XIII

RUMBLE

“Not all danger comes with a warning.”
— Native American Proverb

JANUARY 19 2024

I WAS SITTING IN the Silver Dollar saloon with a cigarette smoldering between my fingers. The Golden Knights were playing on the beat-up CRT television hanging over the bar. I tried following the puck but the small screen and low resolution made it impossible.

“Hey, Bob,” I said, getting the bartender’s attention. He was a big fella, well over six feet with a barrel chest and large arms. His long black hair was braided down his back and he wore a bolo tie.

He moved down the bar with a slight limp and the metal brace on his right knee squeaked a little every time he put that boot forward. He had a hard way about him and he was leery of outsiders coming onto the reservation.

“Yeah,” he said with a gruff hoot.

I pointed to the television. “You need to upgrade.”

“Costs money,” he said while refilling my glass with vodka. It was a brand I’d never heard of before. Popov, I think it was. It tasted like regrettable choices and corn, but when in Rome, do as Romans do.

I asked after a drink, “Didn’t you read your horoscope today? ‘Unexpected opportunities for quick money through a partnership or client could be quite lucrative.’”

He snorted. “You don’t know my birthday.”

“Don’t need to,” I said after a drag of my cigarette. “I have the gift.”

“If you say so.”

Other than Bob and myself, there were two locals in a booth against the back wall. Both are big strapping men, like Bob here. They also had the same down-on-the-luck cowboy fashion sense.

I looked up and said, “Hey, Bob.”

“Yeah?”

I leaned onto the bar after flicking ash into the glass tray next to my drink. “You know how in the movies—”

He interrupted, “I don’t watch movies.”

“Okay,” I said, waving my hand. “But you know that there are these things called films with moving pictures and sound and you go to see them in these big buildings called theaters?”

“Yeah.”

He was a man of few words.

“So in the movies, sometimes the lead female character is this stone cold bitch who only cares about her career. In order to humanize her to the audience, they will have her befriend the owner of the bodega on her block, or the building superintendent, or the barkeeper of the nearest dive bar.”

I pointed at him. “You could be that for me. I could drive out here any time I’m in Reno and we can shoot the shit and anyone watching will think ‘That Gorgo must really be down to earth and a friend of minorities.’ What do you think?”

His voice broke with a short, restrained laugh as he walked away from me without answering. “I’ll take that as a maybe,” I said while blowing a stream of smoke into the air.

I waited at the bar, slowly working on my drink, for the last quarter of the hour to pass. At noon, on the dot, the door opened. Bright light assaulted the dim interior of the bar. A man’s silhouette, tall and broad shouldered, reached to his face and removed a pair of sunglasses, then he came inside, letting the door close behind him.

It was Rick Ravenswood.

His Oxfords clicked heel-to-toe on the cement floor while passing through the maze of mismatched tables and chairs, until I could feel him at my back. He unclasped the button of his jacket then sat down on the stool to my right.

I tipped my glass to him. “Howdy.”

He said under his breath, “I don’t understand why you wanted to meet here. An hour and a half drive through the desert was bloody unnecessary when we could have met at any bar in Reno.”

His face lit up when he realized Bob had returned to take his order. “Ah, there he is, the good ol’ barman. Johnny on the spot.”

Bob stared at him.

Rick leaned over to peruse the liquor bottles on the back shelves. There weren’t many. His brows lifted and he said, “You wouldn’t by chance have Hendrick’s?”

Bob grunted, “No.”

“Kirsty’s?”

“No.”

“Little Bird? Edinburgh? Blackwoods?”

Bob shook his head.

“He wants gin,” I said finally.

“I have gin,” he said while reaching down under the bar.

“On the rocks,” Rick said with a warm smile.

Bob filled a glass with ice and set it in front of Rick before bending down to fetch a bottle of Gilbey’s. He removed the lid and tipped the bottle with his pouring hand. Rick stared at the clear liquor rising up the side of the glass to cover the ice.

“That’s enough,” he said with a rapp of his knuckles on the bartop.

I waved my hand. “Put that on my tab, Bob.”

He gave a single nod before leaving me alone with Rick. I said, “It came from a plastic bottle, so you know it’s high quality.”

My hand picked up my glass and raised it to him. “A toast to celebrate our new partnership?”

“Of course,” he said reluctantly before picking up his drink. “To new beginnings.” He took the teeniest tiniest sip but even he couldn’t charm his way through the look of disgust on his face. He looked like he was just sucker punched in the balls.

“Oh god,” he said through the burn. “That’s…” He stopped short of honesty when he realized Bob was watching from the far end of the board. “That’s good. Truly wonderful.”

He lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said and took a second sip.

