bone. Some would call
it a blessing, but I know different.
Early on in my adulthood, I became a big believer
in karma. Our lives are linked, a succession of lives, really. Call it
reincarnation if you want, but I'm pretty sure that each of our lives is one
long test, to see if we can handle what we are given and to make sure we act
accordingly when something is right or wrong. If we consistently do the right
thing in one life, we get an easier go of it next time around, like a reward.
But if we fuck up, we pay.
If the dough really did belong to this guy Blake,
I knew I would have to return it to him, as much as it killed me to do it.
But first I had to be absolutely certain it was
his. And in order to know that, I needed to know more about the man who died in
my arms.
That meant waiting for the five o'clock news.
II
T he perky blonde newsreader with the high-wattage smile finished
her stirring account of the bright, shiny future of Neonopolis, a downtown
mall, then turned things over to her male colleague.
He wore a dour look as he opened: "A
hit-and-run accident claimed the life of a Texas man this afternoon on Encanto
Road, just north of downtown Las Vegas. Ricardo Lane, 47, of Port Isabel,
Texas, was found dead on Encanto near East Wilson Avenue at around 1:30 PM.
According to police, no witnesses have come forward, but someone did place a
911 call apparently right after the incident took place. By the time
authorities arrived, the caller was gone, and Lane was pronounced dead at the
scene. Police have no suspects, but are continuing to investigate the
matter."
He then looked to his left with a smile and said,
"So, Chuck, how does it look for tonight's game? Are the Rebels gonna make
up for that loss to Wyoming?"
I went to my desk. Pulling my road map atlas from
the bottom drawer, I looked up Port Isabel on the Texas page. I suppose I
could've used Google Maps, but grabbing the atlas was just as quick in this
case. It was a small town, population about five thousand, located on the Gulf
Coast, down near Brownsville and the Mexican border. It appeared to be the
gateway to South Padre Island.
I poured one more Dalmore before hiding the money
where no one would find it.
≈≈≈
Jimmy Santiago was the guy
I needed to speak with. He was a pit boss at Binion's, where I play poker
nearly every night. A downtown hotel/casino whose better days existed only in
the fading memories of a few old-timers. Recently renovated at a cost of
millions, it still managed to look rundown. The poker room attracted mostly bad
players. That's why I played there.
Jimmy
hailed from somewhere in South Texas, I wanted to say Brownsville, but I wasn't
sure. Wherever it was, it figured to be close to Port Isabel.
I checked my watch. Quarter past six. He should be
getting settled in at work right about now. I reached for my cell phone.
They switched me to his pit and he picked up on
the first ring.
"Jimmy. Jack Barnett. Can you spare a
minute?"
"Sure, Jack. What's up?"
"Listen, what can you tell me about the town
of Port Isabel, Texas?"
He chuckled. "Who gives a rat's ass about
that place? Don't tell me you're thinking of moving." His voice carried
the rasp of someone who smoked for too long, but his accent was pleasant to
listen to.
"Not moving. I just want to know about it.
What kind of place is it? Who lives there? That kind of thing."
"It's on the low end of the scale," he
said. "Flat, colorless. Not a lot of people live there. Not a lot of money
circulating. Mostly Mexicans. You know, typical border town."
"Have you ever heard of a guy from there
named Ricardo Lane?"
"Never heard of him."
"What about South Padre Island? What kind of
place is that?"
"It's kind of a vacation spot, but again,
it's on the low end. Travelodge, Best Western, nothing fancy. They get a lot of
spring breakers who can't afford to go to Cancún."
"To your knowledge, is there any Las Vegas
connection
it a blessing, but I know different.
Early on in my adulthood, I became a big believer
in karma. Our lives are linked, a succession of lives, really. Call it
reincarnation if you want, but I'm pretty sure that each of our lives is one
long test, to see if we can handle what we are given and to make sure we act
accordingly when something is right or wrong. If we consistently do the right
thing in one life, we get an easier go of it next time around, like a reward.
But if we fuck up, we pay.
If the dough really did belong to this guy Blake,
I knew I would have to return it to him, as much as it killed me to do it.
But first I had to be absolutely certain it was
his. And in order to know that, I needed to know more about the man who died in
my arms.
That meant waiting for the five o'clock news.
II
T he perky blonde newsreader with the high-wattage smile finished
her stirring account of the bright, shiny future of Neonopolis, a downtown
mall, then turned things over to her male colleague.
He wore a dour look as he opened: "A
hit-and-run accident claimed the life of a Texas man this afternoon on Encanto
Road, just north of downtown Las Vegas. Ricardo Lane, 47, of Port Isabel,
Texas, was found dead on Encanto near East Wilson Avenue at around 1:30 PM.
According to police, no witnesses have come forward, but someone did place a
911 call apparently right after the incident took place. By the time
authorities arrived, the caller was gone, and Lane was pronounced dead at the
scene. Police have no suspects, but are continuing to investigate the
matter."
He then looked to his left with a smile and said,
"So, Chuck, how does it look for tonight's game? Are the Rebels gonna make
up for that loss to Wyoming?"
I went to my desk. Pulling my road map atlas from
the bottom drawer, I looked up Port Isabel on the Texas page. I suppose I
could've used Google Maps, but grabbing the atlas was just as quick in this
case. It was a small town, population about five thousand, located on the Gulf
Coast, down near Brownsville and the Mexican border. It appeared to be the
gateway to South Padre Island.
I poured one more Dalmore before hiding the money
where no one would find it.
≈≈≈
Jimmy Santiago was the guy
I needed to speak with. He was a pit boss at Binion's, where I play poker
nearly every night. A downtown hotel/casino whose better days existed only in
the fading memories of a few old-timers. Recently renovated at a cost of
millions, it still managed to look rundown. The poker room attracted mostly bad
players. That's why I played there.
Jimmy
hailed from somewhere in South Texas, I wanted to say Brownsville, but I wasn't
sure. Wherever it was, it figured to be close to Port Isabel.
I checked my watch. Quarter past six. He should be
getting settled in at work right about now. I reached for my cell phone.
They switched me to his pit and he picked up on
the first ring.
"Jimmy. Jack Barnett. Can you spare a
minute?"
"Sure, Jack. What's up?"
"Listen, what can you tell me about the town
of Port Isabel, Texas?"
He chuckled. "Who gives a rat's ass about
that place? Don't tell me you're thinking of moving." His voice carried
the rasp of someone who smoked for too long, but his accent was pleasant to
listen to.
"Not moving. I just want to know about it.
What kind of place is it? Who lives there? That kind of thing."
"It's on the low end of the scale," he
said. "Flat, colorless. Not a lot of people live there. Not a lot of money
circulating. Mostly Mexicans. You know, typical border town."
"Have you ever heard of a guy from there
named Ricardo Lane?"
"Never heard of him."
"What about South Padre Island? What kind of
place is that?"
"It's kind of a vacation spot, but again,
it's on the low end. Travelodge, Best Western, nothing fancy. They get a lot of
spring breakers who can't afford to go to Cancún."
"To your knowledge, is there any Las Vegas
connection
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