Las Vegas Noir (21 page)
“You know, I’m not really Irish,” he said, softening.
“That’s okay, I’m not really blond.”
They both laughed. Her giggle was fake. His chuckle was nervous.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.
“Because I can. Because I wanted you to see me in my pretty white dress. Don’t you think I’m pretty?” she said, leaning over her drink, tipping her cleavage out even further.
He hated her right then, but he was attracted too.
“You’re a cruel woman.”
“It’s part of my charm,” she smiled.
“I like your lipstick.” He couldn’t help himself.
She bit her bottom lip just slightly.
“The color is called
Tempt
. Are you tempted?” She smiled wider, then walked away, looking over her shoulder. She wiggled.
He told himself that he had to quit this jester-like job and find better pay doing something more normal. He was tired of cover songs and dark walls. He was tired of running into shades of his past. He wanted to emerge on the other side of this a better man.
He stared at Brenda’s train as it slithered away on the dirty floor. Not marrying Linda was the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and he knew it right then. Graceful Linda with long limbs and blue eyes. She left him and Vegas. He had heard she was with a wealthier musician now. Probably touring around Europe. Eating French cheese from the hands of that rich man. Bathing with him in an Alps-sheltered chateau.
Wally was stuck in the same pub, and he had one more set to play before he could pick up his paycheck on the fourth floor, drink a Guinness for breakfast, and then walk out of the well-lit casino into the 6 a.m. sun.
He exhaled, moving back to his half-moon stage, feeling more himself as he stepped away from the pack of people.
The middle man in the gray suit came to the stage with a twenty-dollar bill for the tin tip jar. Wally swallowed.
Middle man had long fingers and big teeth. His hair was white and slick.
“What would you like to hear, my friend?” Wally asked.
“Why don’t you play ‘Danny Boy.’ I like that one,” the old drinker said, straight-faced.
“Oh, yeah, sure. It’s my favorite,” Wally lied.
He quickly belted out the old hymn, not concerned if it was perfect or even if it sounded good. He was sick of singing and sick of being there and sick of seeing Brenda jiggling her parts all over the pub. That middle man was making him nervous, and he knew he had to get out.
Ending just after 11 p.m., he no longer cared if he left early. He grabbed his guitar case and stumbled off the stage, hurriedly heading up to the fourth floor to grab his check. Rushing through the tawny casino, a million little lights all around him. Cigar smoke rising. The face of a huge masked joker bolted to the wall. Bold baccarat signs and spinning roulette wheels. G-stringed cocktail waitresses sauntering through the aisles. Pit bosses sternly standing by, arms folded. One-armed bandits stealing money left and right. Cherry, seven, six.
He stabbed at the elevator button, wanting to hurry up and run out of the whole place. Out of the casino, out of the parking lot, and maybe out of town.
As soon as he got into the brassy elevator, he was locked inside a private funhouse. The mirrored interior gave Wally eight different images of himself. He hated every one. He stared at the floor. Grotesque casino carpet was better to look at.
His head was bowed. His heart was near his knees. It was a long ride. As the elevator ascended, for a moment he wondered if you go to hell, do you feel like you are going up instead of down? The devil’s parting trick.
Finally floor four came, and he dashed out down the hall to human resources. He had reached the end of the hallway when he heard a steel door click shut, then a swishing behind him. He turned around and at the other end of the hall, near the stairwell, he saw her.
There she was in all her tan and white glory. Psycho, fat-toed Brenda. The deranged harpy was up on the fourth floor, she’d followed him up there. Holding out the sides of her wide dress as wings.
“What are you doing?” he uttered, scurrying toward an emergency exit.
“Shut up.” She grabbed him and then kissed him hard and dramatically, jolting her head and her veil from side to side. She tasted like cheap rum.
She pulled up her white dress and unzipped his trousers in what seemed like one swift movement. His back was against the long beige wall. Sure, he had already had her. But this. The veil. The virginal white. He was overtaken. She tilted her head back, and as she did, Wally noticed the elevator doors opening. Out walked the three men dressed in gray suits.
