Matt Lally

National Velvet

As he and Parker whizzed through the desert in a rented muscle car, Russ flipped through the radio, trying to find the perfect song for the moment the Las Vegas skyline appeared over the horizon. He got greedy, couldn’t settle, just kept on flipping and basically ruined it.

“You blew it,” said Parker, behind the wheel. He had been chain smoking the whole ride.

Russ had bummed one around Baker but only smoked a few puffs before flicking it out the window. He only really enjoyed smoking after a few cocktails. Which, as he was thinking it, raised the issue of what the cocktail situation would be like, on this trip, in the wake of Parker’s newfound and hard-won sobriety. Parker told him to “feel free” to drink around him but Russ felt anything but free about it. He was already picturing himself ripping shots in secret on the way to the bathroom while outwardly drinking nothing but club soda and Diet Coke not even in a gesture of solidarity but just because, hey, he didn’t feel like drinking, shrug. Or was that patronizing and the move was just to do his thing? Russ suspected it was just one of those things—there’s no right thing to do around sober people except actually be sober, which for obvious reasons was not an option.

So now they had to go out to Las Vegas so Parker could get back some of that danger he needed in the form of gambling and strippers and probably hookers, which didn’t sound a whole lot better for the soul, thought Russ, but again who was he to judge? And furthermore actually any activity that was not drugs or alcohol was time well spent for Parker, at that point. Parker had a ton of money and Russ didn’t have any and even though Parker had promised to pay for everything—that being another partial impetus for the trip, that being “the deal”—Russ didn’t feel comfortable just sitting back and letting Parker pay for everything so he knew he was poised to also drop some cash that he couldn’t really afford to drop. He had read somewhere that it was important to always live just slightly beyond one’s means and so he was going with that, at least for the night.

Russ pointed out the signage for the Hotel’s parking structure but Parker went right on by and headed up the main drive, which was paved with purple bricks and lined with swirly trees, like the trees you’d see in the distance across a French vineyard, Russ imagined.

“Free valet,” said Parker.

“Free plus tip.”

“Don’t be a cheapskate,” said Parker. “In fact, let’s banish all cheapskate type thinking from here on out.”

“Can do,” said Russ.

The kid who took the keys was very young and slight, swimming in the vest combo they had him wearing, and not unimpressed by the car. Another older, wearier looking dude took the bags; another person opened the door. That very crisp, treated, but also vaguely cigaretty casino air hit them and Russ felt strange—naked—walking in and checking in not carrying any baggage.

The room was sexy, a lot of black marble, although probably not genuine marble, suspected Russ, not even sure real marble came in black. Two queen beds, a TV screen in the bathroom mirror somehow, and a showerhead like a flat shovel that allowed water to cascade down in a broad sheet. Outside the window, far below, a few late afternoon hangers-on hung on by the pool, a few dancing about by a small stage, the music just audible at this height, through the glass.

“We gotta get down there,” said Russ, pressing his forehead against the window.

“It’s six o’clock,” said Parker. “It’s done.”

“I got to learn how to play craps once and for all,” said Russ. He turned on the TV across from the beds and flipped around, hoping for the instructional gambling channel these places sometimes had, but there was a good old movie on about a group of Trappist monks that are actually an elite burglary team, stealing priceless antiquities from various monasteries around the Alps, so he left that on while they showered and changed for dinner.

The restaurant, fancy as it was, was just another storefront inside the casino, so Parker and Russ sat there, slowly making their way through a $90-a-head prix fixe, a couple of mallrats at the world’s most expensive food court. The food was divine, but the process of eating tiny plate after tiny plate was unsatisfying to Russ; you left with your hunger satiated but unable to pinpoint exactly how or when it had happened.

“Ugh,” said Parker. “I am not a fan of abalone.”

“How could you be,” said Russ.

“Enjoying the abalone, guys?” said the waiter, who had half-overheard.

“Outstanding,” said Russ, making the a-okay sign.

Russ was trying to gauge Parker’s mood. Presumably the demons he had once suppressed with vodka and heroin were now sitting at the head of the table, unless he had successfully dealt with them in therapy, which if he had then why were he and Russ here?

“Do you want to go straight to the strip club or should we go to a regular club and try to talk to some regular girls for free?” said Russ.