I blew a stream of smoke through pursed lips then swallowed the last mouthful of vodka and said, “Do you really he buys your bullshit?”

Rick waved the cloud out of his face with a slight cough. “It doesn’t matter whether he believes me or not. That is good manners, Yelena. Being polite and courteous, especially when both parties know it’s bollocks.”

With a nod I said, “Gotcha. Let me try.” I smoked my cigarette and said as the haze streamed out of my nostrils, “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

His eyes closed as the fume blew past his face. He tried hard not to breathe any of it in, but his lungs wanted air more. Another little cough chucked out of his throat.

“This suit is Dege & Skinner,” he said with a forced whisper.

“I said I was sorry.” I smiled while flicking the cigarette over the ashtray.

“Are you even allowed to do that? I thought public smoking was outlawed in America.”

Bob, from the end of the bar, said while flipping the page of a newspaper laid out on the counter, “This isn’t America.”

I pointed and said, “Bingo.”

Rick huffed, took another sip, then moved the conversation to current business. “There is a slight change of plans.”

Oh boy, here we go. “No,” I said immediately after slamming my drink down, causing vodka to splash onto the bar. “Don’t even fucking start, Rick.”

He held a hand up. “I know, I know, but hear me out. I was thinking that it would be a little suspicious if I just gave you a match against Kalinda on Revolution. Not to mention the fact that you can’t guarantee me that you will actually win.”

My eyes raised to him for a moment. “That was the deal you offered.”

“Of course,” he said with a broad smile. “But then I thought of a better way, if you’ll allow me.”

With a clenched jaw, I stamped the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Fine,” I said with a sigh, and then turned to face him. “I’m listening. It better be good.”

“Kalinda is going to face Sam.”

I moved. He must have thought I was going to slug him, so he put his hands up. “Wait, wait! Just listen. Before the match I want you to attack Kalinda. On camera, off camera, I don’t care. Just make sure when she comes out to face Sam there’s no chance she can walk out with the belt. You do that and it’ll be you versus Sam at the supershow for the UPRISING World Championship. One on one. And the Kingdom will be banned from ringside. What do you think?”

Rick was and to this day remains an idiot.

“Fine,” I said without an argument, which seemed to put him off. He must have expected me to toss a fit. I reached back and patted him hard on the shoulder. “Alright, Rick. I’ll take out Kalinda and you give me a match against Sam at the big show.”

I stood up. He took this as an invitation to do the same, but I shoved him back down on the stool. “Not so fast, my friend. We have to celebrate, am I right? So I’m going to pick out a track on the jukebox. Something festive. Meanwhile…”

I look over at Bob and motion toward Rick’s glass. “Mind refreshing his drink?” Bob stood up and creaked his way back down to us, snatching up the gin bottle along the way. While he refilled Rick’s glass I walked across the bar to the jukebox. I dug into the pocket of my jacket for a handful of quarters and fed them into the slot.

After punching in the number, the mechanical arm moved down a line to remove the selected record, then turned and placed it gently on the platter. The needle touched the vinyl and the old speakers purred with a warm crackle.

Link Wray’s Rumble played back to my seat with its strumming guitar riff and swing beat. I plopped down and leaned my back against the bar. Rick was taking another weak little sip and didn’t notice me nod my head to the two gentlemen in the back booth.

Rick said out of the side of his mouth, “So do we have a deal?” He didn’t notice the sound of the cowboy boots under the music, or a sense of dread some prey animals have to alert them to prowling predators. Though until today, Rick had never considered himself the prey. In his mind he was the wolf in the night but a wolf isn’t safe from a bear.

I spun around and grabbed my glass. After downing one last, big mouthful of the cheap vodka, I let out a long, fiery breath, then looked at him and said, “I don’t think we do. But I do have a counter offer.”

Before Rick could protest, the two big men seize him by the arms and begin dragging him toward the restrooms and down the hallway to the backdoor. I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and removed a thick envelope. Bob watched me leave it on the bar, a stack of greenbacks peaking out.

“Get a new TV, Bob.”

He picked the cash up with a silent nod.

When I walked out into the blinding sunlight and the cool, brisk desert breeze, Rick was dangling by his underarms and his shoes were dragging two lines in the sand. After his repeated failed attempts to fight free, he turned to bribery.

“I’m rich,” he shouted at them. “Name your price! Whatever she offered I’ll pay you double! No, triple! Please…listen to reason!”

They carried him across dead grass and rocky soil to a single wide mobile home and shoved him against the siding. He doubled over, breathing hard as I was approaching. He saw an opportunity to run and he tried, but the men were on him instantly and this time after slamming him into the trailer they pinned him there by his arms.

I brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear and said with a squint, “Rick, meet your new best friends. The one on the left is Hank. The one on the right is Wes.” I stood in front of him with my hands in my jacket pockets.

“Fellas, meet Rick Ravenswood.”

“Hi,” Hank said. Wes gave a stern nod.

Rick was getting desperate. “Alright, Yelena. Enough. Tell them to let me go and we’ll forget it ever happened. I swear.”

“I swear.” I mocked him with a whiny little voice. “Swear all you want, Ricky, but you aren’t getting out of this.”

Rick looked back and forth at the two men. “I don’t care how many zeroes it costs, let me go and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Hank grabbed him by the neck and leaned down real close. “You talk too much. Maybe we should remove your tongue.”

Rick’s eyes bugged out of his skull and he shook his head rapidly back and forth before looking at me for help. “I don’t understand. I was going to give you what you wanted!”

My fist slammed into his liver. He bent forward and began retching. I moved out of the way before the vomit came bursting out of his mouth, spilling gin and what looked like a half-digested salad into the dirt.

I bent forward, until my head was level with his, and I said with cold pragmatism, “You are a snake, Ricky. Nothing you say can be trusted. You shouldn’t have fucked me over the first time you came asking me for help.”

“I didn’t,” he started to say between breaths, “I didn’t fuck you over.”

“Yes you did, Rick.” I grabbed his crown of hair and pulled back until his eyes were forced to look upon me. “Yes to did, but don’t worry, baby. I’m not going to hurt you…yet. So long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“Okay, okay.” Mucus and bits of food were smeared over his chin. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“You’re going to stay here until the day of Revolution. I know it isn’t the Waldorf Astoria, but you’ll survive. Hank and Wes will be here to keep you company. So long as you don’t do anything silly, like try to escape or call for help, they won’t touch a hair on your head.”

His back straightened and he relaxed in the arms of his captors. “Okay, and then what?”

“Then I’ll come get you,” I tell him. “And we’ll go back to Reno for the show. Together. It’s about a ninety minute drive so we’ll have plenty of time to discuss my career.”

I then held out my hand. “Keys. Phone. Wallet.”

“Keys are inside my jacket,” he said quickly. “Phone and wallet are in the car.” Hank went inside his jacket and roughly dug around before coming back out with a key fob. He tossed it to me.

After catching it I looked at the logo. “A Mercedes.” I laughed at him while shaking my head. “You drove a Mercedes to an Indian Reservation? What an asshole.” I start to leave, still laughing. Rick shouts and cries as Wes dragged him into the mobile home.

Hank followed me and said, “We’ll keep him until six p.m. on Wednesday like we agreed. Any later and, well, we can’t have him running off with a story to tell. Are you sure he won’t squeal the moment he’s out of here?”

I said sharply, “He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

I stopped and said to Hank, after turning around to face him, “People are animals, and like every other animal on the rock, their actions are defined by basic wants and needs. The drug addict does anything for the next score. The scorned wife fucks her pilates instructor. The power hungry politician refuses to concede an election.”

Hank tipped his head back to the mobile home. “And him?”

“Rick doesn’t have a moral bone in his body. He loves money and all the materialism it provides. He has everything to lose and nothing to gain by going to the police. As long as he sees a way out of this alive he’ll take it.”

Hank looked unconvinced.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll bury him in the desert,” I said simply while reaching into my front pocket to take out a car key. I held it up in one hand and the Mercedes fob in the other. “Dealer’s choice. In my left is a key to a Ford F150 from the Reagan years. It’s a rust bucket but it runs and it has a clean title in the glovebox. In my right is the fob for a Mercedes Benz. Probably a rental.”

He grabbed the truck key and said, “What the fuck am I going to do with a Mercedes?”

I left Hank in the wind and dust, taking the long route around the bar. When I rounded the corner, there was a rec C-class convertible parked next to Hank’s new-to-him truck. After unlocking it with the fob, I slid down into the leather seat and shut the door.

The engine started with the push of a button. The bluetooth connected to his phone automatically and began playing the last track on Spotify he was listening to.

“Ugh,” I said out loud. “Fucking Ed Sheeran. Really, Rick?” I pressed the stop button on the display. “It just goes to show you. Money doesn’t buy good taste.”

The tires spun up a cloud of dust before the car lurched backward, from dirt to cracked asphalt, then came to a sharp stop. Ahead was a long stretch of road that disappeared into the horizon. With my elbow on the console, I hold my hand up.

In the passenger seat, the Other Me offered her hand with a very Gorgo-like smile. Our hands curled together Thelma and Louise style as the soft top retracted into the trunk.

My foot hit the gas. The engine roared and the car tore north bound up Highway 95.