The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus Page B

whales is fierce, but it’s considered bad form to poach other casinos’ high rollers outright, so when one makes a change, you have to make it look like the whale’s idea. Think about trying to seduce a married woman with her husband in the next room: You gain no traction till the lady says yes. As a consequence, there are all these go-betweens, independent operators constantly sweeping the sea lanes for migrating whales. Sometimes they bird-dog pretty aggressively, sweetening the pot with their own resources or whatever the destination casino slips them under the Chinese wall.
    That’s what Woody said he was doing: bird-dogging, but with a difference.
    “I promised Wolfredian a Saudi prince,” said Woody. “Very proper,very circumspect. Deep, deep pockets, but he can’t be seen on the casino floor until the moment is absolutely right. And absolutely can’t be seen going to the cage for cash.”
    “So Wolfredian advanced you a stake.”
    “Against an unimpeachable line of credit.”
    “Which didn’t exist.”
    “No more than the Saudi prince. Now I’ve got twenty-three thousand out of Wolfredian’s change purse, and he’s all bent out of shape.”
    “Over only twenty-three grand?”
    “I know, huh? It’s more ego than anything. He hates that I mooked him.”
    “How’d it go wrong?”
    “Excellent question. Do you mind if we save it for another time? I’m beat. I’m not used to these all-nighters.” He got up to go, effortlessly affecting the leering, drooling look and demeanor of a man you would not want little Jimmy or Nancy anywhere near.
    “Where are you staying?” I asked.
    “Elsewhere,” he said airily, which I took to mean anything from a bed-and-breakfast under an assumed name to a blanket beneath the stars. “But don’t worry, I’ll be around. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do with these goons.” He paused, then: “Hey, Radar, are we all right?”
    “We’re better,” I said. “I still don’t know how I feel about you.”
    “If it means anything, I know how I feel about you. I love you, son.”
    I couldn’t bring myself to reply in kind, couldn’t even guess if it was true, so all I said was, “Take it easy, Aqualung,” as he shuffled off into the dawn.
    * AKA Wallet Drop, wherein a found cache of cash squeezes good-faith money from the unsuspecting.
* Verbal prostate massage: endgame bafflegab to leave the mark smiling when you go.

8

Face Value
     
    H alf an hour later, setting aside thoughts of goons and stray dads, I slipped into bed beside Allie, who stirred and said, “Boy? Is that you? Remember, we mustn’t let Radar find out.” Hearing the smile in her voice, I determined that the peeved girlfriend stance had been set aside. It made me glad.
    I responded by licking her face.
    And I don’t care what Vic Mirplo has to say about randy rabbits, this is the woman I want to make love to for the rest of my life. It’s not just the body parts—the tight, taut, terrific body parts that have a knack for being so familiar but all the time every time brand-new, too. I’m told the new wears off eventually. It hasn’t happened yet, but if so, so what? You love a body from the inside out. When you want someone, really
want
them, you want to wear them like a coat. And every time we had sex, I got this incredible sense of wonder, like
I get to do this again? I get to be with her? How great is that?
    It was just carnal at first. It had to be. We were both a big mess, completely accreted like the bottom of an old water heater. Like grifters will get. The only way past all that accumulated emotional inertia was brute force, the fierce urgency of pheromone whores. We could screw, but we didn’t know the first thing about intimacy. Or rather, we did, and it scared us both to death. But after the sex came talk. Hours spent dissecting old lovers, techniques, good ideas, bad ideas, good-bad ideas, hidden treasures, unrequited fantasies. We became open to each otherin a