Suggested Listening:

"Future Me Hates Me" the Beths

"I Will Survive" Cake

"Trouble Always Finds Me" Yellow House

"Evil Spawn" Waxahatchee

Wicked Game

by

Michael Walker

The strains of 'Welcome to the Jungle', played at a volume usually associated with the take-off of a jumbo jet, shook the small frame house. Loud as it was, the music did not completely mask the din of voices, the clink of bottles, or the rattle of cans. A light haze of smoke drifted through the cone of luminescence projected by the street lamp out by the pavement. The back door swung open and Faith slid out onto the porch. The Slayer ran her hands over her head, lifting her hair away from her neck. She caught a quick hit of her own funk before the warm breeze carried it away. She rested her butt on the porch rail and lifted the tail of her T-shirt, letting the wind dry the sweat on her back. She was damp, stanky, and a little buzzed: it was a great party.

A burly guy stumbled out onto the porch. A crescent of fish-belly white glowed in the darkness; he apparently loved that Pantera shirt so much that he was not bothered by the fact it no longer fit. He cast a glance at her as he stuck a cigarette between his lips. Faith heard the distinctive 'snick' of an old-school lighter being fired, then he cupped his hand over the coffin nail. A long draw and the lighter snapped shut, followed by an equally long exhale as he tipped back his head. As the plume of smoke drifted into the ether, he returned his attention to her. "You with anybody?" he asked.

Faith reached out, plucked the ciggie from his fingers, and brought it to her mouth in one smooth motion. She took a satisfying pull and blinked slightly as the exhale caused her eyes to water. "Don't go looking to mark your territory, slick." She stuck the blazing butt between his fingers. "Just have a good time."

His grin was good-natured. "Maybe that's what I'm tryin' to do."

Faith squinted one eye and shook her head. "Don't try to hit above your weight."

A third party joined the conversation: he was about as tall as the other guy, but half as wide. He cast a brief glance at the smoker, then his eyes settled on Faith.

"There you are," he said. "Thought you ran away."

"Why," she said, twining her arms around his neck, "would I do that?" He dipped his head and they kissed, the kiss of a couple past the 'Who are you' stage, but not yet at the 'Who are you' plateau. He came up for air and shook his head, the yellow porch light haloing his shaggy hair.

"You wanna hike?" he said.

Faith shrugged. "Sure, why not? But let's go back through the house. I wanna snag a couple long-necks on the way out."

She was somewhere north of Sacramento, somewhere south of Oregon. She had ridden the bus until it stopped, got off to use the bathroom and stretch her legs, then got on another bus. The bus was good: she got on, set her aura to 'Don't even think about it', and stared out the window while someone else made the hard choices. A couple more rounds of that and the memories began to fade. When the bus stopped this time, she stepped onto the sidewalk and took a look around. The town wasn't very big, but it had a lot of bustle. The crowd seemed to be flowing in the general direction away from her, so Faith hitched her duffle bag higher on her shoulder and sauntered down a thoroughfare lined with small restaurants, antique stores, and pawn shops. She had nothing to pawn, no interest in antiques, and only a few bucks in her pocket, so she skipped all of that. The street ran for a half-dozen blocks, then turned into a state highway. A quarter-mile away along the asphalt ribbon stood a blocky building festooned with neon bulbs and tubes. An oversized sign announced that she was looking at the Kupok Hotel and Casino. Faith glanced across the street. A gaggle of mostly gray-haired people gathered around a steel sign. As she watched, a shuttle bus pulled up; its doors opened with a hiss of compressed air. The assembled throng formed an impromptu line and streamed aboard, hungry to gamble away their money but too diffident to descend to pushing and shoving.

Faith shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" As the shuttle bus pulled away, she set off down the shoulder of the highway, the neon lights serving as her north star. A sign outside the parking lot proclaimed the casino was on unceded Kupok land. She shook her head and cut across the wide concrete expanse. A gaggle of tour buses congregated at the far end of the lot. The shuttle bus, having disgorged its payload, pulled away from the curb. She stepped up on the sidewalk as the last of the Diamond Jim retirees shuffled through the door. As she made to follow them, her way was blocked by a man almost as wide as he was tall, and he was pretty tall.

"Got any ID?" he asked.

