The Secret History of Las Vegas (17 page)

I
t was dark with the exception of one lamp on a table that cast a dim pool of light on the floor. In the gloom it seemed brighter than it really was. Water sat in a chair near the lamp, reading a copy of
GQ,
wondering if there would ever be a Hugo Boss suit or Dolce & Gabbana sweater designed with conjoined twins in mind. Beside him, under his caul, Fire snored.

The door was flung open and Brewster strode in, flicking the overhead fluorescent light on, bathing the room in harsh radiation.

Am I disturbing, he asked, and sat on the edge of the bed.

A very nervous nurse flitted by his elbow. They are Dr. Singh's patients, he said. We should call him to come in before you ask them any more questions.

Brewster's look shut him up.

Water put down the magazine. Fire shifted about under Water's robe.

Why even bother reading a magazine like that, Brewster asked. Do you think with the right disguise you can fit in?

A completely blind chameleon still takes on the colors of its environment, Water said.

Is that what you are, a chameleon?

Water was silent.

I asked you a question, Brewster said. I'm not as soft as Dr. Singh, so answer me.

A vexillologist is an expert in the history of flags, Water said.

I know this is just an act you're putting on, Brewster snarled.

Pope Pius II wrote an erotic book,
Historia de duobus amantibus,
in 1444, Water said.

I know you're really the one in control here, Brewster said. I've seen your MRIs.

Michael Jackson holds the rights to the South Carolina state anthem, Water said.

Don't play this game with me, Brewster said.

Black bears are not always black. They can be brown, cinnamon, yellow, and even white.

Do you know that I have the power to keep you here indefinitely?

A dog can hear frequencies that a human ear cannot, Water said.

And then before Brewster could speak again, Water began rocking and repeating facts, rapid-fire, leaving no room for Brewster to speak:

The infinity sign is called a lemniscate.

Take your height and divide by eight, that's how tall your head is.

Pittsburgh is the only city where all major sports teams have the same colors: black and gold.

It is illegal to own a red car in Shanghai.

Zipporah was the wife of Moses.

Donald Duck's middle name is Fauntleroy.

A baby eel is called an elver; a baby oyster is called a spot.

Paper bags are outlawed in grocery stores in Afghanistan. They believe paper is sacred.

Thomas Edison was afraid of the dark.

Shut up, shut up! Brewster said.

He was interrupted by the sound of Fire's caul snapping open.

What the fuck is going on, he asked.

George W. Bush is related to every U.S. president from George Washington to Barack Obama, Water said. Barack and W are eleventh cousins.

Enough, Brewster said.

As soon as Dr. Singh comes in, I will be lodging a formal complaint, Fire said.

With that, he retreated under the caul, snapping it closed.

It's just a matter of time, Brewster said, then you're all mine.

F
rom the small street off Fremont, the lights were close enough to touch. The sound of piped music was loud enough to make conversation hard, not that the group of boys, girls, men, and women strolling the short street was interested in talking. Even though prostitution was illegal in Las Vegas, the police never really bothered the workers there. They were pretty good at policing themselves, and at keeping drugs and violence, which was bad for business, out of their area.

Vegas, someone once said, was no different from any small American town, except that everything hidden and denied there was celebrated in Vegas. It was, effectively, America's, and increasingly the world's, darkest and brightest subconscious.

Horny Nick was bored. He polished his horns and lit a cigarette. He'd had no takers yet, but Sundays were quiet and drew a more conventional crowd less likely to go for a rent boy with filed teeth, tattoos, and implanted horns.

Farther down the street, Annie and Petrol worked a corner. Annie was having a great night, and who didn't want to fuck an elf from
Lord of the Rings
? Petrol drew a class of men who wanted to dominate or be dominated. Horny Nick was an acquired taste but one that cost more, so he wasn't worried. With only a few johns he could make what Petrol and Annie took twice as long to earn.