“If you think the nightclub girls are any less expensive than the strippers then you’ve got another think coming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Russ. “Wait, did you just say ‘another think coming?’”

“Yes,” said Parker, dabbing a plug of short rib into some semolina. “And in answer to your question I would like to first go see a magic show, then do some gambling, then go to an actual nightclub, and then go to a strip club.”

“All right,” said Russ, happy in all situations to have plans laid out like this for him. “Let’s get our, like, selection of sorbets or whatever and get the fuck out of here.”

Russ had seen magic shows, the one-on-one variety, like a hired illusionist at a cocktail party, which had been transcendent. For example one guy who would fold up a dollar bill, have his audience call out a country, and unfurl the bill into the currency of that country. He did it over and over again as the countries and currencies got more and more obscure. So, Russ figured, either he had currency from every single country on the planet stuffed in his sport coat, or it was magic. The show he and Parker saw at the casino was not like that. Although, sure, some of the tricks you couldn’t quite get your head around how it was done, they weren’t as cut and dry as the bill trick—there was room for an explanation, however elusive. Russ had been looking forward to relaxing in a perhaps semi-reclining theater seat and was disappointed to see that the show was set up dinner theater style, with tiny chairs set about scuzzy round tables.

More so than the show on stage, Russ and Parker were taken with a young escort a few tables ahead of them. She was wearing a form-fitting dress of robin’s egg blue, blonde hair exquisitely blown out, her face (in surprisingly minimal makeup) aglow with desert tan, just a touch of pink lipstick. It wasn’t just her striking good looks, which were striking, but everything about her seemed flawless and soft and inviting. You could honestly tell how good she smelled just by looking at her. The man she was escorting was dark skinned and balding, low center of gravity, in a drab suit, glints of gold from his fingers and wrist. Kind of guy who might still own a pager—or sell you one. And the girl was attending to his every need, opening for him a bag of chips he had purchased, gently massaging his shoulder, giggling at his words. Had it been genuine, she might have come off as doting, rather than subservient, for in many ways their dynamic was that of a couple in love.

“This is the height of professionalism in the field,” whispered Parker.

“I’m floored,” said Russ.

“I want one,” said Parker.

Blackjack: Russ took $200 out from an ATM and lost it in thirty minutes that felt like ten. He went back and took out $200 more, wishing he had taken out the full four hundred to start with, to avoid the hiked-up fee and just to have a more imposing stack at the table. He quietly ordered a vodka soda from the girl. The man next to Parker was dealt an ace.

“You don’t wish him good luck on the ace?” said Parker.

“Good luck, sir,” said the dealer.

Russ stayed on sixteen, Parker on twenty.

“Paint it!” said Parker when the dealer came to the man with the ace.

The dealer laid down the king of clubs, to light applause from Parker and Russ.

“Whoop,” said Russ.

“Yeah fuckin’ paint that shit,” said Parker.

The dealer busted and they all won.

The lower stakes tables had been too crowded for Parker and at twenty dollars minimum a hand, $200 was simply not enough to play around with. You had to be able to lose $200 in one hand like it was nothing, if you were going to do any real damage, not just gingerly place the minimum every time, hand after hand. This was a surefire technique to lose all your money, and just hope it took long enough at least to get probably not your money’s worth on free vodka sodas but enough to not care as much when you finally went broke. Which Russ did, again, in short order, with nothing to show for it but two drained cocktails and a third on the way.

Parker, however, was placing cavalier bets—healthy stacks like D batteries—at all the right times, shouting “paint it,” and alternately gripping Russ’ shoulder and clapping him on the back. In addition to chips, Parker was amassing cigarette butts in the black plastic ashtray that had been provided. Russ too was puffing away, with enough drinks in him to enjoy it, and they sat there for maybe an hour or two. Russ didn’t have the head to just glance at Parker’s chips and be able to count them but he had a lot. At one point Parker lost a couple hands in a row and said, “I think that’s it.” He changed out some smaller chips for larger denominations but still needed a plastic tray to carry them all.

“How much is that?” said Russ as they walked away from the table, walking that stiff, brisk walk when you’ve just gotten away with something and the adrenaline is coursing and you really want to run but need to play it cool, like you just snuck out of your parents house at midnight, or a drug dealer just gave you a larger sized bag than what you paid for.

