In Walks Trouble … #FriWFlip

Every Friday I will be posting a snippet from the sequel to Flipka. If you’re interested in following along, welcome! All feedback, be it fair or foul, is welcome.

BY DAYBREAK I’d whittled my former life down to ten boxes to be shipped to Chapel Hill. The rest was marked for the Goodwill.

Lopinski had chosen to stay home and I didn’t blame him. Even though Hyman had comped me a suite at one of his less seedy resorts, two days of watching me sort through my past would test the strength of any relationship. Besides, it was the beginning of the fall semester and he had classes to prepare for.

“This was a bad idea,” I admitted when he ‘d called the night before to check on me, “I’ve got about hundred boxes to go through and so far, I’ve only opened one. To be honest, it’s the one I should have saved for last.”
“You’re still coming home tomorrow night?”

Home. What a beautiful word that is. Home. “Yes, professor. I will be home.”

During the first few months of my exile I’d fluctuated between rage and shell shock. Logically I knew that staying away from Vegas until things blew over was for the best (and I had been well compensated) but shit! Did they have to treat me and Lopinsky like we were pawns on their goddamn chess board? I still had nightmares of waking up in a decrepit farmhouse in Nebraska with no idea how I’d gotten there. And Lopinsky? I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Why hadn’t they just warned us that things were going to be bat shit crazy after the so-called “story” broke and let us leave on our own?

Lopinsky would have left Nevada happily. He had all the materials he needed to work on his book and, the fact that he secured a publishing contract so soon after we arrived in Chapel Hill, instantly removed any anxiety he had about those missing hours of his life or the manner in which he’d been ejected from that state. The book! The book! All that mattered was the book, assembling the photos, researching his sources, creating an outline — all day long and well into the night. He needed me if for no other reason than I made sure he got some fresh air. I must admit, working on his book had been a hoot but, would it have been my choice to go into exile?
Someone knew that it would not. Someone knew that I wouldn’t willingly leave without knowing the truth. Someone knew I’d never go along with the cockamamie coverup. And I had my suspicions about who that someone might be.

I was in the process of labeling the boxes when there was a knock at the door.
“Room service?” I asked. I’d ordered a huge breakfast hoping it would keep me going through a long day of travel after a sleepless night.

There was silence. “Room service?” I asked again

The door opened and in sauntered the man who’d upended my life, the last man on earth I wanted to see: Douglas Hyman, de facto King of Vegas or, to the Russian acrobats, Satana. He scanned the boxes piled on the bed, the floor, and the desk. Basically on any flat surface. “That looks like a shitload of books!”

“Our deal was you’d ship out whatever the hell I wanted —-“
“Put your shoes on, Doc. We’re going to breakfast.”
“You’re taking me to the rodeo?”
He was dressed like a wealthy rancher. Pricey cowboy boots; dark Levis, crispy white shirt and a Bolo tie.

“Ha,” He gave me the once over. “Hey, you’re looking pretty good. You probably could lose a few more pounds ⏤ but with your hair long at least guys can tell you’re a dame and not some kind of dyke.”
“Charming as usual. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.”
“I like to negotiate deals over a good steak.”
“I already ordered my breakfast.”
“And I already cancelled that order.”
“I know this is your hotel but I don’t work for you anymore and —“

He spotted the lavender envelope on the nightstand behind me and edged towards it. Perhaps drawn by the archaic script and Wiccan symbols Antionette always used on her “correspondence.” I grabbed the letter and put it into my pocket. He didn’t need to know all my secrets.

“Butters, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“And if I refuse I’m gonna find a horse head in my bed?”
Apparently I’d slipped into that alternate universe where no one dared joke with Lord God Hyman. “Still have that mouth I see. I’m amazed it hasn’t gotten you killed. Just hear me out. What do you have to lose?”
“Let’s see. Because of you I lost a job. A home. My —”
“Some job, some home …”
“Yeah, well it was my home and my job … however humble.”
“I know your history, Butters. You can play a crappy hand better than most, heck, almost better than me. But this is not a crappy hand. This time you’re holding all the aces.”
“Okay, I’ll hear you out but only because I’m like a cat. Too curious for my own good. Besides I’d like to eat.”