"Say what?" Faith took a half-step back and gave him the hairy eyeball.

"Unless you're eighteen, you're not coming inside." He shrugged, rumpling the shoulders of the khaki blazer stretched across his shoulders. "State law."

"What if I'm not gonna gamble? What if I just came to…" Her eyes roamed over the plaque bolted to the wall beside the door. "Get a burger?"

He shrugged again. The gesture seemed to do a lot of heavy lifting for him. "You can get a burger at about seven places back on the main drag."

Faith lifted one shoulder. "I heard the burgers here are better?"

"Where did you hear that?"

She made a circling motion with one index finger. "Around."

He shook his head. "Not eighteen, you're not coming in."

"Okay, I'm eighteen."

"Then you can show me some ID."

"Really?" The duffle bag hit the concrete and Faith shifted her feet. The doorman seemed unimpressed.

"What's going on, Bill? Something wrong?"

Faith turned toward the new voice. The speaker had shaggy hair, bright blue eyes, and a lopsided grin. Faith felt a tickle under her ribs when he turned toward her.

Bill twitched a thumb in her direction. "No ID and I'm pretty sure she's not eighteen."

The new guy shook his head and clicked his tongue at Faith. "Can you ever do anything without pulling someone's chain? All you had to do was mention my name and-" he flicked his fingers "-everything woulda been copacetic."

She raised a hand, palm up. "Sue me."

Bill sighed. "You know who she is, Kyle?"

Kyle jerked his head in Faith's direction. "She's got an audition."

Bill took his time running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Audition for what?"

Kyle pointed. "Look at her. Dancer."

"Uh-huh." Bill nodded. "She got a name?"

"Sure," Kyle said. "She's-"

"Glynda." Faith stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and tilted her head. "I'm Glynda."

Bill's eyes narrowed. "I asked him."

"Yeah, and you shoulda asked me." She lifted her shoulders. "I speak for myself."

Bill took in a bushel of air and let it out slowly, then spoke to Kyle. "Whatever. She takes one step through that door, she's your responsibility and your problem. And if she's underage-" he looked at Faith "-which I think she is, it's your ass in the sling, not mine, got it?"

Kyle winked. "Bill, my ass would slide out of any sling that would hold yours."

Bill shook his head. "You're a regular Dane Cook."

"Ouch." Kyle clutched at his chest. "That truly hurt." He looked at Faith. "Come on, let's get you set up."

She picked up her bag and followed him through the door. She couldn't resist giving Bill a quick wink as she passed by, but she was already in the doorman's rear view. She followed Kyle across a brightly-lit foyer. The casino floor was straight ahead through a set of gold-inlaid double doors, but Kyle turned right just before reaching them. Faith cast a quick glance to the left: the foyer was the base of a 'T' with a long hallway running left and right. She hesitated.

"Come on," he said, emphasizing his words with a toss of his head.

"Hey, thanks for gettin' me in," Faith said, "but I think I'm gonna toss a couple quarters in the slots."

Kyle shook his head. "I wouldn't. Bill's not a clown."

Faith almost snickered. "I'm not scared of Bill."

"I know." Kyle stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "But I vouched for you." Faith glared at him; he stared back, his face inscrutable, then turned and went down the hall. She grimaced and followed him. Kyle pushed open another set of doors set in the right-hand wall. Faith hesitated, shifting her weight onto her back foot. He noticed the maneuver. "It's where I work. See?" He pointed. Faith looked up; a sign over the door read 'Harris Mills Theater'.

"A theater?" she asked.

"Hey, we're not here to just fleece old people out of their Social Security checks."

"So, what sort of cultural contribution do you guys make here?"

"It's a mix," he said as he held the door open wide. "Comedy, music acts…" Through the open door she could see a sloping center aisle and carpet that probably looked fine when the lights were low.

"Anybody any good?"

He shrugged. "Georgia Satellites were here eight weeks ago."

"Wow." Her eyes rolled.

"Hey, they were nice guys, put on a good show. Crowd loved 'em. 'Keep You Hands to Yourself' and 'Battleship Chains', 'Hippy Hippy Shake' for the encore."

"Be still my heart." Faith placed a hand on her chest. "Geezer rock for the win."

Kyle shrugged and opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance.

"Are you finally here, Kyle? Those gels aren't going to replace themselves." The voice was feminine and commanding.

