Sin City (44 page)

The man says nothing. I think he likes the shamrock. He puts it on a little scale, then holds it in his hands again, closes them around it.

“How much d'ya wanna borrow?” He talks with only half his mouth, like Hans.

I don't know what to say. I haven't worked it out. I must pay Reuben back. That's fifty-seven dollars. And some money for the bus to take his shopping back. And I'd better have some tea, to stop me fainting. Fifty cents. And another dollar to try and win the car. And if I'm going to buy a coat …

“How much?” he asks again. He's sounding cross.

“I need four hundred dollars.”

I don't know why I said that. I saw a coat, a cheap one, secondhand, lying on a stall. Then I saw a dress. Not cheap at all. A wedding dress. It stepped down off the stall with Carole in it. Carole smiling, hugging me, whirling me round and round, so I was spinning with the dress, white myself and frothy.

The man is laughing. The laugh is sharp and cruel, claws my face.

“I'll give you twenty.”

I clear my throat. My voice is hiding in it, has curled up in a prickly frightened ball. I try to drag it out. “It … It's worth more than that,” I tell him. “St Patrick blessed the shamrock, Miss O' Toole said.”

“Twenty-five,” he says, picking at a nail. “That's my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

I lean against the counter. My mother might be angry if I took just twenty-five. She may be watching me. She'll say I'm ungrateful and she can't think why she bothered. She could have kept the shamrock for herself, worn it in her coffin. Twenty-five wouldn't even do the shopping. Not all of it. I'd still be half a thief. I shut my eyes, count the scars on Tom Bryden's arms and legs, try and multiply them by a hundred thousand million. The flames of hell start roaring in the shop.

“No,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

The man shrugs, gives me back the shamrock. Halfway to the door, I stop, dig down in my bag again.

“I've got something else,” I tell him.

He doesn't answer, so I take my Tiger Tail out, pass it over. “If you stroke it, you get four hundred times more luck.”

He throws it, really throws it. It falls onto the floor. I leave it there, walk out. He's right. It wasn't lucky.

He bolts the door again. The bolts sound very angry. I stand there on the step. The small grey man is watching still, though he's moved out of the doorway, taken off his hat. He starts edging up towards me.

“Short of cash?” he asks.

I nod. Perhaps he knows another pawnshop, even owns one.

“How much you lookin' for?”

I start explaining about Carole's wedding and the dress and how I want to buy it, but …

He interrupts me, jerks his thumb towards the “READY CASH” sign. “No luck?”

I shake my head, let him see the shamrock, ask him what he thinks it's worth. He weighs it in his hands, bites his lip. He's still looking more at me than at the shamrock, staring at my dress. Perhaps he thinks I stole it. It doesn't match my shoes or cardigan, and all those beads and ruffles must be worth a lot.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Norah.” I don't say Toomey. He may laugh.

“English?”

“Yes.” They all ask that. They like you to be English.

“Come with me,” he says. “I think we can do business.”

I'm feeling rather frightened. His face is thin and bony, greyish like his mac. The skin around his eyes is very wrinkled, as if someone creased the fabric when they sewed them in. His hair looks flattened by the hat. He didn't give his own name. I ask him what it is. He doesn't answer. A police car sirens past and he jumps and pulls me with him, down behind a wall.

“Call me Al,” he says, at last, as he lets go of my hand. His voice is very shaky and he's dropped the hat. He leads me through a dark and narrow alleyway into a tiny room with crates and boxes piled all round the walls. Three men in dirty vests are sitting at the bar. Al goes up to them, talks with them a while. I can't hear what they say. I wish there was another woman there. I'd feel safer with a woman.

Al returns with two glasses on a tray. The glasses are so small he must be short of money. There isn't even room for ice cubes. I'd rather have had something hot like tea. With an extra lump of sugar. Sugar stops you fainting. The drink is cold and brown and tastes of tar. It makes me choke. He keeps shifting in his chair, glancing at his watch.

“Norah,” he says, leaning down to face me. “How'd ya like to do a little job for me? Earn yourself some cash?”