Peggy patrolled nearby, keeping a watchful eye on her friends, earning her keep as security. She was walking past Petrol and Annie when she saw a silver compact pass by, headed up the street. There was something off about it, she intuited, and for her that was enough. She began to run up the street shouting as Horny Nick leaned into the window.

Peggy was less than ten feet away as Nick opened the passenger door and got in. The car peeled away from the curb and joined the traffic with practiced ease. Too slow to draw attention, fast enough to get away quick.

I'm Horny Nick, Nick said.

The driver smiled and, turning to him, jabbed a Taser to his jugular. Nick was unconscious in three seconds, a wet patch forming on his jeans.

Outside, receding rapidly, Peggy hadn't given up the chase.

She finally stopped in the middle of the street, breathless, where Petrol and Annie joined her.

What is it, Annie asked.

Nick is in trouble, Peggy said, dialing.

Who are you calling, Petrol asked.

Salazar.

Salazar's phone went to voice mail.

Shit! Peggy screamed. She knew it wouldn't help to call the regular police.

I
n the growing desert cold, the lights of the carnival were like sharp points. The man in the wheelchair still sat in the spotlight, singing, his only concession to the cold a blanket draped over his legs.

Fred, are you involved in any downwinder action groups, Sunil asked.

Salazar sat forward.

Do you think we're eco-terrorists now, Fred asked.

Fire said he was a downwinder nationalist, Sunil said. That's a direct-action group.

Even if that were true, you think I'm involved?

It bears thinking about, Sunil said. Given that you share a similar . . . I'm not accusing you of anything, just trying to understand.

No offense, but that's just dumb. How would getting arrested at Lake Mead next to a blood dump help you commit an act of terrorism?

I don't know, Sunil said.

Let me ask you something, she said.

Fair enough, Sunil said.

Where are you from? There's an accent.

South Africa.

Well, since you share the fucked-up history of South Africa, have you ever killed anyone on either side of the political divide?

Sunil shifted. Killed someone, he said. No.

Fred smiled cruelly. Watched someone die, she asked.

Sunil looked away.

I'm not accusing you, Doctor, I'm just getting to know you.

So you think that Fire and Water are innocent of all charges and they aren't crazy?

Yes, Fred said. Let me come and talk to them, she said. I will get them to open up. Get this whole thing cleared up by tomorrow afternoon.

That would be very helpful, Sunil said. You would do that?

For the twins? Sure, she said.

Hold up here, Salazar said. Now, wait just a fucking minute. They are my twins, my case. You get to help on one condition.

What is your condition?

That you come into the station voluntarily and that we run your prints and take a statement.

Fine. Can I talk to them, she asked Sunil.

Now? On the phone?

Any objections, Sunil asked Salazar.

Now you care what I think.

So?

Let her have her fucking phone call, Salazar said.

Sunil called the institute and asked the duty nurse to put the twins on.

What's up, Doc, Fire said.

Hold for Fred, Sunil said, passing the phone.

Fred took it. Some privacy, she said.

Sunil looked at Salazar, who nodded. Fred left them on the porch and stepped back inside, closing the door behind her. She was on the phone for only a few minutes before she came back out and handed the phone to Sunil and thanked him.

Now you two need to leave, as I have a carnival to run, Fred said. She herded them to the door, taking their beer bottles.

So you'll come by in the morning, Sunil asked.

Yes, I'll meet you at the institute at ten.

She walked them back to their car. Two men sat in a golf cart beside it.

I see you have your own security, Sunil said.

It's a ghost town. We need to keep it safe, she said.

Crowds were already beginning to mill about. The town suddenly looked alive, like a horror-film town, or a Stephen King novel, where everyone was dead in the daytime but came to life at night.

Where the fuck did all these people come from, Salazar asked.

All lost souls come to commune at the carnival, Fred said, laughing.

Fuck, Salazar said. He got into the car quickly and started the engine.

