Todd Robinson - Dirty Words

Dreams about sharp things. Lots and lots of sharp things.

Jimmy wondered how much longer he could keep it up.

Pun definitely not fucking intended…

He was running out of food, for starters. His last meal consisted of oily old sardines on chewy rye crisps. He couldn't remember buying the dusty can of sardines. Who the hell bought sardines? Either way, in the moment, Jimmy was glad he had them.

He lived in New York, for chrissakes, where anything at any time could be delivered to your doorstep, but Jimmy was afraid to get anything brought to his house. He didn't need anyone to know that he was home. He would carefully watch the street from behind the thick curtains for any unusual cars, but what qualified as an unusual car? Jimmy didn't know his neighbors, much less what they drove on a regular basis.

The dark van with tinted windows, for instance. There was a dark blue Caravan that sat kitty-corner to his front window and didn't move for three days. Then on Saturday, some loser in full clown get-up filled the back of it with bright balloons. How the fuck could Jimmy live next to a clown and not know? For some reason, he felt he should have possessed that little nugget before this point.

On the fifth afternoon, as Jimmy prepared himself a lunch of watery clam chowder (he'd run out of milk) and a Froot Roll Up, he heard footsteps on the porch. Jimmy pulled the gun from his waistband, and pointed it down the hallway. It was just about time for the mailman, but Jimmy wasn't going to be taking any chances. The footsteps were heavy. Whoever it was, they weren't feeling any need for caution.

A sharp squeak. Jimmy cocked his gun with a shaking thumb. Rustling papers and the click of the door slot snapping shut. Without thinking about it, Jimmy hadn't even checked his mail for the four days he'd kept himself a prisoner inside the apartment. Too close to the windows. Also, somewhere in the back of his mind, he feared a letter bomb, even though it wasn't even close to Butcher's style. The Butcher liked cutting people, if that could be thought of as a style. John Bass liked his punishments delivered first hand and close up. For hours and hours at a time.

Jimmy crept carefully over to the door and collected the pile of mail off of his doormat. It was the typical mélange of crap. Gas bill, phone bill, some toolbag pleading for his City Council vote, credit card applications…

…wait a minute.

There it was.

He didn't know how long it had been there, but right there, printed gaily on a five-by-seven postcard was his salvation.

"Fortune Estates," came the sugary voice on the phone.

"…"

"Excuse me?"

Jimmy cleared his throat, realized that he didn't need to whisper "Yeah, I got your postcard."

"Excellent! So, as I'm sure you can see from the pictures that Fortune Estates offers the highest in quality living arrangements in t-"

"I want to see it."

"What? Oh, um…okay." The girl obviously wasn't accustomed to such an easy sale. "I'll need to check your name in our database. When would you like to see-?"

"Soon as possible. Name's James Romancelli."

"Well, Mr. Romancelli, I can send you the information packet in a week and…"

"I only have the next few days off. I can fly in the next two days or I can't fly out at all. You can overnight the ticket."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'll need to check with my manager and see if that's possible."

Jimmy was put on hold to the strains of muzak Rod Stewart. He hated the real Rod Stewart. What the fuck made these people think that anybody wanted to listen to the muzak version? Jimmy's foot tapped on the floor anxiously.

The line clicked back. "Mr. Romancelli?"

"Yeah."

"I've brought your situation to the attention of my supervisor, Mr. Casey, and he said that we can help you."

Jimmy exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding in and almost broke into tears of relief. "That's great."

"I'll send your ticket tonight and we'll see you on Wednesday. Is there anything else…?"

Jimmy hung up the phone and sagged against the wall. He had his out. His ticket, literally, would be in his hand the next day. Up to that point, Jimmy's running potential had been limited. With the money he'd taken from the register and out of Ricardo's pockets, he'd amassed a sum total of $1,022.36. Not nearly enough to run-and run as far as he felt he needed to in order to be safe. Not enough to start over. He had a couple grand more in the bank (and Ricardo's tooth), but couldn't access it, not wanting to go out in public and such. But now, he got himself a free ticket to another time zone. He could get his money and live for a couple months while he set himself up. The operating words being he could live.

All he had to do was take a look at some dinky little timeshare. The location was the icing on his getaway cake.

Jimmy Romance was going to Vegas, baby.

Strutting through McCarran airport, Jimmy heard Dean Martin singing "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?" on a loop through his brain.

How lucky can one guy be?

You better believe Jimmy felt lucky. And what better city to be lucky in? He felt like a million bucks. He felt better than he had in years. He felt…free. He walked with a Rat Pack bounce through the terminal, all the way to the goofball holding a handwritten sign that read 'Fortune Estates' and 'Romancelli' underneath.

Check this guy , Jimmy thought. Only somebody truly living the good life could afford to dress so stupid. First off, the guy was wearing a white linen suit that looked like he'd bought it for a nickel at Don Johnson's yard sale. His peroxide-blonde coif was moussed tighter than a Catholic girl's bra strap.

Actually, as Jimmy looked around, he was a little startled to see how much color everyone wore. Jimmy was the only person in the terminal wearing full black. New Yorkers stuck to their black clothes like they were participating in a seven million-man wake. The wardrobe that would have blended him seamlessly into the teeming masses of Manhattan made him stick out in Vegas. Jimmy suddenly felt obvious and uncomfortable.

The guy caught Jimmy's eye. "Mr. Romancelli?"

"Call me Jimmy."

The guy smiled with teeth even whiter than Jimmy's, whiter than nature ever intended. Apart from the guy's skin, which was tanned a George Hamilton brown, everything else looked bleached to the bone. Jimmy shook his hand and smiled back, trying to make it look friendly, rather than the mockingly superior East Coast smile he felt worming onto his lips.

"Norman Casey, sales manager for Fortune Estates. But please, call me Norm." Norm extended a pristinely manicured hand at Jimmy.

Jimmy, took it in his own, suddenly feeling self-conscious for the first time in his life about the state of his cuticles. "You got it, Norm. So, what's the deal?"

"Well, first we'll get your luggage. Then I'll drop you at the hotel. No hard sell tonight. Tonight, you get to enjoy Sin City at your leisure."

"Sounds good, Norm."

"You expecting someone?"

"Huh?" Until Norm pointed it out, Jimmy wasn't even aware that he'd been nervously glancing from person to person around the terminal. The fear had crept back into Jimmy's subconscious when he realized that his outfit made him noticeable; a target if someone was looking.

Jimmy didn't appreciate the fear returning and did his best to push it back. "Nah. just taking it all in, Norm."

"First time in Vegas?"

"First time out of New York State."

"Well, you picked a hell of a time to see the desert, my friend.

When the automatic doors whooshed open, the heat nearly knocked the breath out of Jimmy. "Jesus."

"Hot enough for ya?" Norm cackled.

Jimmy couldn't believe that he actually asked that. "This whole place is like a big fucking Tandoori oven." Jimmy shielded his eyes from sunlight so powerful, it felt like it had weight.