“No,” I say. “I couldn't take a job. English people aren't allowed to work here.” Carole told me that. “Anyway, I won't be here that long.” My own words frighten me. Where
will
I be? We're meant to return to England in just five days. But if Carole goes to Israel … I try and cough my drink down. “I need the money now,” I tell him. “Tonight. The wedding's booked for midnight and …”

“Yeah. You said. You need four hundred bucks. That's a lotta money, Norah, a fuckin' gold mine. More than this job's worth.”

He shouldn't use rude words. I stare down at the table, pretend I haven't heard.

“Are you listenin' to me, sister? Hell! I'm trying to save your ass as well as mine. If you help me, then I'll help you – okay? You'll get your fuckin' dough right away, all of it. The job'll take five minutes – maybe less.”

“Five minutes?” I stare at him. “You'll give me all that money for five minutes?” I hold on to my chair. I'm not sure if I'm dreaming. Perhaps I've fainted. I used to faint a lot. Perhaps Lady Luck's come back. The most I've ever earned before was two-and-six an hour for putting string in carrier bags at Belstead, and that was more than twenty years ago.

Al drains his glass, wipes his mouth. One side tooth is missing. “Look, Norah, let me put you in the picture. Okay? It's my … er … mother. She's real sick.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. What's wrong with her?”

He doesn't answer right away. I wish I hadn't asked. It may be something private or embarrassing.

“Heart attack,” he mutters. “And a stroke.”

“Both?”
She must be dying. “Is she in hospital?”

“No. She's …” He pauses, drums his fingers on the table. “She's in trouble, Norah. Before she had the stroke, she borrowed money – a shitload. The shark who loaned it wants it back. Like now. If she doesn't pay him back tonight, he'll send his heavies over. They could kill her, easy – an old lady on her own, half paralysed.”

“Yes,” I say. “They could.” I push my glass away. I'm too upset to touch another mouthful. She should be in hospital with nurses and a doctor. It's frightening to be ill at home. Vi Miller had a stroke and she couldn't move at all. Or speak.

Perhaps she lost the money on roulette. That could bring a stroke on. Sister says they're often caused by shock. I feel very sorry for her, but I don't know how I can help. I'm not a nurse, and I can't lend her any money. Perhaps he wants my dress for her, to sell.

“I haven't any money. None at all. And this dress … It isn't mine. I didn't steal it. It's because I lost my suitcase.”

“It's not the money, Norah. My Mom's got the dough all right. It's sittin' in her fuckin' bank. That's the trouble. She's gotta get it out. I'd do it for her, but she gotta go in person, sign for it herself. Well, she can't, can she, when she's lyin' sick like that.”

“No,” I say, shocked to even think of it. “Anyway, the banks are shut by now.”

“She don't need no bank. She's given me her plastic.”

“Plastic?”

“Her card. Credit card. American Express. There's a place at Caesars Palace which gives you cash on them. It's open till seven, weekdays.”

“It's nearly nine,” I tell him, very gently. He must be so upset about his mother, he's lost all track of time.

He looks down at his watch. “Six thirty.”

“That's wrong,” I say. “It's stopped.” I've been wandering round Downtown for hours and hours. I lost Carole a whole day and night ago.

“Bob,” he yells. “What time you got?”

One of the dirty vests takes a watch out of its pocket, shines the face up. “Six thirty.”

Al shrugs. “We got thirty minutes, Norah, to make the other end of town. We'll do it easy in my car. Now, all you gotta do is walk into that office and pass this card across. Okay? You'll need her chequebook, too. Just give them to the girl and say you want five thousand dollars.”

“Five
th
…
thousand
?” I can hardly get the word out. His mother must be desperate if she lost five thousand dollars on roulette.

“Yeah. It's a gold card. They let you have five grand on a gold card.”

“Gold?” I whisper. Everything is gold here, even all the names. Gold Rush, Golden Nugget, Golden Gate.

“Don't worry. They won't ask no questions and you don't say nothin' unless they speak to you. That's real important. You just sign my mother's name, okay? Mary Haines.”

“But I'm English. They'll know I'm not your mother.”

“No, they won't. She gets her money from a lotta different places. They don't know her by sight.”

