I declined. Lonnie shook another Camel unfiltered from his battered pack, lit it with a Harley-Davidson lighter. Lonnie smoked with the unconscious determination of an old lady playing the slots, one pull after another after another.
“The twins, they would put money in the casino cage for each of us, so as soon as we arrived we could stride onto the floor, tap into the account, and start throwing the dice. Some of the guys, they played blackjack, but I always liked the dice. It’s quicker, Dude, if you know what I mean? I figure if I was going to win I was going to win, but if I was going to lose, fine, let’s get it over with so we could get it on.
“Upstairs, the twins, what with all the money they was putting into the cages, would get comped a huge suite with all kinds of connecting doors. We called it the Elvis Suite. Fancy furniture, mirrored ceilings in the bedrooms, TV the size of a bull. There’d be about twenty of us up there, along with the food and the coke, ’ludes, dope, whatever, and anything we wanted to drink. And after all of us, we were jacked to the stars, the twins, they would stand up on a table with a bottle of champagne in each hand and make pep talks about the pots of money we were all going to make in the upcoming year. And then they would get to shaking the bottles with their thumbs over the tops and spraying us all. And we’d all start cheering and howling and barking like dogs. It would get louder, wilder, we’d be ripping our shirts off as we barked away. And then the girls would arrive.
“A dozen of them, really prime, you know what I mean. Not like the skanks for sale in Philly, no way. This was Atlantic City and the twins knew how to get the best. Dancing, stripteases, lesbian love, whatever game you was into. The music would be pumping, the girls would help themselves to the drugs, the clothes would come off, the shrimp would fly, things would spiral way out of control. And, Dude, it would go on and on and on. The secret was meth, a little meth you could go all night, and I used to score that myself for the boys. That was my special thing. And with enough drugs, after a while you wouldn’t know who you were screwing and you wouldn’t care. We would go on all night, dancing and screwing and getting high, until everything just collapsed like a burst balloon.
“In the mornings after, Dude, it was like a tornado had run through the place. Shrimp on the curtains, roast beef hanging from the chandelier, champagne sprayed over everything. Blood and semen, condoms on the ceiling. The guys would be asleep, sprawled under the table or half-on half-off the couch, pants down, drool and coleslaw falling from their mouths. And there was always a girl, picking her way among the fallen soldiers, looking for pieces of her clothing.
“I remember one of the twins taking me aside after one of them parties and saying, ‘You know, Lonnie, we just want to give the boys a memory they’ll have for the rest of their lives.’ And they did, those sons of bitches.” His eyeballs, red already, grew glassy with emotion. “And I miss it, all of it, every day. It was the time of my life, Dude. Yes it was.”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“Ah, you know,” he said, wiping a hand over his eyes and squashing his cigarette flat. “It was business. Business goes bad, that’s the truth of it.”
“Who were the twins?”
“Just two guys ran the business I worked in then.”
“Brothers?”
“Nah, just friends, They didn’t either of them look anything alike, but they always said they was Fric and Frac.”
“I’ll get the next round.”
“Not for me. I got to go. I got a meeting.”
“Motorcycle business?”
“Something like that. It was good talking to you, Dude. I’m glad we set this up.”
“So am I.”
“You find anything more about that dude you told us about? What was his name? Tommy something.”
“Tommy Greeley. Yeah, I did.”
“Good. That’s good. But be careful, Dude, it’s a scary world out there.”
He slapped me on the shoulder, slapped me so hard I almost fell off the stool. And then he left, just as Chelsea was walking back. They met away from the bar, talked, Lonnie turned his head to look my way as he said something, and then he was gone and Chelsea was walking toward me.
Chapter 32
SHE WAS STUNNING. I’ve said that already, haven’t I? But it was especially so in that place, with its sharp-suited crowd of striving professionals, each wearing the latest fashions, the latest shoes, keeping their eyes ever on the prize. Chelsea was a complete contrast. She wore old jeans, a gauzy shirt, her hair wasn’t permed or styled, it just fell straight, with a lovely sheen. She wasn’t the latest anything, yet still, she had the freshest look in the place. Everything I suppose comes back again, or maybe some people never go out of style. And I didn’t have to imagine the magnificent body beneath the clothes; I had the pictures, didn’t I?
I caught the bartender’s eye, ordered the blue curaçao martini for her, the usual sea breeze for me. Weren’t we a festive pair?
“Lonnie tell you all the sordid details?” she said as she slid back onto the stool.
“The good old days.”
“They weren’t that good.”
“Lonnie seemed to enjoy them,” I said. “He couldn’t stop laughing as he told me his stories.”
“You could hear him all through the restaurant. A doctor in a back room thought he’d have to perform the Heimlich.”
“You don’t laugh much, I noticed.”
“Not anymore.”
“It wasn’t as fun for you, the good old days?”
“No, it was more than fun. It was perfect, like we were blessed.”
“You were young.”
“We were young and pretty and rich. But sometimes endings matter, don’t they? The difference between a comedy and a tragedy is the last page.”
“So it didn’t end well?” I said and she looked at me with a glint of disappointment in her eyes, disappointment not just then at her past, but at me for acting like I didn’t know the answer. Because I knew the answer and she knew I knew the answer.
“We’ve been told we could talk to you,” she said.
I lifted my head at that. “You’ve been told?”
“Well, you know, you’ve been asking around about the past. But it’s not your past, is it?”
“I’m trespassing, is that it?”
“Sort of.”
“So you had to get permission.”
“Yes.”
“From who?”
“He wants to know what you’re really after.”
“What does he think I’m after?”
“He asked around about you. Sent out his scouts. The word came back that all you care about is money.”
“Is that the word?”
“Is it true?”
“I’m a professional. That’s what it means to be a professional.”
“So what he wants to know is, where’s the money for you here?”
“Where does he think it is?”
“He has some ideas.”
“Do they involve a missing suitcase?”
She picked up her martini, looked at its brilliant blue, took a sip. “I don’t know why I drink this. I like the color, I suppose.”
“And when you hold it like that, it makes you look like Judy Jetson.”
“Is that good?”
“Oh sure. Judy Jetson is way hot. Or will be.”
“I don’t think it’s only the money you’re looking for.”
“Maybe not. My client was murdered. I have to do something, even if it’s just to ask as many questions as I can and piss some people off.”
“How are you doing?”
I touched the cut on my forehead, thought about Manley’s squeeze play. “Oh, I’ve hit the jackpot there, yes I have. But I especially love the way everyone’s eyes flutter when I mention the suitcase.”