The Perdition Score (Sandman Slim 8)
“Yeah. Lots more interesting ones than you.”
I look at him.
“There’s lots here that love guys like you. Just be sure to check your wallet before you go home.”
He takes the cash for the drink out of his front pocket. He slaps himself on his back pocket, hoping to hit imported hand-tooled leather. By the look on his face I’d say he came up empty.
“Shit,” he says, and checks another pocket, coming up with his iPhone. He looks relieved. At least he
can still text his buddies about his night with the wild people on the bad side of town.
He thumbs the phone on and says, “Please. So the night isn’t a total loss. Just one picture.”
“Get out,” says Carlos. “You don’t listen, so you can’t stay. Move. Now.”
I look at Richie Rich.
“Better do what he says or he’ll hit you with a coconut carved like a monkey.”
The guy gives up. Puts his phone in his breast pocket, sadder but wiser.
“I get it. Sorry to have bothered you. I’m going. Besides,” he says, “you look like hell.”
“Now,” says Carlos.
Richie starts for the door.
Carlos shakes his head.
“Some people couldn’t buy a clue with all the gold in Fort Knox.”
I hold up my glass, toast Carlos, and down my drink.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m feeling much better now. How’s my eye?”
He looks and nods.
“It’s getting there.”
Then he looks up past me.
Someone throws his arm around me and clicks a picture. It’s Trump and his iPhone. I turn just in time to see him scrambling out the front door with my bruised face in his hand.
Perfect.
So, to sum up the evening. A Sherman tank with the brain of an angry hamster gave me a black eye, and now some college boy snuck up behind me and got my picture without me even knowing he was there. I think this is what’s known as a wake-up call. Something has to change. Starting with me.
“You have any food left back there tonight?”
“Some tamales with some beans and rice. You want some to go?”
“Could I get three?”
“No problem.”
He disappears into the back and reappears with a packed paper bag.
I sniff the food and smile.