“But I'm single. And she's married. And …”

“It's okay. I thought of that.” He pulls a ring out of his pocket, a wide gold wedding ring, slips it on my finger. I stare at it in shock. I'm married. I'm a bride. The ring feels hot and heavy, weighing down my hand. I fumble for my drink again, drain the glass.

“Here's my mother's signature. She writes small but neat, see? Can you copy that?”

I'm very slow at writing, but my writing's always neat, and fairly small. “I'll try,” I say. My voice and hand are shaking.

AI uncaps his pen, finds a scrap of paper. “You'll have to practise first,” he says. “But make it quick. The traffic's always hell on New Year's Eve. If we don't get there tonight, we're fucked. It's a holiday tomorrow and the fuckin' office is shut all day.”

I take the paper from him, pull my chair up closer to the table. “Anyway,” I say. “It's tonight they're coming, isn't it?”

“Who?”

“Those men?”

“What men?” He looks suspicious.

“The … er … heavies.” I've never heard the word before, but it frightened me a lot.

“Yeah, sure they're comin'. We've gotta save her, Norah. They're shits, those guys, won't stop at nothin'. Here, take the pen.”

I turn my sleeves up, push my hair behind my ears. I've got to concentrate. I draw the first stroke of the M. I'm glad her name is Mary. Our Lady's name. Perhaps Al will let me meet her. I could sit with her, be her friend, bring her tea with sugars in. I'd like a friend called Mary.

The M is finished now. It looks quite nice, though Al seems very jumpy and on edge. I show him the whole “Mary”, once I've struggled with the y, which is different from mine, with a longer fatter tail.

“Not bad,” he says. “But get your ass in gear. Do you always write so fuckin' slow?”

I'm hurt. He shouldn't talk like that, use all those wicked swear-words. I'm trying, really trying. I make my hand go faster. The H looks faint and ill.

I can hear Al muttering, tapping with his foot. I think he's ill as well. Drops of sweat are bulging on his forehead, yet the bar is very cold, damp and dark with a stone floor like a cellar.

“Look, you'll have to practise in the car. We gotta leave now.” He's unbuttoning his raincoat, passing it to me. “Put this on.”

“B … But why? It's a man's coat, and …” My voice just disappears. I'm a man. I'm Mary Haines. Mrs Mary Haines. My legs won't hold me up. I sit down again, too quickly, hold my head.

“Get up.” He yanks my arm. “What the fuck's the matter with ya?”

“I don't want to go. I can't.”

“Don't fuck with me. You gotta go. My mother could be dead this evenin' if we don't get that money for her.”

“But I'm no good at the writing. The H went wrong and I can't do the y's like that, with tails.”

“Sure you can. You did real great. Just practise some more and by the time we get to Caesars …”

“No,” I say. “I don't like Caesars Palace.” That's where Carole went with Victor. She may take Reuben there. I'll meet him. He'll shout “Thief!”.

Al puts his face very close to mine. “Five hundred,” he mouths. His breath smells of the drink, and something else – something strong and sour.

“Five hundred what?” I ask. I'd like to go to bed. I don't believe it's half past six. It's midnight.

“Five hundred bucks, you stupid broad. You get me that cash and five hundred of it's yours. No questions asked, okay? Now put this coat on.” He's dressing me himself, forcing my arms into the sleeves, doing up the buttons.

I'm too amazed to help. Five hundred. I can buy the dress, buy wedding albums, wedding flowers; do all Reuben's shopping, even give him change.

Al pushes me in front of him, keeps hold of one wrist, tight. “Okay, Mary, move!”

“I'm Norah,” I object. He's hurting quite a lot. “Norah Toomey.”

“No, you're Mary Haines from now on. You gotta think Mary all the way to Caesars. We'll run through it once or twice, okay? Right – I'm the chick in the office. You walk in. I smile. Now what do you do, Mary?”

“I … I sign my name.”

“No, you English fuck,” he yells. “Not
yet
, for chrissakes. You give her the card and cheque.”

“I haven't got them. You didn't give them to me.”

“You'll get 'em, fuckwit. When it's time. You'll also need her driver's licence.”

“But I don't drive. I'm not allowed to. I'm on these pills and …”