billboard, it read THATCH! PICK ME!
“Is the color okay?” he asked. “They come in every shade in the rainbow.”
I knew this. Thatch had a whole line of T-shirts, and casino patrons wore them all the time. Thatch, call my name! I (heart) Thatch. One had a quip he’d made famous around here, his stock greeting when he stepped up to the mike: Who wants Thatch to call their name? The crowd went nuts when that particular question boomed out of the sound system. You could buy them in the gift shops, and I’d been in the casino before when he’d come through accompanied by half-naked girls shooting them out of guns. They were part of the Thatch phenomenon, and now I had one of my very own.
“It’s lovely,” I lied.
“Wait,” he said. I was rolling up the shirt. “Look closer.”
He’d signed it. Saved by the Thatch! –Matthew Thatcher. Big fat Sharpie letters. EBay, here I come.
“Open the envelope.” He nudged it.
It was an invitation to a slot tournament, die-cut, shaped like an ice-cream cone, two scoops above a gold cone, the individual scoops loose slips of pastel silk. Everything was sprinkled with dots of cubic zirconia. I lifted the strawberry silk scoop to see that the buy-in was $25,000 per player. I lifted the chocolate scoop to see the theme—Double Dip.
“This,” he leaned in, he needed a Tic-Tac, “is the hottest ticket in town.”
“I’m honored.” I wasn’t.
“It’s a spectator pass, mind you,” he said, “but you won’t want to miss a minute of it.”
* * *
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning after a great night’s sleep in my slot-tournament hotel room, I speed dialed Fantasy at eight on the nose. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting on you,” Fantasy said. “How was dinner? Is he bigger than life?”
“His head is.” I was zipping through the Bellissimo lobby, overdressed in last-night’s clothes for today’s early hour. I passed the T-shirt to the first person I made eye contact with. “Listen, I’m going by my place real quick for some people clothes. Pick me up there in thirty minutes and we’ll head that way.”
“I was hoping you were calling to tell me we didn’t have to do Alabama today.”
“We’ll hurry.” A porter held the door for me. “We’ll find Peyton, check her for bullet wounds, snap a few pictures for No Hair, then be back by dinner.”
“The chances of it going down that way are slim to none, Davis.”
On the drive home I listened to the messages that had parked themselves on my phone for two days. Bradley had left a quick one: The movers called, they were going to charge us $2,500 for the $1,200 move because we hadn’t let them know in time. (In time for what?) Surely something could be done. (One would think.) He was up to his eyeballs; could I handle it? (Handle what ?) Bradley again. Where was I? Could I possibly call the movers and work something out? (Work what out? Reschedule the move?) Then my sister, Meredith. Same question. Where was I? She hoped I remembered. (Where I was? She hoped I remembered where I was, or she hoped I remembered something else? Was it our mother’s birthday again already?)
I stepped into the front door of our condo, my Armani shoes starting an echo that bounced off the walls. There were three things, and only three things, in the whole condo: dust hippopotamuses, my grandmother, and my ex-ex-husband, Eddie Crawford.
SEVEN
“You’re kidding, right?”
Fantasy drove a mom car, a white Volvo XC90. I stood beside it, in front of the building Bradley Cole and I—news to me—had already moved out of. I looked in the backseat. I waggled my fingers, then said to her, “No, you’re kidding, right?”
Fantasy twisted in her seat. “Don’t move.” Her long legs came out of the car, the rest of her followed, and she crooked a finger at me. I turned, held up a wait-a-sec finger to my crew, and followed her.
“Are your grandmother and your ex-husband going with
“Is the color okay?” he asked. “They come in every shade in the rainbow.”
I knew this. Thatch had a whole line of T-shirts, and casino patrons wore them all the time. Thatch, call my name! I (heart) Thatch. One had a quip he’d made famous around here, his stock greeting when he stepped up to the mike: Who wants Thatch to call their name? The crowd went nuts when that particular question boomed out of the sound system. You could buy them in the gift shops, and I’d been in the casino before when he’d come through accompanied by half-naked girls shooting them out of guns. They were part of the Thatch phenomenon, and now I had one of my very own.
“It’s lovely,” I lied.
“Wait,” he said. I was rolling up the shirt. “Look closer.”
He’d signed it. Saved by the Thatch! –Matthew Thatcher. Big fat Sharpie letters. EBay, here I come.
“Open the envelope.” He nudged it.
It was an invitation to a slot tournament, die-cut, shaped like an ice-cream cone, two scoops above a gold cone, the individual scoops loose slips of pastel silk. Everything was sprinkled with dots of cubic zirconia. I lifted the strawberry silk scoop to see that the buy-in was $25,000 per player. I lifted the chocolate scoop to see the theme—Double Dip.
“This,” he leaned in, he needed a Tic-Tac, “is the hottest ticket in town.”
“I’m honored.” I wasn’t.
“It’s a spectator pass, mind you,” he said, “but you won’t want to miss a minute of it.”
* * *
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning after a great night’s sleep in my slot-tournament hotel room, I speed dialed Fantasy at eight on the nose. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting on you,” Fantasy said. “How was dinner? Is he bigger than life?”
“His head is.” I was zipping through the Bellissimo lobby, overdressed in last-night’s clothes for today’s early hour. I passed the T-shirt to the first person I made eye contact with. “Listen, I’m going by my place real quick for some people clothes. Pick me up there in thirty minutes and we’ll head that way.”
“I was hoping you were calling to tell me we didn’t have to do Alabama today.”
“We’ll hurry.” A porter held the door for me. “We’ll find Peyton, check her for bullet wounds, snap a few pictures for No Hair, then be back by dinner.”
“The chances of it going down that way are slim to none, Davis.”
On the drive home I listened to the messages that had parked themselves on my phone for two days. Bradley had left a quick one: The movers called, they were going to charge us $2,500 for the $1,200 move because we hadn’t let them know in time. (In time for what?) Surely something could be done. (One would think.) He was up to his eyeballs; could I handle it? (Handle what ?) Bradley again. Where was I? Could I possibly call the movers and work something out? (Work what out? Reschedule the move?) Then my sister, Meredith. Same question. Where was I? She hoped I remembered. (Where I was? She hoped I remembered where I was, or she hoped I remembered something else? Was it our mother’s birthday again already?)
I stepped into the front door of our condo, my Armani shoes starting an echo that bounced off the walls. There were three things, and only three things, in the whole condo: dust hippopotamuses, my grandmother, and my ex-ex-husband, Eddie Crawford.
SEVEN
“You’re kidding, right?”
Fantasy drove a mom car, a white Volvo XC90. I stood beside it, in front of the building Bradley Cole and I—news to me—had already moved out of. I looked in the backseat. I waggled my fingers, then said to her, “No, you’re kidding, right?”
Fantasy twisted in her seat. “Don’t move.” Her long legs came out of the car, the rest of her followed, and she crooked a finger at me. I turned, held up a wait-a-sec finger to my crew, and followed her.
“Are your grandmother and your ex-husband going with
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