Restitution

CHAPTER 3-1

Chapter 3Sean hadn’t uttered a word for the last two hours, and barely remembered taking a shower in his room or getting dressed. Now clad in beige Dockers and a short-sleeved aloha shirt his sister had found on clearance somewhere, he sat slumped forward in a worn leather chair in the small hotel lobby. There, he forced deep controlled breaths through his lungs.

His eyes were fixed to the tips of his new casual dress shoes; they’d also been picked out by his sister. Suede, light brown in color, and a bit wimpy looking in Sean’s view . . . but he’d humored his sister.

Dozens of thoughts had traveled through his mind since the moment they’d left the school. They spawned questions and inconsistencies he continued to struggle with as the world moved around him. His gaze slid back and forth from the elevators across from him to a small clock and a short row of payphones along the adjacent wall. Clamor from nearby gamblers and slot machines shared the smoke-filled air, as a mixture of mostly college kids and senior citizens strolled by in opposite directions along the granite floor.

There was a young family at the front desk. A tall dad, a short and pretty mom, and two little kids—a boy and a girl. The children were arguing and wrestling around a bit until the mother got after them. Sean watched them for a while before his gaze drifted to a small, round end table beside him, where half a glass of what looked like whiskey sat. Someone had abandoned it there; most of its ice had melted. He noticed his knee shaking a bit before he drew his focus back to the payphones. Arching his back, he dug his fingers into his pocket and searched for change.

“702 . . . 518,” he muttered, trying to recall a number he used to know by heart. “09 . . . ” He almost had it.

“You got down here fast,” came a man’s voice.

Sean turned and saw Lumbergh standing just a few feet away, arms folded in front of him. His mouth worked a wad of gum.

“Hell’d you come from?” Sean asked.

“I took the stairs. The elevators were taking too long.”

“Yeah, they’re slow as hell.”

Lumbergh had changed polo shirts. His new one was lime green. Beneath it were beige pants and brown wing tip shoes. The pants, more neatly pressed than Sean’s, looked familiar.

“Did Diana get those on clearance?” Sean asked, lowering his gaze.

Lumbergh’s eyes shifted between Sean’s pants and his, the top of his head reflecting some light from the chandelier above. “They’re the same, aren’t they?”

Sean smirked, aware of his sister’s affinity for sales. “Must have been one hell of a discount. Those shoes don’t look cheap though. What are those?”

Lumbergh’s eyes narrowed, seemingly unsure if Sean was making fun of him. “Oxfords,” he said tepidly.

Sean nodded, his eyes sliding up and down his brother-inlaw. “They make you look taller. Is that why you bought them?”

Now Lumbergh knew he was being made fun of. A subtle grin formed on his lips. “That may have had something to do with it,” he said, shaking his head. “But they also have a casualness about them that I like.”

Lumbergh was a short man—around five-six. He’d always been thin, but he’d formed a noticeable gut since his daughter Ashley was born. Diana used to refer to it as “sympathy weight”—a reference to the pounds she’d gained during her pregnancy. It wasn’t the only change in Lumbergh’s appearance in recent months. He’d also recently shaved his head, finally accepting his baldness. For years, his hair up top was so thin that it was virtually transparent under certain light. He’d never seemed to mind, but something had compelled him to take the plunge and succumb to the terms of the genetic hand he’d been dealt. Sean was still getting used to the new look, often finding himself scrutinizing a subtle bump at the top of Lumbergh’s scalp.

“Why did you come down so early?” Lumbergh asked. “We don’t have to head out for a bit yet. I figured you’d catch up on some more sleep.”

Seconds slogged by before Sean answered. “It was too quiet up there. I needed a distraction.”

Lumbergh nodded. “After the . . .”

Sean jumped in. “Yeah, after the s**t show back there at the school.”

Lumbergh’s eyes slid to the drink on the table next to Sean. His face tightened.

“Don’t worry, Gary. It’s not mine. That’s not the kind of distraction I meant. Just needed some noise. To do some people-watching and clear my head.”

“All right,” Lumbergh said, accepting the answer.

“So, why are you down here?” asked Sean. “You were more tired than I was.”

“Well, I . . .” he hesitated, searching for the right words.

“You wanted to check on me, didn’t you? Probably pounded on my door for a couple of minutes before figuring out I’d left. Huh?”

Lumbergh said nothing, biting down on his lip.

Sean continued. “Hey, I appreciate the thought, Gary, but there was no need. There’s not even a minibar in the room. I made sure of that when I booked it.”

Lumbergh nodded. “Why don’t we do some walking around?” he said. He nudged his shoulder toward the casino. “Play a few slots, maybe a couple hands of blackjack. I know you think gambling’s for idiots, but—”

“Sure.” Sean shrugged. “Why the hell not?” He leaned forward, placed his hands on his knees, and pulled himself to his feet, grunting from the effort. “Lead the way.”

The two left the lobby and crossed onto the thin, checkered carpet of the Dusty Nickel. It was an older hotel and casino, a couple blocks off Fremont Street in the downtown area some people referred to as “Old Vegas”. Dusty had picked the lodging based on nothing other than the fact that it shared his name.

