Charlie Huston - Six Bad Things

He tells me how, after I left them, they drove down to Vegas. How they found T’s trailer and realized there was no way to stake it out without being seen by everyone in the trailer park. He tells me how Sid decided it was time to ditch the bus. How they left it on the roof level of a parking garage at one of the malls in Paradise, Sid hot-wired a car a few blocks away, and they got a room at the Super 8 just up Boulder Highway from the trailer park. How they came back here after the sun went down last night and parked across from the park entrance until they saw T’s car leave. How they followed us, and how it wasn’t until we came back out of the apartment and they saw me take off my hat that they figured out that I was the cowboy.

Rolf nudges me.

– Cool ’stache, by the way.

I nod and look at the TV. My folks were moved back home from the motel last night. The reporters are staked out there now. The lawn is trampled and there’s a lot of empty paper coffee cups and McDonalds bags in the gutter. The reporters are milling around while a group of twenty or thirty gawkers stands behind a barrier on the sidewalk and snaps pictures. A sheriff’s car is in the driveway and a deputy is standing on the porch in front of the door. The camera zooms in suddenly as a curtain is pulled away from one of the upstairs windows, but the curtain drops back into place without anyone being revealed. That you, Mom? Dad? I’m sorry. I’m so.

I shake my head. Rolf continues.

– Anyways, when you guys came out with nothin’, we followed you over to that strip club. And, dude, what was that about?

– We needed to talk to someone.

– You took your time. We waited awhile, then I was like, let’s just blow back to the trailer and search it. I figured if the money wasn’t here we could wait for you and Elvis and jump you. And, dude? Was I relieved when he didn’t come in with that big fucking dog. Hey, here it is again.

He points at the TV. It’s the footage of the SWATs again.

The bus is isolated on the roof of the garage, centered in the jiggling helicopter spot. The team edges up, assault weapons ready, and cracks the sliding door.

Rolf talks over the footage.

– At first, we were hidden and waiting for you guys. Then it just took forever, so we turned on the set and watched this happen live around one AM. Dude, was that freaky.

One AM, when I was in a casino, the last place on earth you’ll ever get news of what’s going on outside.

The morning briefing from Sheriff Reyes comes on and Rolf unmutes the TV.

– The van, the bus, was seen in the vicinity of the collision and shooting on Nicastro Road in the twenty-four hours before, before that, those, incidents. Also, tracks we believe are from this vehicle were recovered and matched. That is, they match tracks found at the scene of the shooting of Deputy Fischer. So, and all this makes us believe that the suspect Henry Thompson and his, his, accomplices may have fled in this vehicle. We put out, with the help of the FBI, we put out a BOLO alert, a “Be On the Look Out” yesterday afternoon. Last night we received word that the vehicle had been found by officers of the Las Vegas Metro Police Department. And the focus, the focus of the investigation is, we don’t really have much to do with it anymore, and this will be, I’ll only be briefing on the case as it pertains to the crimes committed in our jurisdiction. The hunt for Henry Thompson and his suspected accomplices will be, is being… this is Special Agent Willis Tate and he’ll be briefing, answering questions about the, the hunt.

Sheriff Reyes steps aside and a man in his forties steps up to the mikes. He has a slight potbelly and a shiny bald bullet head and wears steel-rimmed glasses and a government suit. He opens his mouth to talk and Rolf mutes the sound.

– This guy. He started showing up last night. Up. Tight. Reyes is cool, like he’s your favorite shop teacher or a mellow uncle. He makes me feel safe. But, dude, this guy makes me feel oppressed, you know? Like, knowing he’s running around with his cronies makes me feel like I’m not even a citizen in this country.

Special Agent Tate speaks into the microphones. He makes a gesture toward Reyes, nods his head, and then turns back to the reporters and starts to read from a prepared document.

I point at the TV.

– We should be listening to this.

Rolf waves his hand.

– Dude, he’s just all, blah blah blah, jurisdiction, blah, good work of local authorities, blah, nobody panic ’cause I’m in charge now, blah.

Tate indicates a video monitor behind him and the camera zooms in on it. The image is fuzzy; a TV image of a TV image of a bad photo, but it’s still easy to recognize Sid in his driver’s license picture.

SID STARES at the picture of himself on the TV. After a few moments, they pull back to the shot of Tate talking at the podium, then cut back to the studio, then to a graphic showing an outline of Nevada with a series of concentric circles centered on Las Vegas. Something swirls up out of the dot that represents Vegas. It resolves into my NYC booking photo and is followed by another swirl that becomes Sid’s photo. Then letters are smashed down below them one by one, as if by a giant, red-inked typewriter: WANTED. And cut to an antacid commercial.

I look at Sid. He looks at me. And nods his head, like some suspicion he has long held has at last been proven true.

Rolf stands up.

– And on that note, dudes, I’ll be using the can.

He heads off down the hall.

Sid and I sit next to each other, the TV still on, silently trying to sell us things. He reaches across me for the remote, picks it up, and turns the TV off.

He pulls his gun from his waistband. It’s an older model Colt .45, a Gold Cup target pistol. It’s a good gun, accurate and powerful, not the kind of thing you get off the street, but a tool you buy because you know its quality. He sets it on the coffee table and stares at the floor, elbows on knees, head hanging.

– I thought about what you said, about killing people being wrong. And, dude, it’s not like I don’t know that. I know people are, like, all sacred and life is a special thing. A gift? It doesn’t have to be from God or anything, it can just be that life is this gift from the universe and it’s special because, as far as we know, there isn’t any more of it, so it’s really, really rare. And what you do with your life? What you do with this gift, dude, that, like, totally makes you who you are. I really believe that. But. I don’t think that makes killing people wrong? ’Cause if our lives are gifts, are special, then all lives are, whether it’s a bug or a cow or whatever, and we kill them all the time. So death and killing is just a part of life, a part of the universe whether God made it, or whatever, it’s just this natural thing. And some things, dude? Some animals? They kill, that’s what they do, and it just makes them what they are? And people? We’re just animals. So why shouldn’t some of us be killers? Why can’t that be just what makes some of us who we are? So I really kind of think you may not be right, and killing people isn’t “wrong.” It’s just a thing some people do.

I look at the gun. I could make a grab for it. Grab the gun while Sid is listless, his eyes on the floor. I’ll have to shoot Sid. Grab the gun, shoot Sid in the top of his head, run down the hall, and shoot Rolf while he’s still trying to get his pants up from around his ankles. I know what it looks like when people get shot, what it feels like to shoot them. I have experience with sudden violence. And violence is like anything else, the more you do it, the more you get used to it. And the better you are at it. I could make the grab and kill them both. But I don’t. Because I think I’m gonna need them.