Hawke: A Novel by Ted Bell Page B

chips and stacked them in front of Gomez.
    “Compliments of the house,” he said, flashing a big white smile. “Ling-Ling, would you introduce Señor Gomez to our head croupier? Make sure he’s well taken care of at the tables, darling.”
    “Of course,” Ling-Ling said. “Won’t you come with me, Señor Gomez?”
    “Love it,” Gomez said. “And, could I, uh, get one more of these poison things?”
    Gomez followed Ling-Ling’s sashaying little spandex butt out toward the casino floor, thinking, have I absolutely died and gone to heaven here or what?
    “Jack!” he said, passing a guy in a very sharp sharkskin suit who was rolling the bones. Guy had to be Nicholson. He recognized the haircut and shades from People magazine. “My man, what’s up?”
    “Jesus Christ,” Ling-Ling hissed at him. “Didn’t you hear what I fucking told you?”
    “Yeah, right. Sorry.”
    Chick was pissed. All right, we can deal with that. How many times in his life is a guy going to rub elbows with Jack Goddamn Nicholson? A little slack here, Ling-Ling, please.
    “Autograph out of the question, I guess,” he said, following her through the maze of tables.
    “You got a pen?” the chick says, giving him a look over the shoulder. “I’ll autograph your dick if there’s enough space to write on.”
    “Hey, ease up. I said I was sorry.”
    “Here’s your table, sailor boy. This is Francisco. He will take care of you. Okay? Bonne chance. Ciao. Whatever.”
    The chick started to walk away. He grabbed her arm.
    “Hey. Question. What’s with your brother’s eyes?” Gomez asked her. “You don’t mind me asking.”
    She turned and stared at him.
    “My brother was imprisoned for twelve years,” Ling-Ling said. “He was kept in a small room with no light. None. No natural. No artificial. The lack of light just leaches all the color out.”
    “Man. So, how did he get out? Seems to be doing okay now, I mean.”
    “He said that if they’d let him out for just one day he would do anything. Literally anything they asked. They gave him something to do that was extremely—unpleasant. He was permanently released the following day. Now my brother and I are together again.”
    *   *   *
    He didn’t know where he was when he came to, but he was pretty damn sure that it wasn’t Hugh Hefner’s bedroom at the Playboy Mansion.
    He was sitting in a hard wooden chair in a room with no other furniture. Nothing on the floors or the walls. Not even windows. His hands were duct-taped to the arms of the chair, his ankles bound to the chair’s legs. He didn’t know how long he had sat there with his head pounding before he heard a door open behind him.
    “Ah, Señor Gomez,” he heard a familiar voice say. It was, what was his name, Rodrigo. “Did you have a nice siesta? You’ve slept for almost twenty-four hours.”
    “What’s the—what’s the deal here? I thought you, uh, that you—” His tongue felt way too big for his mouth.
    “The deal is this, Señor Gomez. You owe the Mao-Mao Club one hundred thousand dollars.”
    The guy pulled out a piece of paper and held it in front of Gomez’s face. He tried to focus but everything was out of whack.
    “There is the ten thousand I extended you as a courtesy. When you exhausted that, you indebted yourself to the house for another hundred thousand. At the bottom is your signature. I am forgiving you the ten, because it was a gift.”
    “What’s the, uh, what do you—”
    “You have exactly one week to repay. You must understand that I am not one who forgives his debtors as they forgive him.”
    “I can’t…I don’t…how will I get the money?”
    “That is hardly my concern, señor. Now, turn your left palm upwards.”
    The man pulled a pair of nasty-looking silver scissors from his pocket and snipped the blades a couple of times.
    “Hey, wait! What are you—”
    “Two associates of mine will contact you in a few days. Tell you where to bring the money. I’m going to