As Sunil turned to go, Fred touched his arm. Thank you for coming, she said. This is the closest thing the twins have to a home. I would like to bring them back. You understand, right? You lost your home too. Have you ever been back?

Sunil smiled. Good night, he said, and got in beside Salazar.

As they drove down the yellow brick road, Salazar said: You know she's lying, right?

Of course she is, Sunil said. The question is, what is she lying about, and why?

The drive home was faster. Ten miles from the town, both of their cell phones began to beep.

Finally, some service, Salazar said.

Yes, Sunil said, looking at his phone.

Asia had called seven times. Sheila five. Brewster five.

Wow, he thought, busy night. He was curious about Asia's calls, but Sheila and Brewster could wait. He tried Asia's cell. There was no answer. As they hit the open road and gathered speed, Sunil thought back to Fred's question: Have you ever been back?

He had been once: but not to J'burg, or Soweto, but to Cape Town. Thinking about it now, Sunil was reminded of one of those moments of uneasy grace that he'd found on a beach in Cape Town shortly after his return.

An overweight woman walked across the sand with one arm tucked close to her right side, body bent into a slightly angled sway. Sunil recognized the signs of a small shame, of a person used to an unkind gaze. The young woman sunbathing topless, spread to the glory of the sun with the abandon of the proud. Older women more modest with their bodies, but less with their envy, shot her disapproving glances.

An old white man slept in the sun: fully dressed and looking like an untidy pile of towels in the sand. A woman on her cell phone turned away from him, her muscled and uncovered back had a Ganesh tattoo spread like a rug across it. Kids of all colors and races clustered around an old black man selling ice cream from a blue-and-white cooler.

Returns are never what we expect them to be. The glory of old wins pales in the face of the reality of compromise. The Cape Town beach with whites, blacks, Indians, and coloreds fading into burnt sepia—the color of tolerance, a smudge over the sharp, angled pain that still struggled under the wash of it—was no different. There was no feeling of restitution in this. There should be more than giving back what was free and collective in the first place. He didn't know what, but felt that there should be.

Near where he lay, a rock still held the rusting scar of a sign that used to declare
THE DIVISION COUNCIL OF THE CAPE
—
WHITE AREA: BLANKE GEBIED
. He'd stubbed his toe on it coming down to the sand. A Boer somewhere is smiling, he thought. Everyone on the beach seemed to be having a good time and he couldn't understand at first why he was so angry. Then he realized what it was; the air was heavy with it—amnesia.

Restorative, isn't it, a woman next to him said.

What is, he asked, always precise.

The water, she said, the water and the breeze.

They had water and a breeze on Robben Island, he said. I'm not sure how restorative that was.

She took off her sunglasses and looked at him, intrigued by his non sequitur. He returned her look, taking in details: she was of indeterminate race, probably colored, he thought, and young, maybe thirty, and attractive in an unusual way.

I like the way the breeze makes everything seem good, she said, choosing her words carefully, responding not to his statement but to something unsaid, something she sensed.

Like apartheid, he said, unable to help himself. I imagine all the whites lying here during apartheid, the breeze and the water making it possible for everything to seem good, he added.

Yes, she said. I suppose you are right. There was a smile behind her words.

You seemed amused by it, he said, offended.

Not by it, she said, stressing the syllables. I am amused by your tone.

Why?

You just came back, she said.

Yes, he said, wondering how she could tell. His accent?

Gone for a long time?

Ten years, he said.

She nodded. It is a long time, she said.

Yes, he said. Too long.

She bit down on her sunglasses and sighed. It is not just time, is it? That bothers you, I mean.

No, he said.

Lost people to the darkness?

He was simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by her description of that time. It was darkness—of the spirit, the heart—but why that word? Why was it always used in the negative? It had been whiteness, a lightness that made it hard for the perpetrators to see the limits of their souls, not blackness, that destroyed them all. He wanted to say that but was held back by his knowledge that it was only partially true. Mostly, but not completely, and as his mother used to say, quoting a Zulu proverb, You cannot eat meat you mostly caught, only meat you actually caught.

