Джо Горес - Cases

“Where is Penny? How is she? Please, let me see her...”

The eyes looking down at him suddenly filled with tears. He curled into a tight ball of anguish and howled like a wolf. Except he just lay there, unmoving. He shut his eyes again.

Pepe hung up and threw the chair across the room. Still alive. Still alive. How could that be? He regretted missing his chance in Vegas and in L.A.

Who was the guy, fucking Lazarus?

In a coma, maybe he’d just die like the nice guy Pepe had figured him for. Or wake up with mush for brains. Put a collar on him and lead him around like a pet chimp. Send the hitter in with a pillow? No. Not yet. The accident scenario could still work.

Drinker’s voice said, “I know how you feel, Dunc, but...”

Dunc didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Thought, no, you don’t know how I feel, Drinker. I murdered my wife and baby.

“You said he was awake,” complained Drinker.

“He was. His vital signs are normal. We’ve told him his wife is dead and maybe he just can’t handle it.” Her voice was fading; they were leaving. “He’ll come out of it eventually...”

You don’t understand, Dunc thought. Maybe, by blaming her, he’d robbed Penny of hope, left her only despair. Maybe she had deliberately driven off the road.

Not to be borne. Not to be thought about. He felt his bandage. Surprisingly small, neat, tidy. That navy watch cap in his roommate’s closet would cover it nicely. His own clothes were in his open closet. Wait in feigned coma until dark...

And then start running away. Forever.

Out in the hallway bulky, red-faced Drinker Cope abruptly thrust the flowers m one hand and the candy in the other at the petite black-haired nurse. “You take ’em, he don’t need ’em. Tell him I was here. And if there’s any change—”

“We will surely let you know, Mr. Cope.”

Drinker went away down the corridor. Goddamn, what a mess! Dunc in there, him here, Sherry trying to run the office. Harry Wham to deal with, April too. Craven to check on...

Standing under the wind-danced streetlight, Peter Collinson watched the Buick’s disappearing taillights. Son of Nobody. He blew into his bare hands; the chill had already crept through the garage attendant’s shoes a man named Dunc had always worn. After midnight. Six hours to get 250 miles east of Reno. This time of year, only local traffic would be moving until about 6:00 A.M.

A bulky man in a brown sheep-lined coat came by, overshoes squeaking on the hard-packed snow, his fur cap’s earmuffs giving him the head of a bear. Dunc asked, “Where’s the bus depot?”

“Two blocks back, see the red sign says Casino?” He was pointing. “Go through the gaming room, the depot’s out back.”

Inside the plate-glass door, a blast of welcome heat greeted him. A few tired tourists and even more tired shift workers sipped coffee and dunked doughnuts at the all-night café. Through the open door at the far end he could see a man in tan work clothes vacuuming the maroon wall-to-wall carpet.

In the casino a bartender polished glasses and yawned. Roulette, craps, wheel of fortune, everything covered with white canvas dust-cloths except one blackjack table. The cardman was dealing to a black-haired woman in a slit black sheath dress that emphasized her hips and haunches. She was dwarfed by a balding man in a loud size 50 suit who seemed to be backing her play.

Dunc crossed to an archway that led to a spacious hotel lobby with potted palms and deep red leather chairs. Behind the check-in desk a stringy-haired man dozed with his chin braced on one hand. His knuckles had pushed his mouth open so a gold tooth caught the light. He could have used more chin and a shave.

“When’s the next bus?” Dunc asked him.

He came awake with a start. “Bus to Reno arrives at three-fifty-two A.M. Twenty-minute rest stop, then—”

“East.”

“Five-oh-four A.M.”

Dunc started, “I’ll take...” but his hand had brought out only a five and two crumpled ones from his pocket. “Forget it.”

He flopped down in a red leather chair. What was he doing, where did he think he was going? Mexico? The South Seas?

“No sleeping in the lobby unless you’re waiting for a bus.”

“So I’m waiting for a bus.”

“Company don’t pay the hotel good money so any bum stumbles in here off the street can use it as a flophouse.”

The man had a point. With the knit wool cap pulled down over his ears he looked the part. He stuck it in his pocket.

He almost dreaded watching the woman play blackjack. He stood behind Penny as she played, aware of her body heat the way you were aware of the heat from the fire on a cold night. But he had at least five hours before there was enough through traffic to give him a decent chance of thumbing a ride before he froze to death.

The dealer had a thin sad face and a pearl stickpin in his lavender necktie. Hands quick as Henri’s scooped up her chips.

“Dealer takes all pushes.”

She had a smooth aloof face, great cheekbones, and an insolent mouth, but said to the big man in a cloying little-girl voice, “Petie Sweetie, I’m out of gas.”

“You cost more to run than my Caddy.”

“I want to beat this bastard at his own crooked game.”

A paw made to crush beer bottles tossed a heavy leather wallet on the table. A granite jaw and thick neck suggested a ruthless power slightly belied by surprisingly mild blue eyes. She methodically lost a quarter inch of bills, cursing the dealer obscenely for every hand he took. They departed to the bar.

Dunc said to the dealer, “Sweet lady.”

“She was explaining my parentage to me.” Two red spots burned on his cheeks. “She’s a guest at the hotel.”

“And the customer’s always right. Right?”

The spots faded from his cheeks. He grinned wryly. Dunc said, “A blackjack dealer I knew in Vegas had hands like yours.”

He put the cards through an intricate Scarne shuffle, a false cut, dealt himself seconds. “There’s one rotten town, Vegas.” He finished with that most difficult of card maneuvers, the waterfall, said almost ruefully, “That’s my real name. Hands. What could I be except a dealer, hands like these, name like that? Like the kid in Treasure Island, he’s up the mast with a pistol, he says, ‘One more step and I’ll fire, Mr. Hands.’ ”

“Jim Hawkins,” said Dunc.

“That’s him. Most everybody just calls me Hands.”

Dunc hesitated a moment. “Peter Collinson,” he said.

His already expressionless face emptied entirely. “Big guy over there calls himself Peter Collins.”

“Good old dad,” said Dunc. “Mr. Nobody himself.”

“Comes in ’cause of Imogene. You just passing through?”

Dunc nodded. “Drifting with the wind.”

“A sad wind, maybe? Good luck.”

Dunc sat in a red leather chair out of the clerk’s sight, under a potted palm near the mezzanine’s broad marble stairway. Three A.M. Two hours before he could stick out his thumb. Physically, except for his headache, okay. Penny and their child were dead, but he was okay. He crossed his arms, felt a bulge in his jacket pocket. A folded sheaf of bills, $400. Where...

The blackest of despairs shot through him. Penny cashed in and gaily stuffed the neat fold of her winnings into Dunc’s inside sport jacket’s pocket. Penny, loving him, trusting him, and he’d made her want to be dead...

A man came in from the side street without seeing Dunc. Cold radiated from his midnight-blue overcoat; a black rakish hat with a narrow brim was pulled low over his eyes. He had thin features and an olive complexion. Dunc thought, Pepe, realized, of course not: Pepe was 250 miles away. But the same type.