“It’s like ten g’s,” said Parker, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Damn,” said Russ. “Cash out?”

“Hold on,” said Parker, stopping at a roulette table. “This is like 49-51,” he said. “How much?”

“Uh.”

“Two? Four?”

“Two,” said Russ.

“Four,” said Parker, counting out the chips. “Wesley Snipes.” He placed four thousand-dollar stacks on the black diamond.

“Highest difficulty rating,” said Russ. “In terms of skiing.”

“Not exactly,” said Parker.

They were the only two at the table and clutched one another’s sleeves in a loose embrace as the dealer, a ghostly looking man, spun the wheel.

“No more bets,” he said.

The ball settled on two and Russ and Parker leapt up and down and hooted and hollered and did a totally impromptu dance where they crouched down and did little flurries of punches in each other’s direction.

“You’re, like, rich, dude,” said Russ.

“Been,” said Parker, but tongue-in-cheek.

“What now?” said Russ.

“Pain au chocolat.”

That was another thing about Parker—since he’d gotten sober he had a voracious sweet tooth. Russ figured there was something about alcohol turning to sugar in your body, and then, without it, needing to satisfy that dependency with cupcakes and cookies and shit. There was an upscale patisserie in that very hotel, which they had passed a number of times, which had clearly been on Parker’s mind, so that’s where they headed.

“I’m also thinking about getting a girl,” said Parker, rooting through the white paper bag of confections he had purchased. “But how.”

“Like the one we saw?”

“Precisely.”

They were sitting on stools at a high, round table outside the bakery.

“Isn’t, like, the casino bar famously the spot for that?” said Russ.

“Maybe,” said Parker. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to a change of scenery.”

The concierge, a blonde woman who looked somehow French Canadian, a gold badge on the lapel of her blazer, suggested a table at the Club might be a low pressure way to vet some professional companions. Russ was impressed by her nonchalant candor and felt a pang of adolescent excitement that he’d likely get to drink some or plenty of bottle-service liquor under the guise of taking one for the team.

Russ was trying to be generous, trying to downplay his contempt for the other club goers, trying not to think of them as styleless humanoids feeding at the trough of some great lie. Were he and Parker any different? At least they hadn’t had to wait in line. They acquiesced to purchase multiple bottles and Russ laughed out loud when Parker requested to be seated close to the DJ booth, surprised at how out of character this was for Parker, that he would even know proximity to DJ was desirable or even requestable.

“Shall I send some ladies over to the table?” asked the door girl.

“Please,” said Parker.

“Feel free to send yourself,” said Russ.

“Oh, congratulations,” she said, not looking up from her clipboard.

“Yeah?” said Russ.

“You’re the one millionth guy to make that joke tonight.”

Their waitress, all the waitresses for that matter, wore furry boots, tiny shorts, and a track jacket with stripes down the arms. She set them up with a tall bottle of vodka and a squat bottle of tequila and all the accouterments. Their table was an ottoman really, in a nook down next to the booth, on the corner of the dance floor. Little pockets of girlfriends danced with one another but the floor, for the most part, was sparse, making the music seem even louder. Russ didn’t recognize the song, hardly even recognized the genre.

“Is this moombahton?” Russ shouted to the waitress, pointing at the ceiling.

“I think it’s moombacore,” she shouted back.

“Of course, of course,” said Russ, nodding thoughtfully.

Parker requested some Diet Coke.

In short order three girls came over to the table, dressed to the teeth.

“Are these them?” Parker asked Russ, who shrugged emphatically, his hands in the air.

“Interest you guys in a drink?” said Parker.

“Sure,” said one of them—the leader—and they all sat down.

Parker poured them two vodka sodas, one vodka cran, and they all took a shot of tequila with Russ.

“You don’t drink?” asked one, the prettiest probably, by Russ’ estimation, an honest question, no judgment to it.

“Allergic,” said Parker.

“Me too,” said Russ. “It makes me feel all weird when I drink it!”

“That’s funny,” said the one girl, but nobody laughed.

“You guys wanna come up to our hotel room and have sex with us?” asked Parker. Russ made a show of being taken aback by the question but immediately leaned in with curiosity for their answer.

The girls didn’t seem offended, actually kind of sized Russ and Parker up.

“No thanks,” they said.

