"You can—" Crane took a deep breath. "You can pull a trigger. You can see well enough to drive in day glare. When it gets light, I've got to go see a guy who lives in a trailer outside town. I tried to make it yesterday, but I"—he laughed—"but I got so damn depressed. I had the DTs real bad, sat and cried in Diana's car most of the day, in a parking lot. Bugs were crawling out of holes in my face—imagine that! But now I've got some food in me, and I think I'm all right."
You can still eat, at least, thought Mavranos angrily. "Then go," he said harshly. "Where's her car now?"
"Parked down the row here. I've driven through every casino lot in town, looking for this here truck. The Circus Circus said you'd checked out with no messages or anything."
"I don't owe you any messages, none of you. Goddammit, Scott, I've got my own life, what little is left of it. What the hell do you imagine I could do! Who is it you want me to—to pull a trigger on, anyway?"
"Oh, I don't know … me, maybe." Crane was blinking around, and he picked up Snayheever's maps. "If I become Bitin Dog again, for instance. At least I can make sure that my real father doesn't have this body to fuck people over with."
A car rushed by fast, and the reflection of its red taillights flashed through the cracks in the Suburban's windshield like the streak of a tossed-out cigarette butt.
"You want me to make sure of it, you mean," Mavranos said, "and probably go die in the Clark County Jail instead of with my family. I'm really sorry, man, but—"
He paused. Crane had unfolded a map of California, and, ignoring the twenty-dollar bill that fell out of it, was staring once again at the lines Snayheever had drawn on the state's uneven eastern boundary.
"These aren't route lines," Crane said absently. "They're outlines. See? Lake Havasu, where the original London Bridge is now, is the bridge of the nose, and Blythe is the chin, and the 10 highway is the jaw-line. And I can recognize the portrait now—it's Diana." There was no expression on his face, but tears were running down his cheeks.
In spite of himself, Mavranos peered at the map. The pencil lines were a woman's face in profile, he could see now, turned away and with the visible eye closed. He supposed it might be a portrait of that Diana woman.
Crane unfolded the map of "The Partition of Poland—1939," and this time Mavranos could see that the heavy pencil lines traced a fat, robed person of indeterminate sex daintily dancing with a goat-legged devil. Bleakly he imagined that this, too, might have to do with Crane's problems.
"I can't help you, Scott," he said. "I don't even have any extra money. I can drop you off somewhere right now, if it's on the way out of town, south."
Crane seemed to be calm, and Mavranos hoped he would ask to be driven to the Flamingo or somewhere, so that Mavranos could seem to be doing him at least some last, paltry favor.
"Not now," said Crane quietly. "When the sun's up. And I'll want to try for a couple of hours of sleep."
Mavranos shook his head, squinting and baring his teeth and trying not to remember the many afternoons he'd spent drinking beer on Crane's front porch.
Womb to tomb. Birth to earth.
He made himself say, "No. I'm leaving now."
Crane nodded and pushed the door open. "I'll wait for you—dawn, in the parking lot of the Troy and Cress Wedding Chapel." He stepped down to the pavement. "Oh, here," he added, digging in the pocket of his jeans. He tossed a thick roll of twenty-dollar bills onto the seat. "If you're short."
"Don't!" Mavranos called, his voice tight. "I won't be there. You can't—you can't ask this of me!"
Crane didn't answer, and Mavranos watched the lean figure of his friend disappear into the darkness. After a while he heard a car start and drive away.
Mavranos slapped his pocket for change, then got out of the truck and began plodding back toward the casino. He needed to hear his wife's voice right away.
There was a bank of pay phones off the Sahara's lobby; one of the phones was just ringing steadily, and he fumbled a quarter into the slot of the one farthest from the noise and punched in his home number.
Through the tinny diaphragm he heard Wendy's voice, blurry with sleep. "Hello?" she said. "Arky?"
"Yeah, Wendy, it's me, sorry to call you at this hour—"
"Thank God, we've been so worried—"
"Listen, Wendy, I can't talk long, but I'm coming home." He covered his free ear and mentally damned whoever was making the other phone ring for so long.
"Did you …"
"No. No, I'm still sick, but I want to … be with you and the girls." To be and not to be, he thought bitterly.
There was a long pause during which he helplessly counted the rings of the phone at the far end of the row, and then he heard Wendy say, "I understand, honey. The girls will want to see you. One way or another, they have a father they can be proud of."
"I should be back before lunchtime. I love you, Wendy."
He could hear the tears in her voice when she said, "I love you, Arky."
He hung up the telephone and started toward the door, but he stopped irritably in front of the still-ringing phone and picked up the receiver. "What?" he yelled into it.
The harsh laughter of a woman grated in his ear. "I love you, Arky," the woman said. "Tell Scott I said I love him, will you?"
Mavranos was shaking, but he spoke softly. "Good-bye, Susan." He hung up that phone, too, and walked out of the casino.
Back in the truck he started the engine—and then just sat there in the dark cab, staring at the money Crane had tossed onto the seat.
A father they can be proud of, he thought. What does that mean? It should mean a father who doesn't abandon them. A father they can be proud of. What's wrong with just a father they can love for a few weeks? What the hell is so terrible about that?
Wendy had said, I love you, Arky. Well, who did she mean by that? Who was it that she loved? The man who had proudly gone off to find his health and who kept faith with his friends? They wore that guy out, honey, he doesn't exist anymore.
He picked up the money and put it in his pocket, knowing he and Wendy would be needing it.
Goddammit, he thought, can you really prefer a dead man that you can be proud of to a—a broken man you can at least hug? Can't we just pretend I never met Scott Crane?
At dawn the broad lanes of the Strip were a little less crowded—mostly with Cadillacs heading back to hotels after a night of heavy gambling, beat station wagons out for the forty-nine-cent breakfasts—and Crane was glad to park the Mustang in the Troy and Cress lot and walk away from it. The police might well be watching for the car, and though they shouldn't have any particular reason to hold him, he vividly remembered Lieutenant Frits's telling him that he could be thrown in jail.
Crane walked quietly past the closed multicolor doors of the honeymoon motel units. A frail smile kinked his face as he passed them. Have nice lives, you newlyweds, he thought. Put those HITCHED license plates on your cars, treasure those photos and videos, take home the Marriage Creed plaques and put them up on the walls of your bright new homes.