This was the guy Cindy had waited all her life for and he smirked when I mentioned her name. A real sweet guy, this one.
"She's been worried about me since we were kids, man. And it hasn't done her much good, has it?"
The smirk was still in place.
Unfortunately, it probably always would be.
He hadn't had money or name or promise to cling to while growing up, so he'd invented himself as a cool street dude. There were millions and millions like him in the inner cities. They played the hard-ass role long enough, they actually became hard-asses and convinced themselves, just as they tried to convince you, that nothing meant anything to them, that they'd just as soon kill you as talk to you. There's an old French saying about beware of what you wish for . . . it just might come true. Prisons and Death Rows are filled with guys who just couldn't wait to become heartless punks. I wanted to feel at least a little sorry for him, growing up on the reservation and all, but somehow I couldn't. Not quite.
"How come they hate you so much?"
"That's none of your business. Now, you want to play blackjack or not?"
I nodded.
We went three hands. House won every one of them. "You have something on them?"
"Why don't you take a hike, man — all right?" But for the first time anxiety was present in his voice. There was something he didn't want me to know, and when I pushed him he got scared. Fear shone in his eyes: I took some satisfaction in putting it there.
"You shaking them down?"
He started dealing another hand.
"Or maybe you're bopping one of their wives."
Rhodes made as if to come at me — right across the table — but then he saw the suit walking about twenty yards away, glad-handing everybody he met.
The suit would undoubtedly be unhappy if he saw one of his blackjack dealers try to punch out one of the paying customers. Suits are funny that way.
"You're gonna pay," he hissed. "Believe me you are. Now get the hell away from me, man."
I hated to think of Cindy Rhodes with this guy. All those years. All that waiting and heartbreak. For him.
He looked as if he wanted to say something more but then a customer came up. He glowered at me and then asked the customer what his pleasure was.
I roamed around for a while. The human noise of it all calmed me down. David Rhodes had been a real disappointment. I'd been under the illusion that maybe I could help Cindy prove that her husband really was the great guy down deep she seemed to think he was. But all I wanted to do was push his face in.
A grandmother won $100 on a slot-machine and gave me a kiss. A hefty guy in a paper cowboy hat demonstrated his prowess as a line dancer just outside the small restaurant. The jukebox was playing "Achy Breaky Heart." And two old nuns, in formal black habits, sat at the Bingo table crossing themselves just seconds before the announcer called out the next number. They were kind of cute.
I was moving toward the front door when I saw them at a keno table: the two guys who'd been beating up David Rhodes in the parking lot. They'd already seen me. Two women, whom I sensed were their wives, stood next to them.
I don't know what I expected — maybe the bruiser would come after me again, or maybe we'd all haul out weapons and have a shootout on the spot, perfect for the local late news tonight — but what I didn't expect was the young-faced gray-haired man in the natty blue suit to come striding across the floor with his hand out.
"Hey, I'm really glad we ran into you," he said. "My name's Perry Heston, by the way. This is Bryce Cook."
Before I had much choice in the matter, he'd seized my hand and was pumping it with the false hearty manner of a politician.
"Bryce, tell our friend here that you're sorry, too."
It was sort of funny, actually. Bryce wasn't too keen on playing pals. He glowered, he sulked, he frowned, he even made something like a snorting noise. But finally he brought his big hand up as if it were being lifted by an invisible
"She's been worried about me since we were kids, man. And it hasn't done her much good, has it?"
The smirk was still in place.
Unfortunately, it probably always would be.
He hadn't had money or name or promise to cling to while growing up, so he'd invented himself as a cool street dude. There were millions and millions like him in the inner cities. They played the hard-ass role long enough, they actually became hard-asses and convinced themselves, just as they tried to convince you, that nothing meant anything to them, that they'd just as soon kill you as talk to you. There's an old French saying about beware of what you wish for . . . it just might come true. Prisons and Death Rows are filled with guys who just couldn't wait to become heartless punks. I wanted to feel at least a little sorry for him, growing up on the reservation and all, but somehow I couldn't. Not quite.
"How come they hate you so much?"
"That's none of your business. Now, you want to play blackjack or not?"
I nodded.
We went three hands. House won every one of them. "You have something on them?"
"Why don't you take a hike, man — all right?" But for the first time anxiety was present in his voice. There was something he didn't want me to know, and when I pushed him he got scared. Fear shone in his eyes: I took some satisfaction in putting it there.
"You shaking them down?"
He started dealing another hand.
"Or maybe you're bopping one of their wives."
Rhodes made as if to come at me — right across the table — but then he saw the suit walking about twenty yards away, glad-handing everybody he met.
The suit would undoubtedly be unhappy if he saw one of his blackjack dealers try to punch out one of the paying customers. Suits are funny that way.
"You're gonna pay," he hissed. "Believe me you are. Now get the hell away from me, man."
I hated to think of Cindy Rhodes with this guy. All those years. All that waiting and heartbreak. For him.
He looked as if he wanted to say something more but then a customer came up. He glowered at me and then asked the customer what his pleasure was.
I roamed around for a while. The human noise of it all calmed me down. David Rhodes had been a real disappointment. I'd been under the illusion that maybe I could help Cindy prove that her husband really was the great guy down deep she seemed to think he was. But all I wanted to do was push his face in.
A grandmother won $100 on a slot-machine and gave me a kiss. A hefty guy in a paper cowboy hat demonstrated his prowess as a line dancer just outside the small restaurant. The jukebox was playing "Achy Breaky Heart." And two old nuns, in formal black habits, sat at the Bingo table crossing themselves just seconds before the announcer called out the next number. They were kind of cute.
I was moving toward the front door when I saw them at a keno table: the two guys who'd been beating up David Rhodes in the parking lot. They'd already seen me. Two women, whom I sensed were their wives, stood next to them.
I don't know what I expected — maybe the bruiser would come after me again, or maybe we'd all haul out weapons and have a shootout on the spot, perfect for the local late news tonight — but what I didn't expect was the young-faced gray-haired man in the natty blue suit to come striding across the floor with his hand out.
"Hey, I'm really glad we ran into you," he said. "My name's Perry Heston, by the way. This is Bryce Cook."
Before I had much choice in the matter, he'd seized my hand and was pumping it with the false hearty manner of a politician.
"Bryce, tell our friend here that you're sorry, too."
It was sort of funny, actually. Bryce wasn't too keen on playing pals. He glowered, he sulked, he frowned, he even made something like a snorting noise. But finally he brought his big hand up as if it were being lifted by an invisible
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