“Shut up. Who are you?”

  “I told you who I am.”

  “The fuck you did.”

  “Then who have I been talking to for the last half hour?”

  “I didn’t hear us talking.”

  “How’s the pain?”

  The pain, though it belonged to his right leg, radiated in astounding waves out to his toes and up to his jaw. “Real bad.”

  She put a bowl beside him on the couch. “I want you to suck on some ice. Just to keep your throat lubricated.”

  Some of the pain made it all the way to his right eyeball and also the tip of his nose.

  “Are you there?”

  “I’m somewhere.”

  “It hurts,” she said. “I know. It hurts.”

  “You got any dope?”

  “Not yet. It’s coming.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Hang in there.”

  “Fuck. Jesus Christ.”

  “Don’t choke on that ice.”

  “Fuck. Fuck.”

  Fighting the pain only made it worse. Gambol paid attention to the pain, to its shape, its location, and its travels, and tried to stay relaxed.

  •

  A doorbell rang. Voices spoke in another world, where people had thoughts worth voicing. Laughter. Silence.

  She came to him with a hypo and said, “The cavalry has arrived.” By this time the pain had conquered every physical part of him and had begun to involve his soul. Then the sensations flattened out and got hard to locate, and as long as he didn’t try moving, things were pretty jolly.

  •

  “You ready for some water?”

  “Yeah.”

  She brought him a glass with a straw. He could hardly swallow, but it was sweet. “Drink as much as you can. Watch your IV, hon. Don’t move that hand around. Other hand.”

  He hadn’t noticed the drip in his left wrist. “I feel paralyzed.”

  “I couldn’t give you any blood.”

  “Yeah. A person can’t live on horse blood, right?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a vet, right?”

  She laughed and said something he couldn’t hear.

  •

  She woke him and fed him some pills and held the glass while he sucked at the straw until the glass was empty. The light around them seemed like morning light. But it might have been evening. “You got any coffee?”

  “Coffee won’t help right now.”

  “Just give me a cup of coffee.”

  The smell was wonderful, but it tasted wrong coming through a straw. “Just let me drink it.”

  “Sure.”

  His hand felt like a senseless mitten. She helped him hook his finger through the cup’s handle.

  “Give me the fucking thing.”

  “I just gave it to you. Relax.”

  She turned on the television. He sipped his coffee and stared at the colorful screen.

  After a while he said, “I need a car. And I need a gun.”

  PART TWO

  JIMMY LUNTZ woke at the Log Inn Motel and spent twenty minutes sitting upright in his bed, smoking a Camel and staring at the woman asleep beside him. Just watching her breathe. Very gently he lifted the covers. She was dark-skinned all the way down. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, “you’re an Indian.”

  The woman didn’t stir.

  He carried his shaving kit into the bathroom. Before he emptied his bladder he fished the woman’s cell phone out of the toilet and set it on top of the tank. Anita. She hadn’t told him her last name.

  He took his time shaving, grooming, getting good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d awakened beside an unfamiliar woman. As for one this good-looking—never.

  He came out naked and found her wide awake, sitting on the bed’s edge. Also naked. Holding a revolver in one hand.

  With the other hand she held up a credit card. “What’s this?”

  “Wow,” he said, “you tell me.”

  “What is it?”

  “It looks like American Express,” he said. “Wow.”

  “You said your name was Franklin.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “It’s Ernest Gambol.”

  “It’s not that either.”

  She spun the credit card from her fingers, and it sailed across the room. “Then what is your name, if you don’t mind my asking, since we recently fucked, and all.”

  “Jimmy Luntz.”

  “Who’s Ernest Gambol?”

  “Gambol is a great big asshole.”

  “As big an asshole as you?”

  “Bigger. Just my opinion.”

  “In my opinion, the asshole is the one who steals the wallet.”

  “The thing about a gun,” Luntz said, “is it can just go off.”

  “I’m not pointing it at you.”

  “I’m talking about this other gun.”

  “What other gun?”

  “The one I shot Gambol with.”

  She closed her knees together and took hold of the blanket and pulled it over her crotch. “Now it’s pointing at you.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. That’s all I can look at, is that gun.”