He winced. "Gotta go. Hey, come on in, hang out for a while, I can probably get you a meal voucher or something."

"I look like I need a free meal?" Faith snapped.

Kyle bit his lip and stared at her, then finally said, "I work here and I wouldn't turn down a free meal."

Before Faith could form a retort, a figure appeared in the doorway. "Kyle, I know you– Oh, hello."

Faith gulped and her breath caught in her throat. The Slayer could look in a mirror, but comparing herself to this woman was like saying a night light and the sun were both sources of illumination. The new arrival was taller than Faith, although not as tall as she first appeared: she had that kind of presence. Her hair was pulled back in a messy French braid and was as black as a crow's wing. It matched her eyes, which caught reflections of the hallway lights and gave the illusion of galaxies of stars behind her gaze. Her skin was flawless and the color of perfect toast. An almost-smile touched her lips as she extended a hand. "Hello…" She raised an eyebrow.

"Glynda," Kyle stammered. "This is Glynda."

Faith gripped the offered palm; the other woman's grasp was strong and firm. She looked into the Slayer's eyes, and Faith could practically hear the thought: Glynda, my ass.

"Hello, Glynda." She withdrew her hand. "I'm Raven. Raven Fox."

"You're shitting me," Faith blurted.

"Nope." Raven jerked a thumb toward the framed poster beside the door. In the picture she wore a tail coat over a leotard and fishnets instead of jeans and a faded polo, but it was her.

Faith looked at the poster, then back at Raven. "So, you're the…"

Raven executed an ironic curtsy. "The magician. Yup. That's me." She glanced at Kyle, then turned her attention back to the Slayer. "So, uh, Glynda… you don't look like our average denizen. What's your story?"

Faith's gaze was flat. "No story. Just came into town on the bus, thought I'd check out the action."

"Uh-huh." Raven nodded slowly. "You should know, the tribe takes a dim view of certain activities on the rez."

Now Faith's eyes flashed. "Says the woman who does card tricks dressed like Harry Blackstone's favorite hooker."

Raven's grin was genuine. "'Harry Blackstone'... that's a deep cut, especially for a kid under eighteen."

"Why's everybody so worried about my age?"

Raven's face went still. "Because wisdom comes with age."

Faith half-snarled a laugh. "I think you mean 'with experience'." She scoffed. "And I've got Jimi Hendrix beat hands-down."

"Oh, another old-soul reference." Raven's expression tightened, and Faith found herself fighting not to take a step backward. "Cynicism isn't clever." The air between them was ready to twang like a banjo string.

"Uh." Kyle glanced toward the entry. "Maybe we shouldn't be having this convo out in the hall." He wiggled his eyebrows and twitched his head toward the theater.

"Agreed." Raven stepped back into the shadow of the doorway. "Come in if you want, Glynda. Maybe Kyle could use a hand with the gels." She drew in a slow breath, then she was gone.

Faith gritted her teeth. "Fuck you," she whispered. "Nobody backs me down." She looked at Kyle. "What the hell are gels?"

Faith tipped her head back and took a long pull from the bottle, then let it dangle between her first two fingers. Her hip bumped Kyle's as they ambled down the street. There were no sidewalks in this part of town; the casino's coattail effect only extended about a block either side of the main drag and most of the residential sections just ran lawn up to the curb. Kyle bobbed and weaved a little; he couldn't metabolize alcohol as fast as a Slayer.

Gels were just colored pieces of plastic that got put in front of the lights. The job was simple: either Kyle was on a ladder or down in the footlights. He called out a number, Faith found the corresponding gel in a rolling cart and handed it to him. A spider monkey could have done it. When the last light was replaced, Kyle closed the lid of the cart and held out a hand. "Thanks for the help."

Faith eyed him for a beat, then grasped the offered palm, but only for a second. "Hey, it wasn't brain surgery."

"Hey, Glynda." Faith turned; Raven leaned out of the doorway of the combined office/control booth at the back of the theater. "Gimme a minute." She disappeared back into the dark. Faith looked at Kyle, who shrugged. The Slayer arched her eyebrows in response and sauntered down the aisle. As she stood in the doorway, looking at the soundboard and other equipment required for the show, Raven spoke from the office. "Come on in." As the Slayer accepted the invitation, Raven pointed to a guest chair. "Have a seat." Faith settled in the low vinyl-masquerading-as-leather chair as Raven leaned back and propped a foot on the desk. The two women eyed each other across the faux-oak expanse.

