Denis Johnson - Nobody Move

With the washer’s noise out in the utility room, Mary wasn’t certain she’d heard a car. She hit the mute on the television and stood up as Gambol came through the front door.

He raised the end of his cane and pointed it at her and said, “Man, you look good today.”

“I clean up pretty nice, huh?”

“Hey,” he said, “let’s take a ride.”

She kicked at her pumps and slipped her feet into them and stooped to put out her cigarette. “I’ve got laundry in. Can I turn it off?”

“Leave it.”

She looked toward the utility room where the machine chugged and gurgled. She reached for the remote and dropped it and knelt on the carpet, feeling for it under the coffee table.

“Leave it.”

She stood up. “Ernest. I never saw you smile before.”

“Is there fishing in Montana?”

“Every square inch.” She drew her head back. “You’ve got nice teeth.”

He dropped his cane and took her in his arms. “The Muslims lost one today.”

“Yeah, baby,” she said. “Nuke Mecca.”

The right-hand tires bumped over onto the shoulder, she yanked the wheel straight, they very soon bumped over again. Did she need gas? That thought came in and went away. Was it really raining? — when the stars were shining? She found the button and lowered the window and stuck her head out for great breaths of chilly air, driving one-handed, covering her shattered eye socket with the other hand to eliminate the duplicates in her field of vision.

The big black Cadillac divided the rain. She killed the headlamps. The downpour glittered in the starshine, in the moonglow, in the lightning. Sure was raining hard. Sure was looking bad. At this rate, she’d never make it to the river.

Jimmy Luntz walked the road, watching his feet by starlight. Along the pavement’s edge, tufts of grass sprouted from the asphalt.

He came to a crossing — a gas station and convenience store — and went inside and said, “Nice night.”

The gal behind the counter said, “No shirt, no shoes, no service.”

“I have shoes on.”

She said, “Sorry,” and seemed sincere. She looked young, and possibly pregnant, or ready for a diet.

He checked his money clip.

“Kenny’s in the back,” she said.

“I wasn’t looking for him.”

“I know. But just so you know.”

“Do I look like a robber?”

“You look like something. Not a robber. Just along those lines.”

“How much are those T-shirts?”

“Whatever it says.”

From the bin he picked one — light blue, size large, MORE BEER — and pulled it over his head.

“That one’s funny,” she said.

He counted his change. He craved a smoke, and he had just enough money for a pack, but he bought a lotto ticket for a dollar, and then he was too short for cigarettes. Scratched a loser. He had enough for a burger but went into that sum for another dollar.

As he touched the ticket, he could feel it in his fingers. He set his money clip on the counter and flattened it with the heel of his hand and slipped the ticket into it along with nothing but his driver’s license.

Two bucks in his grip. He bought two tix. Scratched a loser, and the second one hit for ten. “There we go. See that?”

“You want it in tickets?”

“Just a pack of Camel straights. No. You got Luckies? It’s Luckies from now on. And those Twinkies. And I’ll get a can of Sprite or something. You got matches?”

“Now you’re back to zero.”

He cracked the deck and lit up and raised a hand in farewell.

“Are you walking?”

Luntz said, “I guess I’ll hitchhike.”

“You better clean up first.”

“Yeah? Where’s the washroom?”

She shook her head. “The whole back of your pants is

like you been rolling in dirt. You better find some deep water.”

“Where’s the river?”

“Right over there a half a mile.”

“Is it cold?”

“It’s cold. But it won’t kill you.”