He left the bike in an alley and took a taxi to the airport. He flew to Charleston, West Virginia. It was the only flight he could get on without a reservation.
He stayed in bed in a motel for three days, reading Livy’s War With Hannibal.
When he was feeling better he still wasn’t ready for Vegas. There was something about going there that bothered him. He couldn’t analyze it, he was too exhausted.
He flew to Chicago, then to Boston, then to Cedar Rapids. He’d just sit in the airport lounges, reading, have lunch or breakfast or dinner, then take off on whatever flight was available.
A security guard in Cedar Rapids put a stop to this nonsense. He kept an eye on him for a while, finally asked to see his ticket.
‘My wife has our tickets,’ Joe told him. ‘And she’s late, as usual. Have I done something illegal, officer?’
‘We got an APB on a guy,’ the guard said. ‘You fit the description.’ But he wasn’t too sure. ‘Uhh sort of.’
‘What’s he wanted for? Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No, sir. I’m on duty. Murder suspect. Supposed to’ve kilt some nigger female in Florida.’
‘Do you want to see my ID or what?’
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘Florida. I’ve never been there.’
‘I was in Miami for two weeks last year. City’s full of kikes. They go down there to retire. Must be a couple million of them.’
They chatted about Hitler and baseball and football and tardy wives and airline bookings. And that was the end of it. Thank God! If the asshole had made an issue of looking at his ID it would have been Catastropheville!
Iraq! Christ! She was hidden so far down in Lacuna Pit that he’d forgotten that he might be considered a suspect in her death. A murder rap! Balls!
Well, it was a big country. There were hideaways everywhere. They’d never find him. An APB was a joke. He was no worse off than before. No worse off than poor Hannibal, wandering around Italy with his elephants. ‘There was nothing he could call his own, nothing to look forward to beyond his daily plunder.’ That was okay. Sufficient unto the day was the plunder thereof.
Of course he’d have to avoid sharp-eyed cops, like the security goon, but that was easy enough. It was just a matter of not attracting attention. Loitering around airports had been a brainless mistake. He wouldn’t do that again. Starting right now.
Pretending to take a stroll around the lounge, he slipped outside and jumped into a bus that was going to Dubuque.
He got off at a place called Cascade and remained there a week, living in an awful rooming house. He told the landlady he was interested in opening a barbershop.
He spent days looking at dusty vacant stores, jotting figures in a notebook, talking to rustic merchants. It kept him occupied and he met some friendly folks, including the mayor, the sheriff, the president of the Chamber of Commerce. The latter was also a used-car dealer and sold him a ’79 Mercury Zephyr for only two hundred dollars. He drove to an even bleaker town nearby called Otter Creek and spent another week playing the same farce.
What he was really doing was growing a mustache.
In November he went to Las Vegas.
He checked into the first inconspicuous hotel he saw, the Shoshone on Suzanna Street. After taking a nap and a shower, he went to a coffee shop next door for lunch.
Sitting at a table, slobbering down a salad, was Milch. ‘If you’re lookin for a hot poker game,’ he snarled, ‘it’ll cost you a hundred bucks.’
Joe shrugged. Better to get back on the merry-go-round right away. He’d been postponing it long enough.
They went to a shabby bungalow on Rochelle Avenue. There was an all-night-all-day game in the living room. The players were mostly local louts, acting tough and grim, the way they thought Vegas card pros should behave. He saw one of them slip Milch a tip. So that was how the little creep was living these days, steering tourists into hustling parlors.
Joe played until six, winning and losing practically nothing, then he had enough. Before he left, the dealer, doing his hard-guy act, told him he’d have to contribute to the Nevada Veterans’ Fund. He pointed to a basket filled with twenties. Joe dropped a quarter into it.
Milch was waiting for him outside. ‘The real action starts round midnight,’ he said. ‘The other night a high roller dropped eight grand in one pot.’
‘The guy in the slot was cheating.’
‘Chester! What’re you sayin! Chester cheatin! You’re goofy! Geeze, I hope you didn’t say nothin. He’ll clobber me for bringin you.’
‘So long, Milch, I’d invite you to dinner, but your table manners are too primitive.’
‘Fuck you! Read my lips! Fuck you!’
He took a walk along the Strip, merging into the crowds, smoking a cigar, feeling uneasy. He went into the Desert Inn and wandered around, played the slot machines, bought a shirt in a gift shop, watched a dice game for a while.
There were thousands of people coming and going. This was the ideal city for becoming invisible. Why was he jittery?
He went back to the Shoshone. But he couldn’t sleep.
He got up and went down to the lobby. Milch was there, in drag, wearing one of his ugly get-ups.
He followed Joe out to the parking lot.
‘Remember those two crazy broads in Florida?’
But Joe didn’t want to talk about Nellie and Alice. ‘Go away, Milch,’ he said.
‘I was back there last Easter. I seen them. One of them anyway. The other one’s in a convent.’
Joe turned to him, jolted. ‘Which one?’
‘The doctor broad. She had a crack-up, the nutty broad. She found God. Her girlfriend told me. Nel. What a pair of fucked-up broads. Where you goin?’
Joe got into the Zephyr and drove off.
A convent! Poor Alice! She must have known who had kept her in the cellar all those months. She surely figured out who she was. Just as Peggy-Sue had. One went mad, the other became a nun.
He drove north, past Spring Mountain Road. Fuck Vegas. He’d go to Reno or Tahoe.
He pulled over to the curb. Spring Mountain Road. That sounded familiar. It had a hopeful echo, bringing back soothing memories. Memories of what? Earrings. Another road, another car. Real estate. A nifty apartment on Spring Mountain Road not far from the Frontier Hotel.
He found her address in a phone book. It was a small, modern building, ultra-chic, behind a high fence. He climbed over it and went into the entrance. Her name was on a mailbox. The apartment was on the ground floor, in the back, in a jungle of shrubbery by the pool.
He tapped on the window with a dime.
A light went on. ‘Who the hell’s that?’ she yelled.
‘It’s me. Rudolf the Randy Rapist.’
‘Oh, brother!’ She opened the window. Mickey Mouse’s huge round head smiled at him on the front of her nightshirt. She was wearing a patch on her breast. ‘Joe!’
‘Hi, Maxie.’
‘You have a mustache!’