“Enjoy your evening,” said Parker.

“Bye.”

“That was bizarre,” said Russ once they got up.

“Not pros,” said Parker.

Over the next hour or so they met a number of young women, some of whom were as straightforward as “two hundred an hour” or “eight hundred an hour” and some of whom were just in town celebrating a girlfriend’s birthday, engagement, divorce. At one point Russ reiterated the possibility of maybe trying to not pay for it but Parker was steadfast against that and furthermore was not satisfied with the price range he was being presented. He was like the opposite of a bargain hunter, looking to pay top dollar for the assurance of the quality of the service. Russ was taking great pleasure in his ride-along role, the consumer confidant, the second opinion guy: all of the excitement (up until a point) and none of the pressure. Plus he had an ample tequila buzz going—the amplest of all buzzes. He was therefore disappointed to see Parker ask for the bill, but couldn’t argue. When they left the table, revelers descended on their leftover booze like east coast seagulls to an unguarded sandwich.

They were halfway into a taxi, halfway meaning Parker was in it and Russ was just about to slide in, when a young woman called to them from where she was leaning against the building. She had said, “Hey,” initially, but Russ ignored it, not figuring she was talking to him, but then she said, “Hey, bro,” a little louder and he turned and pointed at himself and she came over and asked for a light for her cigarette, which was a menthol. Just based on the way she looked, Russ was ready to marry this girl, start a family. He could not envision a scenario where he’d ever become dissatisfied with her as a mate. She wore tight jeans of pale blue, like a chlorine blue, ripped at the knees, and her legs were very skinny. Black suede high heels and a white top, her breasts suspiciously large for the slightness of her frame, likely enhanced, arms as skinny as her legs, the skin tone somehow both tanned and fair, like creamy, with freckles here and there. Her hair was streaky blonde, perfectly mussed, and she had a kind of Scandinavian melancholy to her face, or maybe it was just genuine melancholy, despite the pink lip-gloss, which left a bit of residue on the filter of her smoke when Russ lit it.

“Are you guys staying at the Hotel?” she asked, eyeing the keycard Russ had inadvertently pulled from his pocket along with his lighter. She exhaled, her smoking elbow falling into her free hand. She spoke in a feminine tenor, with a tinge of blue-collar suburb.

“Where else,” said Russ. Parker was leaning over with his forearm on the seat, assessing.

“Me too,” she said. “Can we share?”

“Of course, yeah,” said Russ. He stepped out of the way to let her in, and she took two deep drags of the cigarette before flicking it away and climbing in.

“Parker,” said Parker, offering his hand.

“Mickey,” said the girl. The cigarette smell was strong on her in the back of the car, but there was also a trace of her perfume—bluebell and vanilla—cutting through.

“This here’s Rusty,” he said, the phrasing impossible not to take on a slight cowboy tone.

“Ma’am,” said Russ, playing along.

“What is that short for?” said Parker. “Michaela, McKenzie?”

“Mmm, no,” she said.

“Right on,” said Parker.

“You guys been gettin’ lucky on the tabes?” she asked.

“Not me,” said Russ. “This guy.”

“Did all right,” said Parker.

“What are you playing?”

“Blackjack, roulette.”

“You know all the numbers on the roulette wheel add up to 666?” said Mickey.

“Is that true?” said Parker.

“True story.”

“Damn.”

“So what’s up?” said Mickey as they pulled up to the Hotel. “Did you guys want to like, hang out, or…”

Parker glanced at Russ. “Are you… working?” he asked.

Russ practically held his breath, worried that even if she was she would be still offended.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Could be.”

They agreed to have a drink at the lobby bar.

“Will you order me a shot?” Mickey asked Russ. “And also take one with me?”

“Me?” asked Russ.

“This guy doesn’t drink, right?”

“How’d you know that?” asked Parker, somewhat indignant.

“Can just tell,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s not a negative.”

“What do you want?” asked Russ.

“Surprise me,” she said.

Russ ordered two mezcals with neat Diet Coke backs. Mickey shook her head and laughed.

“Is that all right?” asked Russ.

“It’s like honestly all I drink,” she said. “To you guys,” she said, raising her glass and drinking. She didn’t touch the Coke.

“Is the ice sufficiently broken?” said Parker. “Shall we get down to brass tacks?”

