– All the hards, heavy on the eight.

I stand next to him at the table, watching the multicolored chips dance across the green felt, shuttled by the croupiers. I put my hand on his sleeve.

– I mean, this is bad, I shouldn’t be out.

The roller tosses the dice. A croupier calls them.

– Seven! Craps!

T’s chips are raked from the table. He looks at me.

– We’re waiting for the call.

– What call?

He shakes his head.

– The call, man. Her boss is gonna call with some more skinny on your boy Tim.

– Right, the call.

Sandy crashes into us, giggling and grabbing at our arms to keep from falling on the floor. We catch her and get her steady on her feet. She gives us both a kiss on the cheek.

– OK, who’s buying the next round?

SANDY’S BOSS still hasn’t called.

We’re in T’s car; the three of us squeezed together, Sandy in the middle, her arms draped across our shoulders. She wants to party some more.

– I got a couple bottles of Veuve at my apartment. I got them, this regu-lar of mine is a liquor salesman and he’s always bringing me stuff, and I have these amazing bottles of champagne. So, so we take the party back to my place and we can smoke some grass, and what I love is to sprinkle a little meth over the weed and base it that way, and we’ll open the bottles and maybe I’ll do a little dance. Put on a little shoooow for you boys for being so niiiice to me.

I lean against the door and look through the window at the bluish tinge lining the edge of the valley. I look at Sandy. Her pale skin is almost glowing it’s so bloodless, her mascara has run, giving her raccoon eyes, and a smear of red lipstick is slashed from the right corner of her mouth. T is leaning forward, bony finger wrapped tight around the wheel, chewing on the butt of a Marlboro, eyes bugging at the road ahead. I shake my head.

– I’m done.

Sandy slaps my thigh.

– Doooone? C’mon, Wade, I’m talking about a party here, special prizes and giveaways and.

– I’m done.

She crawls into my lap.

– Baby, don’t be a party pooper.

I am not a pooper. I mean, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. There’s a Russian looking for Tim. What the fuck am I doing here? What the fuck am I doing? I need some sleep. I need to get this shit cleaned out of my system and get some sleep and.

Sandy is nuzzling my neck.

– C’mon over and just hang out. You can lie down if you want and then you can join the party later. C’mon. My guy’ll call soon and.

I push her off.

– No. T, we got to go home.

He keeps his eyes locked on the road.

– Fuck, man, I ain’t got to do nothin’. You want to go home, cool, but I’m gonna party with Sandy.

Sandy screams and turns around and grabs T, making the car swerve.

– See, Wade, T knows how to make a girl happy.

T UNLOCKS the trailer door.

– I’ll be back in a few hours.

He hands me the key and jerks his thumb toward the car, where Sandy is waiting.

– Sure you don’t want in?

I shake my head.

– No. I need to sleep.

– OK. Percs are in the medicine cabinet, that’ll put you down.

– No, I’m too fucked-up, doing stupid shit.

– What’re you supposed to be doing, man? We’ll talk to Sandy’s dealer later, see if he knows anything. Other than that? Pain sucks, so kill it.

He’s right, pain does suck. I have been killing it and I like killing it. It’s so easy. I worked so hard for so many years to control myself, to keep everything in balance, but it’s so much easier to just take a pill. Easier and better. But I’m starting to fuck up. And I can’t do that.

– Call me when you hear from her boss.

He shakes his head.

– I don’t have a phone in the trailer.

I take Dylan’s cell out of my pocket, turn it on, and its number flashes on the screen. T finds a pen in his jacket and writes the number on his hand. Sandy sticks her head out the car window.

– Hey, T, leave the dog here, I don’t want it crapping on my rug.

He walks toward the car.

– Sorry, baby, he’s not the kind of dog you leave at home with company.

He gets in the car and they drive off.

I’m alone.

The speed is crashing hard and I’m starting to feel all the booze I drank tonight. I’m going to be in very bad shape very soon. I open the door, step inside.

The TV is on.

I start to turn and run, but someone trips me and I fall onto the porch and I’m dragged back into the trailer. Someone sits on my back. I struggle.

– Chill, dude.

ROLF IS pissed, so he beats me up a little.

Sid sits on the couch and watches.

Rolf drags me to my feet, makes sure I see the gun Sid is holding, and punches me in the gut. I fall back on the floor and he kicks me a few times in the back and the legs, then he gets down on his knees, straddling my body, and pummels my arms and torso as I try to cover my face. And then he’s done.

He slaps the side of my head and stands up.

– You keep acting like I’m a tool, Hank. Not telling me and Leo who you really are, so we can’t do our job the right way. Then that shit in the desert? Dude. That was bogus beyond belief. But then, dude, you come here, to the address that was on that Christmas card? After you totally know that I saw the thing? I mean, do you think I smoked away all my short-term memory? Oh, and, dude, by the way, where the fuck is my money?

– Rolf, I have no clue.

He picks up a book from T’s coffee table.

– You ever read this, dude?

It’s Sid’s copy of The Man Who Got Away. I nod.

– Skimmed it.

– Yeah, well, let me read you my favorite part.

He flips to a dog-eared page near the end.

– And what was it all about? The blood and the killing? The murder of innocents? The chaos that reigned in Gotham for two days as Henry Thompson rampaged through the streets? With no survivors or witnesses left to tell the tale, we can only surmise. But were there no witnesses? What of the bodies of Edward and Paris DuRante, later identified as the duo behind a string of daring Midwest bank robberies? What of the investigations into Lieutenant Detective Roman’s dealings in the underworld and the revelations of his ties to organized crime? What of the scale of the carnage in Paul’s Bar? What might inspire such bloodshed? And, finally, what of Thompson’s utter and complete disappearance? What could facilitate such an escape? All these mute witnesses point to one thing: money. A great deal of money. Rumors on the street suggest that the long hours of fear that clutched The City That Never Sleeps were the product of the powerful lust for profit that rules the small minds of brutal men. The ill-gotten gains of the DuRante’s, estimated by some to be well over ten million dollars, were no doubt the treasure sought by the darker figures of this tale. Their error was to have swept Thompson into the storm of their greed, never knowing the beast that lurked inside his secret heart.

He holds the book out to me. I take it from him, look at the page, close it, and hand it back.

– It’s only about four million really.

Rolf jumps to his feet.

– Four million! Dude. OK! OK, we need to get organized. That guy you were with, Elvis? When’s he comin’ back?

– He said a few hours.

– Cool. So no hurry.

He looks at Sid, who’s still motionless on the couch.

– Sid, did you hear that? Four mil?

Sid shrugs, keeps his mouth shut, his eyes on the TV screen. Rolf waves a hand like he’s done with him and kneels next to me.

– Now, dude, all fucking around aside, where is the money?

What was my life like before the money? Was it a good life? Was it interesting? Did I live it well? Was I useful to other people? Was I happy? I don’t really remember anymore because I’ve heard the question Rolf is asking far too many times.