ACAPULCO
By the time Dewey, Tacoma, Rachel, and Erin stepped out of the steakhouse, it was midnight. Acapulco was teeming. Sports cars lined up along the drive: Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Porsches, Bentleys. A big white BMW 750i stood out like a double-wide in Beverly Hills. Tacoma walked ahead with the brown-haired woman, as Dewey and the blonde followed behind. After a few blocks, they came to the entrance of a place with a large doorman in front of a red rope. A sign said, FELTO above the door. A neon light shone in the window in the shape of a pair of pool cues. A long line stretched down the block, people waiting to get in.
At the sight of the two gorgeous women, the bouncer unlocked the rope and let them in.
It was dark inside the pool hall. It wasn’t crowded. There were at least two dozen pool tables in a big room with a large, long bar, behind which was arrayed a wall of TVs, all broadcasting sports: baseball, soccer, football, golf, even a hockey game.
The air had the faintest hint of marijuana, a sweet, pleasant smell. The women inside the club were almost uniformly stunning. Most were blond. Dewey scanned the room as he followed Tacoma, looking, out of curiosity, for anything other than a blonde. He saw two black woman, both jaw-dropping gorgeous. Nearly every woman was dressed in a skimpy outfit; several wore nothing more than bikinis.
The men were, in their own way, equally flamboyant. Many dark-skinned Mexicans with lots of chains dangling around thick, muscled necks, black shiny shirts unbuttoned to the waist. A few with sunglasses on, even though they were inside, it was dark, and it was nighttime.
Of the two dozen or so pool tables, less than half were in use. At those, small groups hovered around playing, drinking, laughing. A few tables had couples playing with other couples. At two adjacent tables, what looked like a bachelor party, with a small horde of sunburned twenty-somethings laughing, having a great time, trays of shots on tables near them.
They found a pool table and ordered drinks. The blonde came over and stood near Dewey.
“So, I guess we’re on the same team,” she said.
“Yeah. Are you good at pool? I’m not.”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“Well, we have to beat them,” said Dewey, looking over at Tacoma, who was racking up balls as the other woman watched, talking to him.
“I will do my best,” she said.
Dewey took a swig of beer.
“So, Dewey? Is that your real name?”
He knew the look she was now giving him, as she stared at his stubble-coated face. She may have seen the slight bulge at the left side of his torso, the gun which clung tight to his chest, concealed. He couldn’t tell. Dewey certainly wasn’t every woman’s cup of tea, but those ones who didn’t want him were few and far between. Though his physical assets were impressive, that wasn’t what did it for most. For most, it was the silence, his unreachability.
Dewey had no interest in her. She was beautiful, and clearly smart. Moreover, Dewey knew the best way to get rid of her was to be nice, to be talkative, to ask her about her job, her cat, her dog, where she grew up, her astrological sign, whatever; to make her think he was interested, that was how you repelled a woman. But he didn’t have the energy. He was too drunk to even put the sentences together now. He wanted one more drink, just one more, then he wanted to go back to the Ritz and pass out.
“Yeah, Dewey.”
“Nickname?”
“No.”
“Okay, Dewey. So what brings you here?”
“Just want to play some pool.”
She laughed.
“You’ve had a few, huh?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“I meant, why Acapulco?”
Dewey shrugged.
“How about you?” he asked.
“I’m a model,” she said.
“Oh,” said Dewey. “I thought he was bullshitting me.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, I mean you look like a model. I don’t know any models, but you certainly are, um, beautiful enough. More than beautiful enough.”
She grinned.
“Okay, rewind,” said Dewey. “You’re … Rachel?”
“Erin.”
“Erin. Got it.”
Their drinks came.
“So, do you want to shoot some pool?” Erin asked, smiling. “I think it’s our turn. I promise I won’t ask you any more questions.”
Dewey looked into her brown eyes, eyes like warm maple syrup. He didn’t want to get to know her, yet, on some level, Dewey knew that she understood that he just wanted to be left alone, but that he could also use a little warmth, friendship, and kindness, and that she was kind enough to persist, over his obvious hints, because her instinct told her he could use a little companionship.
“Sure,” he said.
They joined Tacoma and the brown-haired girl at the table. The pool table was against the back wall. Dewey and Erin teamed up against Tacoma and Rachel, though they spent half the time kissing each other. Dewey was a terrible pool player when he was sober, and being drunk made it even worse, but Erin was lights out, and they kept winning. A few times, they made eye contact over the laughter and clacking of pool balls.
At some point, a group of four men joined them. Both Erin and Rachel went over and hugged them, politely.
They were younger, in their twenties, and wired; cocaine, Dewey guessed. They all wore jeans, two had on tank tops, the others T-shirts. All of them wore gold chains around their necks. Rachel introduced them to Dewey and Tacoma.
“Antonio is one of the photographers,” she said.
One of them, a good-looking man with a shit-eating grin, took Rachel’s pool cue out of her hands, without asking, then leaned over and took a shot, even though they were in the middle of the game.
As he watched the scene unfold, Dewey’s mind sharpened. There was an edge to the group.
Dewey moved around the table, over to the wall, near Erin.
“We don’t know them very well,” she said to him. “He’s the photographer tomorrow. We heard he’s a creep. Don’t leave. They’ll be gone soon.”
Dewey said nothing. He glanced over at Tacoma.
It’s about to get ugly.