This pattern continued for three days. Evenings alone in the room, going mad with his thoughts, before crashing out on the bed. Fresh food and drink left by his door. And that sense, in the night, of someone standing over his bed.
On the morning of the third day, he awoke with a scratch in his throat and a different kind of ache that made his skin shiver and feel sore to the touch. His head hurt too, and he kept sneezing.
He tried knocking on the door but he felt too rough. He wanted to go back to bed.
Funny, he’d thought as he lay down, if my life wasn’t so shit maybe I’d be busting my balls trying to get out of here. But he actually liked it here – especially the hour when Cindy came and sat with him. It was a kind of instant Stockholm syndrome.
And then, that evening, she came and told him it was time to leave.
‘What?’ he asked, sniffing.
‘You’ll be better now,’ she said.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Then she held out the money. Five hundred bucks. He looked at it like a dog eyeing a steak.
She put the blindfold back on him and led him down the stairs. He had a feeling there were other people around, could hear them breathing. But by the time he was seated in his car, and Cindy removed the blindfold, the door was shut and there was nobody in sight.
‘Go, John Tucker,’ she said, pressing the money into his hand.
‘Come with me?’ he asked, though he knew she would say no.
‘Om Shanti, John.’
The highway was dark, the moon full overhead. One day, he guessed, he’d look back at this strange episode and laugh. For now, though, he only felt confused and sick. He wanted to get back to LA, find a beer and a bed. Maybe rent himself one of those crack whores to unleash his frustration on. He turned up the radio when an old Nirvana tune came on. Then he saw the sign.
EEL CREEK RESERVATION AND CASINO. 1 mile.
Like an alcoholic watching whisky splash into a tumbler, the compulsion hit him in the gut.
Casino.
He’d been to casinos on Indian reservations before. They were a poor substitute for the Class A drug that was Vegas, but they were still places where men like him could change their lives with one stroke of luck, one clever play.
He became acutely aware of the five hundred dollars burning in his pocket.
No, he told himself. Keep driving. Get to LA, get yourself holed up, you’re going to need that money. It’s all you have.
But the itch had started. By the time he was only half a mile from the reservation, his whole body was crawling with it. Surely, whispered the devil on his shoulder, there’s no harm in dropping in, seeing what it’s like? He could set himself a limit of fifty dollars, leave the rest locked in the glovebox.
Here was the turning. The moment to decide. He sneezed yet again. Didn’t he deserve some pleasure, some fun, especially when he was feeling so lousy, after spending half a week imprisoned in a tiny room? Just a couple of spins of the roulette wheel and then he’d be out of there. There was no harm in it.
He signalled right.
He entered the casino with the whole five hundred dollars in his pocket. He wasn’t going to spend it all though, no way. Besides, he felt lucky tonight. He was tingling.
Bored staff looked him over coolly as he passed into the dark interior of the casino, the electronic clatter of the slot machines making the tingles turn to tremors.
He paused by a slot machine, where an obese woman sat in a motorised wheelchair, joylessly feeding coin after coin into its hungry mouth. Across the other side of the dim room lay the object of his desire. He strode over, trying to ignore the scratching in his throat, the heat around his temples. Since getting out of the car and into the air-conditioned building, his flu had felt considerably worse. But, fuck it. Nothing was going to stop him enjoying tonight.
The dealer at the roulette table was a tall, good-looking Indian guy of about thirty. He looked impassively at John as he took a seat. A waitress came over and took his order, JD on the rocks.
‘Evening, sir,’ said the dealer.
‘Evening.’
John exchanged one hundred dollars for chips. As he handed over the cash, he sneezed, spraying the dealer with spittle.
‘Shit, I’m sorry, dude.’
The dealer blinked but didn’t show any emotion. John sipped his drink, the burn of the whisky easing the soreness in his throat, thought about his strategy, and ended up doing what he always did.
Bet on black.
Two hours later, he emerged from the casino in a daze. He felt hot and dizzy. His nose was blocked and his throat burned like he’d swallowed a razor. His skin was damp and clammy and his head was pounding.
But he didn’t give a damn.
He unlocked his car and flopped on to the front seat, pulling the wad of dollars from his jeans pocket. He couldn’t believe it. He’d walked into the casino a broke bum and come out, if not a tycoon, then considerably richer.
Five thousand bucks. He’d got back ten times his stake. He’d never been so lucky in his whole miserable life. The ball kept falling on black, black, black again.
It was freaking unbelievable.
He let out a hoarse whoop that turned into a cough. With this money he could set himself up in LA, get a place, a job, actually do something with his life. Screw you, Cindy. John Tucker didn’t need you.
Tomorrow, his new life would begin. But right now, he needed somewhere to crash. The Capitol Hotel was a ninety-minute drive away. A good night’s rest there and he’d be raring to go in the morning.
He put the five thousand in the glovebox and locked it, pausing a moment to stroke the cash and murmur a final, ‘Unbelievable.’
Tucker never made it back to the Capitol Hotel. Nine days later he was found in a boarded-up deserted diner on the outskirts of LA. Too sick to face the gridlock of the city or to find a motel, he’d managed to break in through a window at the rear of the building, presumably to use the facilities – which had been well and truly utilised – Tucker had covered every inch of it with his bodily functions: toilet, basin, tiled floor, mirrored walls, before the final seizure that ended his life. A highway patrolman called Michael Vane who had spotted Tucker’s abandoned car found him dead on the floor, fifty-dollar bills glued with bubbles of black matter to the tiles around him, and the green skin of his cheeks stretched in a taut rictus of agony over his face. Flies buzzed around the cadaver; one landed on Vane’s face, on his lip, and he batted it away with disgust.
As he pulled out his radio to call for assistance, Vane paused. There were more fifty-dollar bills scattered beside the body, some of them splattered with drops of mucus but most of them clean. He quickly counted the notes: just under five thousand dollars.
Vane, who had debts close to that amount and a pregnant wife, thought about it for a minute. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody need ever know he’d found this poor bastard. Heart pounding, he stuffed the dollar bills into his pockets, including some of the stained ones. He slipped out of the building, checking to make sure there was nobody around to see him sneak back to his patrol car, trying his hardest to shake off the sight of the corpse and ignore the rank smell that wafted from the diner. Before heading back to the precinct he would first go home, hide the money in his closet.
And so he left, headed onto the freeway, nauseous and blissfully ignorant of the death sentence he had imposed upon not only himself and his pregnant wife but many of his Highway Patrol colleagues; a death sentence that they in turn would spread into the air, like the noise from the siren on their patrol cars, into the great, shining city