Chapter Twenty-nine

Johnny stood by the bright blue door of Marty’s condo. Looks as though it was hand painted, probably by the old broad Millie Millwood, he thought. Yeah, Johnny had seen those hand-painted doors before, in Provence. These old boho types always liked to think of themselves not just as Americans but as “citizens of the world.” Boy, that just pissed Johnny off. What the hell was wrong with America? Not a goddamned thing. Where else could a guy like him flourish like he did? He loved his country and he hated those old boho assholes who ran around talking about cheese and wine and fucking baguettes! Oh, no, a loaf of Wonder Bread wasn’t good enough for them. They had to eat a freaking baguette. Fags! And what was wrong with French’s mustard? Not a goddamned thing, but the Martys and Millies of the world had to eat Grey Poupon, and special mustards made with some kind of rare fucking mustard seed that probably came from Arle and was pissed on by van Gogh or something. Well, fuck them. Fuck all of them.

Asswipes.

He rang the doorbell, waited, and seconds later Marty let him in.

“Hello, John,” Marty said, smiling. “You look particularly well tonight.”

“Thanks, Martster,” Johnny said, turning on the charm. “You’re looking very sharp yourself, man.”

Actually, John thought, Marty did look pretty good, considering he was ripe for a permanent rest in a coffin. The old man had some color in his cheeks and his blue eyes were clear and focused.

Of course, the fact that he wore an absurd boho-type ascot, circa 1925 Paris, made him seem more than faintly ridiculous. And what was with the maroon velvet smoking jacket? He looked like some character out of an old detective novel Johnny’s mother used to pretend to read while covering her face with Noxzema and smoking Camels in the hundred-degree D.C. backyard heat.

From behind Marty emerged Millie, dressed in her vintage Victorian black lace number with a real blood rose corsage. Christ, Johnny thought as he stepped inside, they were doing the Addams Family. Where the fuck were Lurch and Cousin Itt?

The condo was something right out of the Gilded Age. The chairs were all ancient, cane-backed babies, and the walls seemed to be papered in some kind of crushed velvet. It was so absurd. They had come all this way to Santa Fe only to re-create a lame version of nineteenth-century fucking Paris.

Johnny didn’t know enough about history or interior decoration (a fag hobby) to be able to tell the difference, but the important thing as far as he was concerned was it wasn’t now, and it wasn’t American.

They were a couple of phony old assholes and deserved what he was going to give them.

But this gig might be a tad more complicated than he had figured. They had invited a bunch of their friends, lamesters of all kinds. People who looked seven-eighths dead.

“Johnny, we’d like to introduce you to the people who are known as the council. All of these people have been civic leaders in Santa Fe for many years. This is Alex Williams, the president of the Blue Wolf council. Alex has been one of the great patrons of the local O’Keeffe Museum.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Johnny said, looking at the old stick figure who thrust out an awkward, veiny hand.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Williams said in a friendly baritone.

Johnny took the man’s hand and pressed it tightly. And he was more than a little surprised when the old man squeezed his hand back. Really squeezed it. God, the old bastard was strong as hell.

“Over here,” Millie said, “we want you to meet Don Dietz.”

Johnny turned around to meet the next guest and was shocked to see an amazingly overweight man with an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth. He gave Johnny a thumbs-up as Millie listed his many contributions to the city’s well-being.

“He kept the powers that be—the others powers that be, that is—from turning the city into one giant strip mall,” Millie said.

“Way to go, dude,” Johnny said, backing away from the grotesque figure as fast as possible.

The rest of the guests were equally distinguished and equally worn-out looking.

There was a guy named Russell who was trussed up in a back brace. And there was Sally Amoros, a once beautiful blonde opera singer who was all hunched over due to osteoporosis. And there was some guy named Desmond, who was apparently a comptroller but who made sure to tell Johnny that he only had one real leg, having lost the other one to diabetes. And there were more: a woman named Helena who had a crushed hand, a guy with an eye patch, and another woman named Suzanne Lutz, who had a tumor sticking out of her neck. Some of these people were on the council and others were on some fund-raising committee called “the choosers,” whatever that was.

God, what a group of freaks. Johnny looked around and it was all he could do not to break into hysterical laughter. (Or was it a scream? He wasn’t quite sure.)

Being in a room of old, totally beat-to-shit people set his heart beating and his mind racing.

Wouldn’t it be fun to get a flamethrower and incinerate the whole lot of them?

Finally, he could stand the tension building inside him no longer.

“Hey, Marty,” he called out. “We ready to play?”

“Of course we are,” Marty responded in his most affable voice.

“What’re the stakes?” Johnny asked, taking out his newly stolen cue.

“That’s strictly up to you,” Marty said, smiling.

“All right, dude,” Johnny said. “How about three hundred a game? For starters.”

“Fine,” Marty said. “Three hundred it is. Follow me.”