“Sabrina! What in the hell are you doing?” the middle man yelled.
“Daddy?”
“I never took my daughter for a tramp!” he said, yanking her from Wally.
The singer slid from the wall to the floor, trying to inch away. He thought of every bad thing he’d ever done. Every one night stand, every unreturned phone call, every cheat, every lie. False hope handed out, cigarettes stolen, rent money gambled away. He wanted to confess. He wanted to plead.
Brenda looked at him cowering on the ground and grinned. She flipped her veil, hitting her father in the face.
Johnny growled.
“And you! You sick son of a …” Johnny Rosetti didn’t finish his sentence and he didn’t care. He was a man who did not like his principles marred in any way. He leaned down, grabbed Wally by the collar, and pistol-whipped him in the side of the head.
Dazed, Wally edged down the hall, still trying to escape.
Slowly, Johnny walked over to the singer’s body. His wingtips squeaked, and Wally cringed as he heard each footstep, closer and closer. The mad father looked down upon him.
With one open eye, Wally could see Johnny’s angry face. Those big teeth grinding together. Possible punishments ran through Wally’s mind. His detached head rolling down the hallway like a bloody bowling ball. Eyes plucked out with the antenna of a rusty car. Meat cutter through his middle. Thrown from the hotel roof. Legs sawed off. Something worse?
For all the fantasy, all Johnny did was reach for his gun. The quickest way was a lead projectile. Johnny harrumphed at the cowardice he saw below, then he shot the singer point blank.
Wally bled into the carpet, making the red parts redder, staining the gold squares. The amber hallway lights grew softer, and as he lay there, he watched Johnny address the other two suited men: “Get this cleaned up.”
Then the man turned to his daughter, disgusted.
Johnny grabbed Brenda’s arm, squeezing her thick tricep and the white satin wrapped around it.
T
he best place to watch the sun set in Las Vegas was at the east end of the airport, just underneath the landing jets. Staring west, as the sun slipped behind the Red Rock Mountains, the obsidian, angled shape of the Luxor fell into sharp relief against the stretched-out orange glow. Sundown in the desert beat out any other geography, hands down. On the water the sunset would linger, bouncing on the waves, but in the desert there was nothing for the light to hold on to, nothing to trap it, bribe it to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. It ran, fled after the day like a scared rabbit. It was my favorite time of day. I loved it out here, for however long it lasted. I thrived in the liminal time, the gray area between light and dark. Playing with shadows was how I made my living.
And it was a good living. Most nights, after watching the sun go down, I’d be getting ready to earn that living. I’d be filling my pockets with cards, setting coins, writing predictions which I knew would come true later in the evening. A few years ago I’d be doing all this in a tuxedo, but not anymore. Now the uniform of choice, what the casinos wanted, was the street look. Dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and loose-fitting coat, sporting a few days growth I wasn’t exactly comfortable with, I fit in well with the tourists at the Manhattan Resort and Casino. They didn’t suspect a thing until I walked up and asked them if they’d like to see something amazing. Then I’d amaze them for a few seconds with a magic trick I learned when I was still in high school—nothing any of them couldn’t do with the right book and three minutes of practice—then send them back to the casino floor. But not tonight. I was off tonight, asked for it special.
I lit a cigarette. I watched the glowing cherry at the tip of my Turkish Camel. If I timed it right, the light from the sun would vanish, leaving just the glowing ember to illuminate my face. I waited for it, slowing my inhalation. The dark overtook me, the red glow giving my face a Stanley Kubrick look. I sucked in, drawing down to the filter. Smiling, I flicked the butt out toward the landing lights of the next plane coming in. I turned left and started to walk toward the park. I had an appointment to keep and I didn’t want to be late.
In reality, I couldn’t be late. She wasn’t going anywhere until I got there. She was waiting for me. I knew it, even if she didn’t know I knew.
