The Final Country by James Crumley

Author:James Crumley [Crumley, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-01-19T06:00:00+00:00

NINE

Perhaps I had expected Lake Charles to be full of Southern mansions and live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. But I didn’t expect two casinos as garish as jukeboxes on either side of a brackish lake, one perched on the edge of downtown like a fat waterbird on the edge of a swamp, and the other lodged among industrial facilities. Sand and gravel mountains were heaped everywhere, and mazes of petrochemical pipes seemed designed to pump paychecks right into the riverboat moored to the flat shoreline.

“Doesn’t look like a place where a working girl might hang out,” Betty said as we crossed the Interstate bridge. “Of course, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Any place they turn cards, honey, somebody turns tricks,” I said.

After giving the Players Casino a once-over, we recrossed the bridge and lodged at the Isle of Capri, checked into the nearby hotel, dressed in casual but expensive western clothes, then went to work.

* * *

After four days and nights of checking out every bar in the area without even a smidgen of success, we gave up on the last evening, and went back to the room. Betty slumped in front of the television, more tired than drunk. I stood at the mirror with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a pair of nail clippers, removing the stitches and trying not to look at the fading bruises.

“Jesus Christ, Milo,” Betty complained, “I’ve been in more bars the last four days than I’ve been in the rest of my life put together. Let’s give this up, please, and go home.”

“Patience is a virtue in this business,” I said as I clipped the last stitch out of my eyebrow, then started on the ones under my chin.

“Well, what now, cowboy?” The plaint in her voice hovered on the edge of tired anger now.

“Let’s go over to the casino and lose some money,” I suggested, hoping to jolly her out of the mood.

“So much for patience,” she said.

“You can hang out here, hon,” I said. “I just need some mindless abstraction to shut my brain down.”

“Believe me, honey,” she said finally, “I’m about as mindless and abstract as they come.”

I tried to talk her out of it, but, as she had every step of the way on this trip, she insisted on following.

* * *

Out of habit we walked directly to the bar down the narrow aisle between the clattering slot machines and crowded tables beneath a low ceiling. Also out of habit, we went into our routine. Betty ordered an Absolut on the rocks with a twist from the young, round-faced bartender, then she suggested that I join her.

I said, as required by our script, “The only people who drink white liquor are sissies or drunks, and the only people who drink bourbon are white trash, con men, chicken fuckers, or phony Confederate gentlemen… I’ll have a beer.”

“Nice talk,” the bartender said as he delivered the drinks. “That where you got that mouse?” I started to laugh, but the bartender shouted to another young man shoveling quarters into a nearby slot.

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