose and gag reflex, and I opened my eyes to see smears of reds and greens that looked as disgusting as it smelled. I decided the air conditioning in the casino was of a better quality, seeing as how the heavy air outside seemed to intensify my headache.

            Where the fuck was he?

            I then remembered where we had sat yesterday and began to look down the rows of machines. Maybe that fat bastard passed out pulling the machine’s arm, still holding the hand of luck in his dreams.

            I found the row we were in yesterday, and he was still there. He still averted his eyes and kept his gaze on what could be the glorious fruition of the randomly generated, rolling pictures. It wasn’t the idea of winning a jackpot that hooked him--we had enough money--but the idea of winning itself, of being lucky, kept him there, I suppose.            

       “You’ve been down here all night? What’s your Goddamned problem, Gil?”

        “Ah ott ohh hung.”

            He was always grumbling! Damn it! Could he just give me one coherent and crisp fucking sentence?!

        “What?”

            I would’ve jerked his shoulder so he faced me, but the shoulder closest to me was the one attached to his broken arm, so I refrained, yet craned my head so he might turn his.

       “What the fuck’s wrong with you?!” He paused for a moment, staring blankly ahead at the machine in front of him. I just looked at the mess around where he was sitting. Puddles of thick, sticky, coagulated ketchup were splattered and smeared on the floor around his chair, unfinished and spoiled shrimp cocktail that had been there since the night before, and a cherry fucking slushie with what looked like little chunks of chopped, but unchewed and dyed deep pink shrimp. Or chicken. Or a thick meat of some sort.

       “Well?” And at that he turned his head slowly toward me, retaining an expression of dull shock behind his eyes. His face was painted even more heavily with shadows than it was yesterday. The chapped, flaking skin on his lips was stained, and as he began to part them, I hovered closer to his face, squinting to see what he was about to show me--a chip of ice and a wet pit of glistening clear spit, mixing with the red-purple of blood, against the soft cushion of pink, where his tongue should have been.