Chapter Thirty-Two
There is no escape from heaven’s web.
(Japanese proverb)
“So, tell me if I’ve got this wrong please, Arnie. We were mixed up in a… mob smack?”
Arnie and Noreen are on their way to the airport. For his money, he can’t get out of Vegas quick enough. Although in truth it can only be Noreen’s money, leftovers from her recent good fortune, that will effect this essential change of scene.
“Hit,” corrects Arnie, who would prefer to snatch a few moments of precious shut-eye, as the endless day/night is beginning to catch up with him. Even though these next few hours will very likely be the last he actually enjoys on this earth (and I’m using ‘enjoy’ in its loosest sense).
“Hit,” repeats Noreen. “Because… Lyle was forcing you to make those horrible sexy films, when all you really wanted to do was produce religious documentaries for the Bible Strap?”
“Belt. Yeah. They were crucifying me, Noreen. And I had refused to do it anymore. Even on pain of death. Ray’s Erection Day was my last. Lyle set that little guy onto me.
And used you as bait. Sorry, Noreen, but he’s a bad omen, that guy.
If you know that movie. And I just saved a little thing called your life. So, you gotta love me, right?”
Noreen is not saying anything.
“Right, Noreen?!” he repeats, the level of desperation in his voice rising dramatically, alongside the intensity of his gaze.
Nothing more is said until they reach the airport and a disconsolate Arnie goes to buy the air tickets with Noreen’s devil-gotten gains, leaving his reluctant lover by a bookstore.
He returns after about fifteen minutes to find that Noreen has vanished.
After some frantic and pissed-off searching, he spots activity at one of the airport’s many slot machines.
What surprises Arnie even more than the act itself is the fervid, almost compulsive manner in which Noreen is feeding in those precious coins.
“Noreen?”
She doesn’t hear him.
“Noreen! The flight leaves in fifteen minutes. Will ya come on, for Chrissakes?”
“Just one more spin, Arnie!”
Arnie shakes his head. Yet, as he watches the strange Englishwoman going almost manic with her strong right hand, he is surprised to find his exasperation tempered by an emotion he has so rarely experienced that he might be hard-pressed, even if pushed, to give it a name.
But for the moment, let’s call it affection.
This feeling grows even stronger when the dour woman in airport security asks Noreen to place anything metal in the tray provided and Noreen upends the giant bucket of newly-gotten quarters she has been carrying in her voluminous bag.
***
Big Louie is far less elated as he takes a shower in his hotel room.
He has checked out all that he can about ferret bites and rabies and is just hoping for the best as he squeezes and soaps and rubs.
The furry little bastard did seem pretty clean and well-groomed when it was hanging onto his ear, although the whiteness of its fur could have been falsely reassuring.
The frustrated hitman is so immersed in his de-ferreting, he fails to notice through the steam that the bathroom door has opened, and a shadowy figure is moving towards him.
He finishes his shower, grabs a towel and emerges from the stall to find himself two feet away from Melisande.
Before he can ask her how the hell she got in, his eager client is bombarding him with questions.
“Well? Is it done? Am I a widow already? I brought my mourning outfit…” She produces a tiny black thong from her handbag. “Why’ve you got a new hickey? I don’t pay my contractors to get bitten.”
“You coulda told me about the vicious little rodent.”
“Hey – he was still my husband!”
The disgruntled killer points to his face. “A coked-up ferret. Nearly took my goddam ear off.” After waiting some seconds for sympathy he is clearly never likely to receive, even if Stanley had bitten his entire head off, he gives his report. “They got away.”
Melisande is incandescent, which fortunately the Botox will let her do. “Got away? You moron! Got away! The little turd could change his will at any time and leave the whole bundle to that weird Limey bitch. And then go and die on me. They could be anywhere by now.”
Big Louie shakes his un-ponytailed head, spreading shower water onto her low-cut, ultra-short, red dress. He has often thought that there must be an unofficial dress code for off-duty porn stars and reckons that you can usually recognise them the same way you can spot off-duty cops.
“Cool it, sister. I got a guy at the airport. They’re on their way to LA. I’ll catch up with him there. Now, would you mind giving me a little privacy while I get dressed?”
Melisande just scoffs. “Hey, pal, nothing I ain’t seen before.”
Big Louie shrugs and drops the towel. The woman simply nods. At least now she knows how he got his name.