"So, you looked pretty comfortable up there." Raven arched an eyebrow.

"What's to be comfortable about? A spider monkey could do that job." Faith crossed her arms.

"True… except a spider monkey doesn't need money."

Faith's eyelids went to half-mast. "Did I say I needed money?"

"People who carry all their worldly belongings in one bag are rarely eccentric millionaires." Raven shrugged. "Look, it's your call. I can offer you eight bucks an hour, probably… twenty-five, thirty hours a week, Mondays off, even get the hotel to comp you a room for a few days. If you're interested, the job's yours."

"What is the job, exactly?"

"Being Kyle's gofer. He's good with the sound and lights, I trust him, but I think he could use some help. You already said it's not a tough gig."

Faith tilted her head back. "Why?"

Raven shrugged. "Because the last girl who held the job has gone walkabout. It's not uncommon, I mean, you got off a bus in the middle of nowhere for no good reason. Don't tell me you've an urgent appointment somewhere else."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I've got to be here." Faith arched her eyebrows.

"Fine. Take your one bag and move along." Raven dropped her foot and spun the chair toward a file cabinet against the wall. "But if you decide to take the job, you have to fill out the paperwork, and that means ID… Glynda."

"Hey." Faith put her hands on her hips and planted her feet on the floor. Kyle looked over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Did you put her up to that?" Faith's chin stuck out defiantly.

"Who up to what?" Kyle turned back to the lighting cart.

"Boss lady. She just offered me a job."

Kyle responded without turning around. "Use your head. You came in off the parking lot and you've been helping me all afternoon. When am I supposed to have hatched this scheme?" He paused for a moment, searching for something in the cart. "Besides, nobody puts Raven up to anything."

"So there really is a job?"

Kyle turned around, an extension cord draped over his elbow. "Yeah, Danette left, just quit showing up, so… yeah, there's a job."

"Whatta you mean, 'quit showing up'?" Faith's eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted.

"Just what it sounds like. Happens a lot… Hard to believe, I know, but a casino isn't the most stable base of employment."

"Uh-huh." Faith looked around the theater. "So, she didn't leave because, say, her boss got a little handsy?"

Kyle shook his head. "First, I'm not anybody's boss. Second, please." He looked world-weary. "Look around. The workforce here is, like, seventy-five percent female, a lot of them hired for their looks. I'm not a bad-looking guy. If I'm feelin' frisky, I don't have to pressure anyone."

"Maybe the pressure is what turns you on."

Kyle shrugged and turned away. "Believe what you wanna believe. Take the job, don't take the job. Somebody else will."

Faith snatched her bag from the floor, and its lightness reminded her that both cash and dry goods were getting scarce. She looked at Kyle's back, his narrow hips and acceptable shoulders, and his hair… it was really good hair. Faith clicked her tongue, then spun and walked back to the office. She disappeared inside for five minutes, then came back down the aisle.

"Hey," she said. Kyle turned at the sound of her voice. "I need a name from you."

"Thanks." Faith tapped the envelope on the counter and slid it across the dapper old guy in a crisp white shirt and bolo tie. He slid a matching envelope toward her. The Slayer winked, nodded, opened the flap, and pulled out a California driver's license for Glynda Burke, age nineteen.

"Hey, do that outside," the guy snapped.

"Why?" Faith looked at him, all sweet and innocent. "So you can lock the door behind me when I find out you gave me two blank pieces of cardboard?"

His face closed like a fist. "You came here because your friend recommended me-"

"Yeah, and I've had friends who were marks before." Faith tossed him a mock-salute. "You're a gentleman and a scholar. I probably won't see you around."

"That street runs both ways." The old guy squinted one eye. "He also recommended you to me."

"That's sweet. Hasta lumbago."

Faith stepped out into the sunshine, slipped the fake license into the pocket of her jeans, and tossed the envelope in a trash can. She had procured valid ID, although the card in her pocket might be stretching the concept of 'valid' pretty thin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the pawnshop window.

"Who you starin' at, chump?" she demanded, watching the reflection's lips move.