  “That’s what I thought yesterday. I saw you at the Feather River, remember? I thought, Hey, that guy has a gun. Then—sploosh. No more gun.”

  “I saw you too.”

  She aimed her weapon at him a long time without speaking. She stood up. Luntz stepped backward until his shoulders collided with the wall.

  With her purse in one hand and her gun in the other she headed for the can and shut the door behind her. The lock clicked. Luntz heard the shower start. He let the air out of his lungs.

  He lit up and burned through half a Camel, inhaling smoke with every breath.

  With the cigarette clamped in his lips he went on his hands and knees and pulled Gambol’s white duffel bag from under the bed and opened it. He found his last clean set of socks and underwear. He didn’t touch Gambol’s shotgun.

  He got on his socks and shorts and opened his door and tossed the last burning inch of his cigarette into the parking lot and observed a county squad car pulling up to the motel’s office. A green Caprice, mid-nineties.

  Luntz sat on the bed and wrapped himself in his own arms and closed his eyes and sat there shaking his head.

  As soon as the knocking came he started for the door, but three feet short of it he stopped. He cleared his throat and said, “Who is it?”

  “Sheriff’s deputy.”

  “Two seconds.”

  Luntz put his hand on the doorknob and bowed his head and waited for a thought that didn’t arrive. Four more knocks. He opened the door and said, “Good morning!” to a young guy in uniform.

  “Good morning. Mr. Franklin, right? How are you?”

  “Me?” Luntz said. “Better and better.”

  “That’s good. Do you know anything about a Cadillac parked over there at the airstrip?”

  “No. A Cadillac?”

  “There’s a Cadillac Brougham parked over there, and Mr. Nabilah tells me you checked in without a car.”

  “Me? Yeah. No. I mean, that’s right. Who’s Mr. Nabilah?”

  “The manager. He thought it might be your Caddy over there.”

  “Right. Oh. Yeah.”

  “And it looks like blood on the left rear tire, lotta blood. Did you maybe hit a dog?”

  “No. It’s not my car. I don’t have a car.”

  “There’s a hole in the left rear quarter panel. Looks like a bullet hole.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” Luntz said.

  “Can I see some ID?”

  “ID? Sure. Gee—where’s my pants?”

  At that moment Anita came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her black hair slicked back, and flashed a smile that would have blown the doors off Jesus Christ. “Deputy Rabbit!”

  “That’s me,” the deputy said, and then—“Oh. Mrs. . . .”

  “Right, it’s still Mrs. Desilvera,” she said. “For six more months.”

  “Oh, right,” the deputy said, “that’s your Camaro out there. I mean, it looked like it. I mean—yeah. That’s your car.” He turned to look at her car, which was parked sideways across three spaces behind him.

  “All mine. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem. I was just checking about this Caddy out there at the airstrip. If nobody claims it, I’ll have to get it towed.”

  “Tow it to the moon,” Luntz said. “It ain’t my car.”

  “He’s with me,” Anita said.

  “Okay, that clears things up a little. Thanks.”

  “Glad to help,” Anita said. “Can I get dressed?”

  “That’s fine,” the deputy said.

  “Are you going to watch?”

  “Oh!” he said, and laughed. “All righty. Have a nice day, folks.”

  Luntz said, “You too,” and shut the door in his face and sat down on the bed.

  Anita dropped her towel and stepped into her skirt. Luntz stared at her breasts.

  She got her bra fastened. “That was Deputy Rabbit.”

  “Maybe his first name is Jack, huh?”

  “Deputy Rabbit conducted my firearms training class.”

  “You actually have a carry permit or something?”

  “I did. But it’s revoked.” She found her blouse on the floor. “Deputy Rabbit was talking about your Caddy.”

  “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.”

  “For a person who doesn’t drink coffee,” Anita said, “you sure run your mouth.”

  “It keeps me from thinking about things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who you are and what the fuck you want.”

  •

  Cigarette smoke in his nostrils woke Gambol, and he coughed, and the woman said, “Sorry,” waving it away.