Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (chapter books to read to 5 year olds TXT) 📕

The dark interior stank of stale booze and tobacco. He walked past huge Indians at the backlit bar, Paiutes for sure.

He’d read about them once, one of the Shoshone tribes. They were big in any average group of people but they were enormous among Indians.

Tobacco smoke burned his eyes, still sore from being glued to the inside of his windshield. Thick cigarette smoke formed halos around old school lights over the gaming tables.

His tears flushed away the dryness and refreshed his eyes. He blinked and wiped them away.

The handful of Indians playing the tables looked drunk, Kirby's lucky day.

Surrounding speakers popped and Delbert McClinton started singing, Every Time I Roll the Dice.

Kirby liked this old song, even over this crappy sound system.

A fat squaw got up on a small stage to dance her stuff.

Jesus.

Her sloppy figure looked like she’d had six to ten kids.

"Please, sit down," he said softly.

Nobody heard.

He shoved his way past the poorly lit bar, pulled out his emergency hundred dollar bill and sat at the only blackjack table in play. He nodded at the two other players.

The woman must have weighed 300 pounds, her cocktail dress so tight it pushed her boobs up under her fat, white powdered chin, maybe in her fifties.

The skinny white guy with her wore a Pendleton shirt, classic plaid wool, probably in his seventies. A lit cigarette dangled from his thin, bluish lips. Smoke curled up into the guy’s narrow slits, watching the deal.

The Paiute dealer looked forty, slicked black hair tied in a ponytail, well over 200 pounds of muscle, at least six inches taller than Kirby.

“Give me some chips.” Kirby slid his last hundred dollars onto the green velvet tabletop.

KIRBY PARKED IN FRONT of the Sportsman’s Inn at 3:07am, exhausted. It hadn’t taken long to lose his last century note and he'd already maxed his credit cards. Even his American Express had reached its flexible limit. The sporting goods guy had trouble clearing it. He still had half a tank of gas, more than enough to get back up to her place.

He checked all the hiding places in his empty wallet and slid the wallet under his seat. He’d tell her he lost it when he got out to check the damage after driving into that stupid boulder.

She’d have to loan him enough to get back to L.A. Hopefully, she’d invest in the company and give him a chance to get back on a winning streak. If not for that stupid kid and his stupid dog, Kirby would have had it all. She'd been getting hot before . . .

Stupid kid.

Kirby shut off his car, got out and slipped a little. He hung onto the door this time and didn't fall. He locked his car and went inside, nice and warm, nobody at the desk.

Good.

He didn’t want to see anybody else tonight.

He sneaked upstairs and went straight to his room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His quiet growl surprised him, being in an ugly mood. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re just a kid?”

Mona sat up in bed. Her face glowed red from crying. She hugged the sheet to her collarbone, shy. Nothing could hide her gorgeous nakedness. “I’m sorry for being such a baby. It’s just that . . .” She was so beautiful. Her mouth turned down. Tears welled. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you before; she’s one of my authors. That’s all.”

Oh, you beautiful baby.

I don’t care.

"Look at you."

Jesus.

He slid out of his coat and let it fall to the floor.

LIGHT FOUND A WAY THROUGH the crust holding Kirby’s eyelids shut, scratching his eyeballs. Having previously been in this condition many times, he knew what needed to be done. He sat up and pried one puffy eyelid open enough to see through the scum, a painful business. The flush of tears over his parched iris helped. He could see his watch now, 10:23am.

“Damn.” He jumped up and throbbing pain in his pan fried brain nearly sat him back down. He swallowed hard to stop acid drenched booze from bubbling up. It burned the back of his throat. He staggered to the wall sink and doused his face, hair and neck with ice cold water. His skull hammered from whiskey and second hand smoke.

Stupid, slimy casino.

Hot water finally reached the sink and he used a washcloth to wash his chest and genitals. That hurt a little.

Mona.

He smiled, remembering.

He dressed, packed, and rushed downstairs where he set his suitcase in front of the desk.

Joanne still looked pissed off.

“Will you take a company check? I lost my wallet last night. I think the room was already paid on my American Express card.” Kirby forced an apologetic smile into Joanne’s steely stare.

He looked at his watch, 10:42am.

She unclenched her teeth. “We don’t take American Express. Mona should never have offered to try.”

“I guess I could wash some dishes.”

You stupid witch.

“Counting meals and drinks, your bill is three hundred and sixty four dollars and twelve cents.” She handed him a handwritten bill. It didn’t show the bottle of Canadian Club.

Great.

Kirby wrote a check for the exact amount, tore it from the checkbook, signed it and slid it across the desk. He grabbed the receipt, picked up his suitcase and headed out into a cold gray morning. He opened his trunk, deposited the suitcase and closed the trunk.

The Bentley started sluggish, so cold up here. He let it warm up for a full thirty seconds before backing across the empty highway. He parked in front of Doc' and Al's, the trunk close to the raised boardwalk. He opened the trunk, got out, climbed the steps and entered the store at 10:55.

The old man stood behind the counter wearing a heavy sheepskin coat. “Nearly gave up on you.” He spun two sheets of paper toward Kirby. “Here’s your bill of sale. I already signed both of them. If you can sign one . . .”

Kirby pulled his gold Cross pen and signed a copy.

The old guy looked