Free Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? by Stephen Dobyns Page B

from the need to talk. About ten other men and women also sit at the bar; three jokers at a table share a forty-ounce turquoise tequila drink.
    When Connor called Vasco ten minutes earlier to see where he was, he got his voice mail. Connor asks himself how often this has happened in their life together. More than he can count. Slot machines chuckle in the distance; the casino has fifty-five hundred, over fifteen hundred more than Detroit’s MGM Grand. For several years the sound excited him; now it’s the sound of disappointment.
    As Connor waits, he thinks about his morning: the accident’s havoc and spectacle, but also Sal Nicoletti and his wife, especially the wife, with her long legs and then her black eyes, but they couldn’t really be black, maybe a dark brown. He thinks about her mouth and full lips, the curve of her figure. Recalling her, it’s as if Connor’s memory rests in a soft place. Then Vasco arrives.
    â€œHey, Zeco, it’s great to see you. You mind if we eat here instead of the Paragon? I got an appointment coming up.”
    Connor gives his brother a hug, feeling the love and exasperation he often feels with Vasco, who is the only person who calls him Zeco, the name he changed when he left high school. “You mean burritos instead of wild boar tenderloin?”
    â€œYou’re a sneaky guy, you’ve been peeking at the menu. Anyway, they got more than burritos. Me, I like the salads. You wearing the shoes? Let’s see.” Vasco steps back to look down at the Bruno Maglis. “Shit, Zeco, they make you look like a million bucks. Let’s grab a table in the back. I like to keep it private.”
    â€œYou look pretty great yourself.” Connor follows Vasco to a table.
    Vasco wears a pin-striped suit with a vest, gray on gray, and black crocodile handmade Italian lace-up shoes that make the Bruno Maglis seem shabby. His black silk tie on his black silk shirt is no more than a shadowy flutter; his watch is a Rolex Day-Date with little diamonds instead of numbers. Vasco once told Connor that he had the left sleeves of his suit coats cut a little shorter than the right in order to show off his pricey watches. Connor had thought he was joking.
    Otherwise Vasco is thirty-two, about six feet, thin, and dark with black hair—a display of Portuguese Moorish blood. His face is narrow and long like an El Greco saint. When he smiles, his perfect teeth seem too white and his eyes don’t change. But he doesn’t smile often. He saves his smiles for when they count.
    Vasco shrugs. “You got to play the role. After all, it’s theater. The Rolex is a rental. How’s Bounty, Inc.? Still a bunch of clowns?”
    A cute waitress arrives with menus. “You know what you want, Mr. Raposo?”
    â€œJust a salad or something. I’m not that hungry.” He glances at the menu.
    Connor is impressed the waitress knows Vasco’s name and that she calls him “Mr.” But this is what Connor always does: he lets Vasco impress him. If Vasco works at the casino, there’s no reason the waitress wouldn’t know his name.
    When she leaves, they talk about Bounty, Inc. Connor makes it sound more businesslike than it is. He doesn’t mention the Eartha Kitt and Vaughn Monroe routines.
    â€œYou would’ve made more money if you’d stayed in Detroit or at Viejas,” says Vasco. “You would’ve been promoted. I was seeing to that.”
    â€œThanks, but I got tired of the casino life.”
    â€œToo much ring-a-ding and too many losers. That’s what I like about it.”
    â€œRight at the end, there was a guy who sat at his slot for forty-eight hours. He never left. When he had to shit or piss, he did it in his pants. That’s when I decided I’d had enough. They had to drag him away.”
    â€œYeah, we’ve had those. The stink upsets the other players, but you get used to