“Is it brass tacks, CK, or brass tax, with an X?” asked Russ.

“Can I get a, uh, quote?” said Parker.

Mickey picked up the empty shot glass, raised it again. “‘Look homeward angel now and melt with ruth, and oh ye dolphins waft the hapless youth.”

“What?” said Russ.

“Thank you,” said Parker. “Not what I meant.”

Mickey looked at him. “It’s fourteen hundred for one hour, give or take, depending.” She looked at Russ; she thought about it, bounced her head from side to side a little. “Two thousand split the hour. Three thousand same time.”

“You down?” Parker asked Russ.

“For which scenario?” But he didn’t wait for anybody to answer. “You guys go ahead,” he said. “Have fun.”

“Couple hundred bucks,” said Mickey, touching his arm. “Watch?”

“Pass,” said Russ.

Parker took Mickey’s hand and led her away toward the elevators. Watching them go, Russ flashbacked to June after eighth grade, a Memorial Day party at Old Cove where the teenagers had gotten into some of the liquor. He felt the same kind of stoic envy he felt that night, when Parker had fingered Lauren Capelli on the trampoline, a pride to it like this is who Parker was and this is who he was and that was fine.

“Where did that come from?” he said aloud.

“How’s that?” said the bartender and Russ ordered another drink.

There was a sign by the pool area that said it was closed but the door opened when Russ tried it and he walked out into the warm night. Looming over the pool on his left-hand side was a bit of skyline, the lights reflecting in the water, moving about in the slow ripple like yellow rose petals. There were no buildings to the right, though, and Russ walked that way, climbing some steps up onto a mezzanine, over to the hedge and fence that delineated the property. From here Russ felt very in the desert, the sky holding on to a blueish quality even in darkness, lightening in gradations down to the jagged outline of some unknown range, crowning it in glow like there was some other great city just beyond the mountains. He saw the running lights of a jet, could hear its far off drone, and he wondered if it crashed and he ran to it across the desert if he’d be the first one there.

Russ let a bit of the hallway light illuminate the room before closing the door. Mickey and Parker were asleep, twisted up together in the bed sheets. He sat on the edge of his own bed, in the dark, and took off his shoes and pants and shirt, tossing them in the direction of where he knew a chair to be. The room was ice-cold, and despite the lingering energy of the night and the pinch of hunger beginning to form in his stomach, Russ fell asleep.

There was the faintest blue light outlining the shades in the room when Russ woke halfway up to find Mickey asleep in bed with him, facing him. She stirred as well and in the fog their lips met, and they tongued each other softly, with limited consciousness, a sleep-kiss. And when Russ woke up the second time, Mickey was back in bed with Parker. He had no memory of how or when the kiss had ended or, for that matter, if it had even actually happened.

He got up and fiddled around with the coffee maker in the room, got it going. Mickey sat up in bed, was all blinky and cute, disheveled and hunched over in her white camisole. Parker rolled over onto his back and laced his fingers behind his head, stretching and groaning loudly as he did so.

“Good morning,” said Russ.

“Sup,” said Parker.

“There’s only two cups,” said Russ. “So if you guys want to share…” He offered a cup of coffee to Mickey.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said.

“Gimme,” said Parker, scooting up. He took a precautionary sip, then another. “So. Good news.” He said.

“You guys are getting married?” asked Russ.

“That’s not even funny,” said Mickey, “around here.”

“Mickey’s gonna come back to LA with us,” said Parker. “Right?”

Mickey nodded. “Right.”

Russ figured this would cost even more than Parker had won at the tables last night, but didn’t ask. Maybe there was something else going on.

“I gotta get the real name, unfortunately,” said Russ.

“It’s Mickey,” said Mickey. “That’s my thing—everyone assumes the name you use is fake, so using your real name is the fakest name you can use.”

“Smart,” said Parker.

“But what’s it short for?” said Russ.

“Mikhail Gorbachev,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m gonna shower.”

Once Russ heard the water start he said, “Just want to hit you with a friendly ‘are you sure about this.’”

“Oh yeah,” said Parker, starting to gather his belongings.