Yes, he said, instead. My mothers.

She nodded, eyes sad for him. If she noticed the plural and thought it odd, she didn't say anything. Perhaps she knew that it took more than one mother to raise a child through those times.

Nobody could stop the sickness, she said. Not even Madiba. It had to run its course. There was no blame in the loss of those times.

It seemed to him that there was plenty of blame and he had a share in that. There is always blame, he said. There has to be. What is life without it?

She smiled and said: Good old South African guilt, shared by all races.

I shouldn't have to feel guilty, he said. I didn't do this.

If she wondered what he meant by “this,” she said nothing. Instead she said: I know, but we all do. It doesn't help anything though.

He nodded and looked away, suddenly tearful.

Let the water restore you, the woman said, replacing her glasses and falling back onto her beach towel.

He closed his eyes and listened to the waves, feeling the spray on his face. It did feel good.

Without looking at him, the woman spoke: I know this seems wrong, not like justice, but here we take freedom day by day, moment by moment: What else is there?

She was right. What did he know? He'd been gone ten years. My name is Sunil, he said. It seemed important to state who he was.

She smiled, still not looking at him. Welcome home, Sunil, she said.

Thank you, he said.

What the fuck did you say, Salazar asked him.

Nothing. I was thinking about Cape Town, about the time I went back. I was having a coffee in this café and I saw Robben Island from the window. I said to the old waiter serving me, if the island was visible every day how come they pretended nothing was going on? He smiled and said, It was often quite foggy in those days, sir, the island was rarely visible.

It's a skill, Salazar said. Like witnesses who can't remember anything at a crime scene.

Selective blindness made Sunil think of White Alice.

White Alice got her name from the locals in Soweto when she moved there from Cape Town. Her name wasn't a result of her complexion—she looked somewhere between colored and Indian, no different really from the thousands of biracial South Africans who were caught between apartheid's denial of mixed unions and its fear of miscegenation. It wasn't unusual for people to try to pass as white. Those who couldn't pass settled for delusion: claiming to be white, which is what White Alice had done. She told anyone who would listen that she had been born white but had turned black after an illness. No one believed her, but no one minded either. This was Soweto.

White Alice was Dorothy's best friend. The two women became inseparable, spending at least an hour or two a day over at each other's house, drinking sweetened tea and eating biscuits, complaining about life and the difficulties of loss. White Alice talked about her three children in Cape Town, all white, whom she hadn't seen since her husband took them away from her on account of her sudden and mysterious blackness. When Sunil asked his mother about White Alice's condition, she told him White Alice was probably just a very light-skinned colored who had passed for white for much of her life, but, as Dorothy said, blackness will always exert its revenge, and Alice had just grown into her true shade. It made sense. Sunil found out in medical school that White Alice might have been telling the truth. He discovered a condition called hyperpigmentation, a result of Addison's disease, which had been known to darken the skin of white sufferers enough to alter perception of their racial heritage. But by then, White Alice had betrayed him twice, and his discovery of her condition and the pain it must have caused her wasn't enough to engender his sympathy or his forgiveness. Not even when, on his eighteenth birthday, a strange white man who identified himself as Colonel Bleek visited him with a generous scholarship package for college. What good would it have done to stare such a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak? He'd asked only one question: Why me?

Alice Coetzee spoke highly of you, Bleek said. She recommended you for this.

Oh, was all he said at the time. But Sunil had since lived with the regret of not asking more questions. Like what would the gift cost him? He thought it particularly poignant that while taking German at college to better understand Freud, he found out that the word “gift,” in German, meant poison. In many ways, it seemed that the Germans had a real philosophical handle on life.

He wanted to tell Salazar all this. Instead he said: I'm sure you're right.