Denis Johnson - Nobody Move

“It’s not my Caddy.”

“It was your Caddy when I saw you throw that gun in the Feather River.”

“I just borrowed it.”

“The gun? Or the car?”

“Both.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Jimmy.”

“Can I borrow the Cadillac, Jimmy?”

“What’s wrong with that Camaro of yours?”

“Too many people know it.”

“Like Deputy Rabbit, you mean.”

“Can I have the keys?”

“The door’s unlocked,” he said. “I put the keys under the floor mat. But I wouldn’t advise driving around in that thing.”

“Is it stolen?”

“Not legally, I guess. Gambol doesn’t deal with the police.”

“Gambol? I thought you shot him.”

“He didn’t die.”

“Is he running around looking for it?”

“Probably not. Not yet. If he is, he’s running around on one leg.”

Luntz stared while she sat on the bed and stuck her

toes into the legs of her pantyhose and stood up straight and hiked her skirt and wiggled her underwear all the way on. She dropped the hem and smoothed her skirt. One at a time she kicked her black pumps into position on the floor and worked her feet into them. She got her coat on and opened the door.

“Wait a minute,” Luntz said, “I want to talk to you. I mean, about last night.”

“What was your name again?”

“Jimmy Luntz. I had a good time last night.”

“It was kind of a fluke, Jimmy.”

“I get that. Yeah. But maybe we could have coffee or something.”

Leaving the front door ajar, she went into the john and came back and handed him her cell phone. “Hang on to this phone. If it still works, maybe I’ll call you.”

She gave him a little salute and walked out, and he sat there holding her phone in his hand for ten minutes.

Then he set the cell phone aside, clapped his hands together twice, and stood up. He got dressed and got his gear together. He had no jacket other than his white tuxedo. He put it on and pocketed the cell phone. He picked up Gambol’s duffel by the handle and looked around for anything he might have forgotten. A knock came at the door.

He opened it quickly. It wasn’t Anita.

Two very clean-cut men stood side by side in the doorway, one of them holding up a badge. “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Luntz said, “Wow.”

The man put his badge away and told Luntz both their names, but Luntz didn’t hear.

“Wow,” he said. “For a second I thought you were Jehovah Witness people.”

“Can I ask your name, sir?”

“Franklin. But listen — I’m about to hop on a bus. I’m late.”

“Where’s Mrs. Desilvera, Mr. Franklin?”

“Mrs. who?”

“The lady staying here with you.”

“Oh. I didn’t get her last name. Just her first.”

“Are you two pretty good friends?”

“They’re on a first-name basis,” the other one said.

“I just met her last night.”

“Yes. We’re aware of that.”

The other one said, “What’s in your bag? Two million dollars?”

“What?”

“Didn’t she tell you she’s sitting on a pile of other people’s money?”

“We barely got introduced.”

“We understand that,” the nicer one said. “Did she say where she was going?”

“No, sir. Destination unknown.”

“Let me tell you what this is about, Mr. Franklin. In just a few days your friend will plead guilty to embezzling

two-point-three million dollars.” He waited for a reaction and seemed satisfied with Luntz’s speechlessness.

“You didn’t know about it?” the other one said.

“No, sir. No. Embezzlement — that’s a federal thing, huh?”

“She’ll plead guilty to state charges. But until the money goes back where it belongs, we’re very interested in her. Federal charges aren’t out of the question. Can you show us some identification?”

Luntz dug out his driver’s license and handed it over.

“I thought you said your name was Franklin.”

“Yeah — but that’s when I didn’t know who you were.”

“I told you who we were.”

“Oh,” Luntz said, “that’s correct. I guess I got confused. I thought you guys were Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Really?”

“Look, I have to catch a bus south in fifteen minutes. I mean, now it’s ten minutes.”

“When will you be seeing Mrs. Desilvera again?”

“Never. I got the impression it was, you know — a fluke.”

“A fluke?”

“That’s the description I’m giving it.”

“What’s in the bag? That’s not her bag, is it?”

“It’s mine. It’s my luggage, is all.”

“I bet you wish it was her luggage.”

“So she still has the money, huh?”

“Was she carrying anything, Mr. Luntz?”

“You mean like a satchel with a big old dollar sign on it?”

Neither of them laughed.

“Just a purse,” Luntz said. “About yay big.”

“You mind if we look around the room?”

“Help yourself. I’m all checked out. And I’m really late, so — yeah.”

The nicer one raised an index finger. “Call coming in.” He took a few paces backward, and the other one joined him and stood with his back to Luntz, the first one with his phone to his cheek, talking. It seemed the other might be talking too. Fake phone call. Luntz lit a cigarette while they reached an agreement.

“Okay if I get moving?”

“That’ll be fine. We’ll make a note of your name, Mr. Luntz.”

“Okay. I sure hope I make that bus.”

They stepped aside for him, and the nicer one said, “Good luck.”

“I was born lucky.”

Luntz set out at a good pace without a backward glance. He had no idea where he was going.

In his pocket, the cell phone started ringing.

Gambol closed his eyes. He felt his head nodding forward and rode a Ferris wheel down into violent cartoons.

He shivered, but he didn’t feel cold. When he shivered the pain filled his right leg.

“I want another shot.”

“Not for two more hours,” the woman said. “This isn’t an opium den.”

He opened his eyes. He wore a frilly blue nylon robe. Probably the woman’s.

“Where’s my clothes?”

“How many times are you going to ask me that?”

“Fuck you.”

“Your stuff went out with the rest of the bloody trash.”

Gambol’s head drooped, and he looked down into Jimmy Luntz’s face.

The landscape had that blond, Central Valley look. Some pine trees. Oaks. Orchards. Farmland. Sunny and still. They drove south past Oroville, looking for a shopping mall. The speed signs said 65. Luntz stayed legal. He kept his window cracked to suck his cigarette smoke away from Anita’s face.

Luntz said, “Dude who worked in a casino in Vegas told me about this hippie. This hippie comes in out of the desert night, creeps into the casino all scraggly in his huarache sandals and tie-dye shirt and Hindu balloon pants, and he goes to the roulette table and reaches into this little pouch tied to his belt and comes up with one U.S. quarter. Lays the quarter on black. Little ball comes down on twenty-two

black. He lets it ride, doubles again, switches to red, doubles his dollar, takes his two dollars to the blackjack and wins ten in a row, doubling every time. Ten in a row. True story. Two thousand and forty-eight dollars. He pulls his chips and heads for the craps and starts betting with the shooter, double whatever the shooter bets. Inside of two hours the house is clocking his action and he’s comped with free meals and he’s drunk on free booze, and he’s still at the craps, with a crowd around him, betting a couple hundred a throw. By three a.m. he’s stacked up over six grand off an initial investment of twenty-five cents. And suddenly, in four or five big bets, all gone — he busts out. Stands there thinking a minute. . folks around him watching. . He stands there. . Everybody’s shouting, “One more quarter! One more quarter!” Old hippie shakes his head. Staggers back out into the desert after one hell of a night in a Vegas casino. A night they’re still talking about. Total cost was twenty-five cents. A night he’ll never forget.”