Page 5 of Notorious

Well, I don’t want or need their approval, and after tonight I’ll never have to see them again.

I don’t deserve an ovation.

I climb the stairs to the stage, legs trembling and boots heavy, receive the heavy clear acrylic award, and shake the emcee’s hand. Then I step up to the microphone and clear my throat. Tawni’s looking at me expectantly, and a few other friends in the audience shoot me encouraging smiles, unlike the bastard—bastards—glowering in the back. “Thank y’all very kindly,” I say. “I’d especially like to thank the fans for this award. It means a lot to me that y’all appreciated my body of work.”

Say more. Say more, say what you really think, say it.

But my lawyers’ admonitions echo in my ears. Danny put it bluntly: “Don’t fuck up the case, Johnny.”

So instead of telling the truth about the people in this room who deserve to be called out, I pivot. “With this award, I’m announcing my retirement.”

There’s a collective gasp. Tawni’s hand flies to her mouth. Ace’s eyes protrude like a cartoon character’s, and his face reddens. I probably should’ve mentioned that to him first. A little late now.

I can never do anything right.

I stand there awkwardly for another moment. I’ve got nothing else to say that isn’t skewering all the people not clapping. So I tip my hat, give them my best smirk, and say, “I thank you again for the recognition. Now, if you’ll ’scuse me, I’m going to go do something else tonight. Good night, and”—my voice cracks—“goodbye.”

Award in hand, I flee the stage, exiting out the closest double doors, hearing a low but rising rumble of voices at my back.

When I step into the hallway, my nostrils flare and I sweep my arms out wide, almost hitting a trash can with the award. I want to punch something. Or kick something.

I don’t.

It’s time for plan A.

I take the elevator to my suite and drop the award in my bag. Then I sit down and write a note on the hotel’s stationery.

When I get halfway down the page, I reread it.

Dear Mama,

I’m sorry you’ve been sick and I haven’t been able to help you get better. That’s the one thing I’ve tried to do right in my life—get you healthy. Maybe this time, I can succeed.

Please take the life insurance money and get the kidney. That’s what I want most. You have to get better.

You’ve taught me all the good things. The bad things were all on me.

Should I say more? Or less?

I’m not a poet. I scribble:

I love you and May Ella. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.

Love,

Johnny

I put the note in an envelope, seal it up and write her name and address on the outside, and set it in my luggage.

Then I stare at the bathroom door, knowing what’s waiting for me inside. Pills to dull the pain. The gun’ll finish the job.

Mayyybee I need some liquid courage to get me started.

I keep the tux on. Might as well get my money’s worth on the rental. I go downstairs, walk quickly through the lobby, and leave my own hotel, with its numerous bars. I wanna avoid seeing anyone from the ceremony. Wanna avoid answering questions about my retirement. Or anything else.

The casino across the way is quieter than the one I came from, and the first watering hole inside is upscale, with a restrained interior for Vegas—soft lighting, fresh flowers, black leather seats—and a few spaces at the bar. I park my ass in one of the seats and wait for the bartender, who’s busy with a couple at the end.

She comes over to me and asks, “What’ll it be?” as she sets down a thick paper coaster.

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