Her name was Raven, though she didn’t acquire the name at birth. She hadn’t been ushered into the waiting arms of loving parents who took one look at her and decided then and there what to call her. No, she was pushed out and virtually abandoned into the apathetic arms of grandparents who had no desire to raise another screaming, ungrateful child. But they did the right thing and took in Baby Girl Miller, which is what they called her for the first six months of her life. They had figured if they didn’t give her a name, they couldn’t get too attached, and then, if it all became too much, who would really miss a Baby Girl? But like it always happens, the prospect of another life to ruin became too much of a temptation to resist. Of course, that’s not how they see it, but then, who really ever sees the damage they cause? By six months they knew they would keep her, at least until she turned fourteen and left on her own accord, with their blessing, and, it must be noted, to their great relief. With this realization, though, came the following thought, that Baby Girl might be fine for now, but wouldn’t see her through her teenage years. Instead, they’d need a name that would sum up the unusually quiet little girl who had been born with a massive shock of dark hair and a preternatural fascination with shiny objects. A day trip to the Grand Canyon via helicopter to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary introduced them to Indian mythology, and by the time they’d gotten home and retrieved Baby Girl from the neighbor, they had decided to call her Raven.
I knew her as well as anyone, I guess. She’d jumped boxes for me back when I did that kind of thing. I’m sure if I ever went back to the big illusions, she’d be there for me. That’s probably how she knew where to find me. I had a warehouse nearby, a place for storage and rehearsal. I shared it with a couple of other guys, workers who had scored nice variety act spots when the big production shows started closing down. It was a good deal for all involved and it was walking distance from where I was now, albeit in the opposite direction.
This was my area of town. This was where I lived and created, where I prowled and hunted. She had come here looking for me. I determined I wasn’t going to be hard to find. As I sauntered into the park I saw her. Even in twilight that figure was hard to miss. She was looking in the other direction. I could easily have ducked behind a tree or jogged to the playground. Hell, I could have just sat down at a picnic table and she would have kept staring right through me. But no, I wanted to get this over with. I stopped short and just stood still, inhaling the ozone-filled desert air. It would rain soon, the clouds were making their way east even now. Tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to see the sun as it went down behind the gray, threatening sky. But then, depending on how this meeting went, it might not matter what the sky was like. There was a very good chance the sunset I had just enjoyed might be my last.
Eventually, she saw me and headed in my direction. She smiled like she caught me unaware. This was the difference between an amateur and a professional. In magic, it was marked by the outs. I never screwed up a trick, even if it didn’t come out they way I had originally intended. No matter the situation, I had an out. But then, I’m a professional. An amateur, they have no outs. They only have one way to do something and if things don’t go as planned, well, that’s when the fur starts to fly. And I didn’t want that to happen. Not yet at any rate. So I fought my instinct and closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It wasn’t often Vegas had that wet smell permeating the air. I concentrated on breathing and stood my ground, letting her do this her way. I didn’t want her thinking she had no other options. Without options this wouldn’t turn out well for anyone.
She walked up to me and stopped a foot away. Her head tilted up to look me in the eye. Her face was illuminated by the distant glow of the basketball court lights. Where we stood, by the picnic tables, was meant only for daytime use.
“Hi, Remy,” she said.
I nodded. I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. I had some ideas as to what she was doing here, I knew she was looking for me, but there was no sense diving in when I didn’t know how deep the water was.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
I nodded again. Magic is all about what the mark thinks they see, not what really happens. So one secret to a great trick, then, is knowing when to talk and when to let the audience make the connections for themselves. This was the latter. Whatever was really happening was secondary to whatever Raven thought was happening, and since I wasn’t sure of either, I kept my mouth shut.
“Things have gone a bit pear shaped,” she laughed nervously. Her eyes reflected the far-off light, giving them a depth they didn’t actually possess. It made her look thoughtful and contrite. I didn’t buy it. Not for a second.
“Do tell,” I countered.
“I fucked up.”
“That much I know. I was there for that part.”
“No. After that.”
“There was an ‘after’?” Now we were getting somewhere.
“I thought everything was clear.”