“First of all,” he says. “Congratufuckinglations!”
Everybody cheers. He is the good guy. Fun guy. He high-fives the groom. He kisses the bride on the cheek. “Now, let’s have some fun,” he says. “As it happens, I am here to celebrate too. I just sold two scripts to Megan Fucking Ellison.” He waits for a reaction. Still nobody knows her name. “Point is, I made some money and I wanna spread the love around!” Applause, obviously. “And this is what I wanna do. Groom, get the fuck up here.”
The groom gets the fuck up here and he is a small guy, shorter than his wife. He seems shy. He has a big smile, big teeth, they’re too big for his face. His wife cheers. “What’s your name, son?”
“Greg,” he says. “Mr. and Mrs. Greg and Leah Loomis from New Township, New Jersey!”
Greg has probably never said that many words out loud to a group this size. Forty motions for everyone to quiet down and he waves the bride onstage. He puts his arm around Greg. “Greg,” he says. “You got a beautiful bride. And you got a long life ahead.”
There is a mixed response. Some laugh. Some are disgusted.
“So why not let me give you guys a wedding present you’ll remember forever,” he says. “Greg,” he raises his eyebrows up and down and up and down. “I’ll give ya ten if ya let me kiss your wife. Right here. Right now.”
Greg the groom doesn’t punch Forty. People boo. They hiss. Some people whistle. They want to see it. Forty takes five thousand-dollar chips out of his pocket.
“One, two, three, four, five!” he exclaims.
More of the same, booing and cheering—America—and the bride is pleading with the husband. I think she’s saying something about the mortgage. The groom is turning redder by the second and the bride does a shot and Forty plays with his chips and finally the bride wins; she is the alpha, she will choose their vacations, program the DVR, demand him to renovate the man cave he undoubtedly has where he roots for his teams, eats his salsa. No guac for these two; they’re not from that part of America.
She finishes slapping on lipstick and she gets up onstage. Forty kicks, yes! He dips the bride. He grazes her boob and he never said anything about feeling her up—booing and cheering—and he leans over and grabs her ass, hard, and he shoves his tongue down her throat. I watch the groom. He looks broken; ten minutes ago he was in love, he was just married. And now he’s just fucked over. Forty releases the bride and she wipes her mouth and she puts her hand out and Forty tosses the chips on the floor and pumps his fists.
So now, of course, there are a million people who would kill this guy. The lead singer takes the mic and the bride hugs the groom but you can tell Forty ruined their marriage. Their odds of happiness are lower now than they were before they met Forty Quinn.
Forty takes off again, meandering through the floor of the casino. I follow him and text him from my burner phone: It’s snowing at the Sapphire.
Forty writes back: ?
Me: It’s Slim. New phone. Your sister’s looking for you.
Forty: Heavy snow? Better than last time I hope
Me: Yes. Sapphire in twenty.
Forty: Leaving Bellagio now
But he’s not leaving Bellagio now. He’s settling into another white leather chair, motioning for the dealer to deal, as if he doesn’t know that the dealer can’t deal to him while he’s texting. He writes: I heard there’s hella ice out there too.
I confirm that I have hella ice and I park myself at a slot machine with a lobster theme. I insert my ticket, now worth only $2.11. Forty is the world’s least interesting man, bragging to the disinterested players around him about his career being on fire, as if people came to this place to talk about work.
My machine goes berserk. The screen changes and an animated lobsterman introduces himself to me. The woman next to me says it’s a bonus round and the fisherman reaches into the water and pulls out cages of lobsters. My $2.11 turns into $143.21. The house doesn’t always win and I know when to walk away. I take my ticket to a machine and cash out. I text Forty: Snow ice and snow bunnies too gotta come now.
Forty gets off his ass and leaves the casino. He lost a lot of money but I walk through the casino a winner. I find my car in the garage and I text Love: Any word?
She writes back: Nothing. But he’s probably passed out in some hooker’s bed by now.
I write back: Don’t worry. I’ll find him. Things are gonna change. They are.
And it’s the truth. If anything, this trip to Vegas has opened my eyes to what it’s been like for Love all these years. She is back in LA texting him and here he is ignoring her, feeding her fear, eating away at her life. He’s a parasite, a user, and I think he enjoys torturing Love.
I can’t blame Ray and Dottie. No parents do everything right. No parents can control how they love their children. But this isn’t about blame. This is about the love of my life, the pain in her eyes, the weakness in her voice, the way she is choking on his silence. I can’t let him smother her anymore. I love her too much for that.
43
TWENTY minutes later Forty slips out of his cab and moseys to the back of this off-strip, derelict gas station. He’s wearing a stupid backpack, like a kid going to camp, expecting to see his counselor/dealer. I step out of my car and smile, especially at the security camera that hangs by a thread, decimated, cracked, the reason I chose this particular spot.
“Old Sport!” Only joy registers on his bloated face as he gallops toward me and throws his arms around me. His hug is too hard and he reeks.
“What are you doing here?” he yells.
“It’s a long story,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I was supposed to meet my dealer, but he didn’t show. Luckily I’m well equipped.” Forty shrugs and pats his backpack. “Does this mean . . . are you finally good with everything? Down to party?”
I nod even though I hate drugs, hate the way people get around them, the need that comes through.
“Fucking Goldberg!” he sings, and then he’s on about his Molly and his blow, his this and his that. He wipes his fat hair off his stretched face. “You know, I know we had some talks, some iffiness with the business, but that’s what it is, my friend. Business gets whack and shit happens and then what do you do? You smoke a little crack.”
He winks and slips into my car with his fucking backpack. “We need this,” he goes on. “I bet this is your first time in Vegas right? Professor Goes to Vegas! I love it!” His eyes narrow, curious. “Where’s my sis?”
“At home,” I say. “With your parents.”
“Nice,” he says. He cracks open a forty-ounce can of malt liquor. It pops and fizzes. “You relationship people, I don’t know how you do it.” He burps and beer dribbles down his chin. “You feel like you need to bring home the bacon and the big dick and make them babies and dance that dance and it’s like, fuck that. I answer to me and me alone. Fuck love.” He laughs. “You know what I mean. Not Love love. I love my sister. She’s my rock. Do you know how many times she texted me today?”
I count to two. It doesn’t help. “Did you write back to her?”