They stopped at Mickey’s apartment complex for her to pack a bag, and when she took a while, Russ and Parker worried she’d given them the slip, but out she came, in jean shorts and high tops and a v-neck toting a little duffel. On her recommendation they stopped for lunch at a gyro stand in the middle of the Mojave, and then, in the parking lot, in the almost unendurable sun blare, Mickey asked Russ if he would sit in the back with her so she could take a nap.

“Why do you need me to sit with you to nap?” he asked. Parker seconded the question with a raised eyebrow and a point of the index.

“So I don’t get lonely,” she said.

“What if Parker gets lonely?” said Russ.

“He’ll be fine.”

“As a former cocaine addict,” said Parker, “I’m no stranger to loneliness.”

“I thought it was heroin,” said Russ, not meaning for it to sound as accusatory as it came out.

Parker shielded his eyes from the sun. “It was everything,” he said.

Mickey lay on her side with her head on Russ’s lap and he had no recourse but to lay his hand on her upper arm, kind of cupping her shoulder. The urge to stroke her head was similar to those moments when you stare at a glowing orange stovetop coil and there is but a thin membrane of rationality that stops you from palming it. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and steady but there was no way to tell for sure if she was asleep or not. Every time Parker glanced in the rearview Russ worried he was looking at them. As such he couldn’t really relax, so Russ stared out the window at the passing salmon rock formations, and then, nestled in a valley, a sea of solar mirrors, a streak of reflected sunlight moving across its surface with the motion of the car.

“I heard that enough solar energy falls on the earth in one hour to sustain the entire globe’s energy needs for a year,” said Russ.

“Drill, baby, drill,” said Parker.

“Sun is mad bleary out here,” said Russ. “Like a melting dollop of butter.”

Parker looked up out through the windshield. “It’s like how you would draw it in a comic book.”

‘Shh,” said Mickey and they fell silent, only a little John Prine playing softly on the radio.

Back in LA Russ felt a deep low, like an after-the-big-dance low, post summer-camp type low. Out on the veranda the light itself seemed to have a depressing slant, and the eyes on the scrub jay that hung around his neighbors’ firebush seemed a little blacker, beak a little sharper. Russ was overcome with a frantic curiosity about Mickey: where was she from, and from what kind of family? Had she played any sports in high school? How old was she? What did she typically do for breakfast? What were her hopes for the future? Did she wear socks to bed and did she like to fall asleep with the TV on? It seemed incomprehensible to Russ that he hadn’t thought to ask any of these questions when he had the chance, and mulling over the missed opportunities—at the bar, at lunch, in the car—had him on the verge of tears.

He picked up the phone and dialed Parker.

“Yo.”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Hanging with Mickey?” Parker put the question mark on the end like it was obvious and he was confused that Russ was asking.

“What are you guys gonna do?”

“I dunno, man, I’ll see ya,” said Parker and hung up the phone.

Russ didn’t call back and he didn’t call back for a few days because he was worried that Parker had extended Mickey’s stay. But Parker called him on Wednesday and told him he had put Mickey on a plane back to Las Vegas on Sunday afternoon, the day after they had brought her to LA.

“The sex was insane obviously,” said Parker.

“I don’t need to—”

“Or maybe it wasn’t. I mean—the body, you saw. But after a while it’s like you can’t help but focus on the one-sidedness of it. Part of the thing is that she makes you believe she’s really into it. Not just the sex—all of it—like you honestly think at any minute she’s going to tell you she’s having this magical time and that she caught feelings and that it’s all on the house. But it’s not, dude; it’s not on the house. It’s very not on the house.”

“When I was very young my mom showed me this old Liz Taylor movie and I couldn’t sleep for like a week ‘cause I was so in love with her. I was for real sick to my stomach.”

Parker laughed. “Okay. Is that relevant here?”

“I don’t know,” said Russ. “I think, maybe. So did she like give you her number to hit her up the next time you were in town?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you do me a favor and not give me a hard time about it? The favor.”

“What’s up?”

“Can you just get rid of it—the number?”

Parker said sure, he would, but Russ had to force the trust to believe that he really would or then that he really had. And then, much later, even though he and Parker hardly ever talked anymore, and Russ hardly ever thought about it, when he did get the inkling now and again that maybe Mickey’s number was still there, scrawled in ballpoint on a little folded-up piece of paper, in a drawer in some end-table at Parker’s place, he could admit he took some comfort in it.