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Nation of Airports 01.08
At the cheapest casino in Stateline's small strip -- ten-dollar minimums, six-card shoes -- Walt staked the women fifty bucks each. Michael did little for Tammy's tipsy luck. Laurie doubled her stake while Walt got happily drunk on bourbon. She shared her winnings with Tammy to keep her playing until they lost it all.
They had planned to hit one of the casino nightclubs, but it was only one o'clock and Nevada clubs started late. Walt suggested a couple of rounds in a nearby sports bar. The women were negative. "That's not a place you go," Laurie said. "It's a place you end up."
"Just for a couple of rounds," Walt cajoled. "They have a free-throw machine."
"I'm in," said Michael, and the women relented.
The bar was an old windowless cinder-block box, divided by a frail wood wall into a game room and a restaurant. The restaurant was dark and smoky, ringed with televisions showing captioned sports channels, video poker in every booth. The game room was open and brightly lit, with pool tables, foosball and the promised free-throw machine, basketballs half regulation-size. A large crowd, rough men in sports jerseys or Western shirts, not enough that they had to wait long at the bar.
While Michael and Walt took turns at the net the women played pool against an odd pair of guys, one short and round and garrulous in chef's whites, the other tall and lean in denim with a mane of silver gray hair. Michael watched them between turns. The short man stood close to Laurie, helping her with her shot, but Laurie was laughing. The tall man caught Michael looking, and nodded in polite acknowledgment.
After a couple of close games Walt and Michael shot from farther than the marked throw line, despite a handwritten sign forbidding it. From three steps back Walt's ball had rolled around the rim and out; Michael's swished, nothing but net. "That's what I'm talking about," Michael bragged, but Walt didn't answer. Walt was watching Tammy, who was near the bar, talking reluctantly with a young man in a beat-up black leather jacket. "What's up?"
"That's Nate. Tammy's ex-boyfriend." Walt bristled. "Fucking loser."
The man was shorter than Michael and heavy-set, with dark longish hair and old sagged jeans. He swayed drunkenly and he looked mean. Michael smelled a gassy rotten odor, as if from a compost pile. "Should we be going?" Michael asked.
"Yeah."
Laurie already stood with Tammy, trying to get her away. As they approached Michael noticed the smell again, hotter now and acrid too like sewage. "We should go," Walt said. "We don't want to keep everyone waiting." He looked steadily at Nate but said nothing.
"So where y'all going?" Nate's voice was pitched high, an ugly parody of nonchalance. "Maybe I'll go too." Michael blinked, his eyes close to tears. Didn't anyone else notice the stench? Michael felt woozy, a shimmer in his vision. "We could all go together." Nate looked weirdly out of proportion, his head massive and ovoid.
"We're going with other people," Walt said. "We can't bring anyone else." Walt put himself between Nate and Tammy, took Tammy's shoulder and led them into the restaurant.
Nate followed. "Hey, don't go like that," he said, close to shouting. The bartender watched them but made no move. "Tammy, I just want to talk to you." The smell in the restaurant was worse, rotten and sulfurous and fecal. Michael wanted to cough but couldn't. Where was it coming from?
Tammy whirled around. "I don't want to talk to you, Nate. We're not going out anymore. Leave me alone."
"Just wait!" Nate grabbed Tammy's arm. "Jesus, bitch, I just want to talk!" Michael shoved Nate away. He stumbled into a table.
"So now I'm not good enough for you? Gotta go fuck rich boys, you whore?" Nate shouted at Michael but Michael could barely hear him. The smell pounded in his head. His eyes stung and he felt unable to breathe. Taste in his mouth like a bug had flown in.
Michael felt his head jerked sideways, pain and ringing in his teeth. Nate's skin was red and hot and Michael felt the stench coming off him. Nate was the smell. Nate was the smell. He swung again at Michael.
Michael blocked the punch and caught the arm, twisting it behind Nate's back. Michael felt disengaged, not planning his motions, as if he wore a wetsuit that was fighting for him. Fighting. He felt a surge of heat inside him, his arms strong and rigid. The smell was fainter now, as if his own heat consumed it. Nate tried to kick out but Michael used the imbalance to throw him on the table. Nate kicked again. Stop him, Michael thought, stop him moving. Behind his thoughts the heat hissed and chanted, almost words: Exult Exalt Excise Excite Exit Extreme Exist Exult Exalt Excise
Quiet. Nate on the floor, clutching his head in both hands, quivering, sobbing. On the tabletop video screen crude graphics of playing cards shone blue and white and yellow through a finger-paint face of blood. Now Michael heard noises, soft robot chimes from the poker machines, Nate sputtering, someone shouting for the cops.
Michael stood by his car, keys in his hand, and for a strange pleasant moment forgot what had just happened. He heard clacking behind him: Laurie and Tammy, running out the door. "Hey!" Laurie shouted.
"I was in a fight, wasn't I?" Michael asked them.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Laurie said. "We gotta go. Where's Walt?"
Walt walked out a moment later, calm and unhurried, looking around casually. He eased past Tammy and took the keys from Michael's hand. "Let's go." He clicked the remote to unlock the doors.
The car's beep made Michael shiver. "I think I need to throw up," Michael said.
"Do it in California. It's two miles away," Walt said. "The cops are coming, Michael. Get the fuck in the car."
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