Slot machines flashed and whistled. Dealers in vests and bow ties stood over half-full tables. Women in cocktail outfits passed by with drinks on small trays. A cigarette haze hung in the air.

Sean dug his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a couple of singles.

“You serious?” asked Lumbergh.

“What?” Sean asked, returning his wallet to his pocket.

“Two dollars?”

“Yeah, those are nickel slots,” he said, pointing his jaw toward a cluster of sparkling machines in the corner. “That’s like . . . what, forty games?”

Lumbergh’s brows angled inward.

“Oh please, Gary,” said Sean. “You really think I need a second addiction?”

“You’re too much of a tightwad for that to ever happen,” quipped Lumbergh.

“That’s true. Not all of us have high-paying government jobs,” joked Sean. “Rent-a-cop security guards like me can’t help but be a bit stingy.”

“Except for when it counts,” added Lumbergh with a wink, bouncing his knuckles off Sean’s shoulder.

Lumbergh glanced around the room until his eyes stopped on a semicircular table in the opposite direction. Behind it, a middle-aged dealer with big, frizzy hair dealt a player a hand. She glanced at the other players as they considered their cards. Lumbergh reached for his own wallet. “I’m going to try my luck over there. When you’re done flushing your change down those machines, why don’t you come on over?”

“High roller,” remarked Sean.

“It’s a five-dollar table, Sean,” said Gary.

“Too rich for my blood. I can’t expense stuff to the city like you.”

Lumbergh sighed. “I’m not going to expense my gambling . . .” He stopped when he noticed the curl in Sean’s lips. He shook his head. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

The men went their separate directions and Sean made his way over to the row of slots. An elderly bald man with a small bandage on his head and droopy eyes was collecting his winnings from a machine in the corner. Once he slowly trucked off, plastic coin cup in hand, Sean took his spot, plopping himself down in the still-warm chair.

Sean glared at the reels for a moment before sliding his first dollar into the bill insert, which swallowed it quickly. He sighed and tapped a button. Fruit and sevens spun loudly until they came to a mismatched halt. He hit the button again and let his eyes wander as the reels spun.

Across the room, Lumbergh sat at the blackjack table, his face comically tense and his eyes wide as he leaned forward clutching his cards. Lumbergh was a confident man when it came to just about everything else, but his gambling face made him look about as relaxed as a suicide bomber. The elderly woman in a loud blouse next to him pinched a cigarette between her shaky fingers. She eyed the dealer’s movements, her smile displaying some missing teeth when the cards were turned over. Lumbergh bit his lip and shook his head in disappointment as the dealer collected his hand.

Sean plugged away at his machine, winning a few spins here and there but mostly losing. It was about what he’d expected, but he didn’t care. His only disappointment was that the activity hadn’t cleared his mind. He found himself thinking about the time he’d taken Lisa up to Lakeland on one of her trips out to Colorado.

The old gambling town in the mountains north of Winston was a far cry from the Vegas spectacle she was used to, but she seemed to appreciate it for that very reason. She found it quaint and with character, from the antique slots to a decadesold taffy shop, to an old bookstore that also sold music. Perhaps it was the same type of simplicity that had attracted her to Sean, at least once upon a time.

He loved watching her smile that day—the liveliness and curiosity in her bright blue eyes, especially when they aligned with his. They held a beauty that lifted his spirit high, but also stoked a sense of unworthiness in his gut. At times, things seemed so right and real that he felt obligated to convince himself that they weren’t. After all, who was someone like Sean Coleman to find himself the beneficiary of such good fortune . . . after spending so many years of his life disappointing and hurting others—including those who loved him.

Sean couldn’t shake the truth that they had only found each other through a traumatic series of events. It was an emotional bond that felt like it came with a looming expiration date, and likely would have even if Sean had been a better person. Still, he seemed to feel obligated at times to speed up the process.

That day in Lakeland was no exception. Lisa had pled with him to dress up like a cowboy for an Old West photo shoot of the two of them. In retrospect, it would have been a mild sacrifice—fifteen minutes of embarrassment for someone he cared about. Instead, he dug in his heels, deeming such a concession to be emasculating and a waste of money. No matter how much pressure she put on him— playful at first, but later more determined—he wouldn’t budge. It was a stupid thing to get into an argument over, but they did, and his stubbornness ended an otherwise special day on a sour note. Other days and nights had ended similarly.

The memories played like a quick slideshow of failures through Sean’s mind as he reached the end of his credit on the slot machine.

So far, Sean’s first trip to Vegas had been a bust. The buildings and glitz on their way in—even in the daytime—had been impressive, but the city’s allure wasn’t what it was cracked up to be . . . at least not in comparison with the old 1970s show, Vegas, starring Robert Urich. Perhaps the nightlife would change his mind, but he was worried his psyche would continue to play the spoiler.

When he lifted his head, he saw Lumbergh on his way over, his pace slow, suggesting that he, too, was reeling from defeat.

“You lasted longer than I did,” he said, raising his gaze up from the carpet.

Sean nodded. “How old did she look to you?”

Lumbergh’s eyes narrowed. “The lady at the table? Hard to say.”

“No, the girl. Back at the school.”

Lumbergh’s face loosened after a couple of seconds. “Sean . . .” he began, shaking his head. “There’s just no way.”