The Secret History of Las Vegas (2 page)

FRIDAY

A
desert wind rippled across Lake Mead and through the tamarisk on the shore. Dotting the reedy grass, the ghostly foundations of the sunken Mormon town of St. Thomas returned with the water level falling, like a rude reminder of all the secrets this place kept.

Detective Salazar was taken by the quiet of the ghost town. He liked that the only sound was the wind through the needle-leaved shrubs, the occasional birdcall, and the crunch of shells underfoot. He went there as often as he could, but not for the scenery or the quiet. It was his habit to visit crime scenes, long after the evidence had been tagged, bagged, and collected. He came to this site where, two years before, dead homeless men had begun appearing in dumps of ten, sometimes twelve, occasionally fewer, in an untidy pile. He combed over it again and again, convinced there was something he had overlooked, something that would break the case. Other times it was just to sit with the spirits of the place, as he liked to explain to his former—now retired—partner, Vines.

Shitload of good it does, Vines had told him.

But Salazar was convinced it did.

Maybe Vines was right, though. Even with increased patrols, they hadn't been able to apprehend the killer. The local police had called in the FBI and even psychiatrists and specialists in psychopathy from a local institute, the Desert Palms, all to no avail.

Then one day the killings stopped, but not before Salazar came upon the body of a teenager in the last dump. It wasn't only her age that marked her apart, or the fact that she was the only girl who had ever shown up at the body dumps. It was something else, something about her eyes, about the serenity that shone from them belying the thick finger bruises around her neck. That girl haunted him, kept him returning to the different dump sites around the lake for the last year. He was determined to find her killer.

Two months ago, at the end of summer, the body dumps had begun again, and this time Salazar didn't wait for the case to be assigned to him. He asked for it. Demanded it. He was due to retire soon, anytime he wanted to, as Human Resources put it. This would be his swan song, his last good thing. The only part he truly regretted about being a homicide detective was that he never arrived in time to save anyone. This would change that for him.

But it was now Halloween and he had no leads, was no closer to solving the murders. He looked down at his watch—4:00 p.m. If he was going to leave, he had to do it soon; otherwise he'd be stuck in traffic. But still, he didn't move. He looked out across the water.

 • • • 

A
cross the lake, unknown to Salazar, a park ranger had come across a man taking a dip in the blue water. To be fair, Ranger Green had first come across an old sedan with a bad paint job at the edge of the lake and, following the line of the car, a man in the water.

Sir, he called on his bullhorn. Sir, you have to get out of the water. This area of the lake is off-limits to the public. Overton Beach is a mile from here; there are signs.

The man was still, like he might have been carved out of driftwood, torso bent at a near ninety-degree angle, left side submerged under the water.

Sir, the ranger called.

The man in the water turned to the ranger, mouth moving, as though he were arguing with himself. He stood up straight and Green saw something attached to the man's left side, something that had previously been submerged under the water, something flailing. Green thought it looked like a baby or, at the very least, a small child. But that didn't make sense; surely the man couldn't be drowning a baby. He reached for his radio and called the police. Looking up, he saw that the man in the water was hesitating in the shallows. Green returned the horn to his mouth.

Sir, get out of the water now. The police are on their way.

Whatever internal debate the man seemed to be having ceased at this information and as he advanced rather rapidly toward the ranger, he gave off an air of quiet threat. Green stepped back, realizing now that the man was in front of him, shirtless, that there had been no baby. In one glance he took in the second man, though to call him that was a stretch, hanging as he was like an appendage off the first one's side.

Your name, sir, was the only thing he could think to say.

Fire, the appendage said. And this is Water, the appendage added in a high-pitched wheeze, pointing to the man Green had seen in the water.

A group of twelve or more cows is called a flink, Water said.

Come with me, Green said to Water, careful not to look at Fire.

Attached as he was, and measuring just over twelve inches long, Fire appeared to be little more than a head with two arms projecting out of Water's chest. He had no legs or feet, but he did have one toe, and that was attached to Water's torso. He was bald, and a large skin caul, like a turkey wattle, drooped down one side of his head. His left eyelid was swollen and misshapen, almost as if he had been punched there. His nose was squished nearly flat against his face and the nostrils flared with every breath he took, although he seemed to do most of his breathing through his mouth, a rattling harsh wheeze, and with each one his surprisingly generous lips curled back to reveal caninelike teeth. Only his bright and gentle eyes gave any indication of the intelligence behind them.

Water, at six feet, had a muscular, lean body and a face so perfectly proportioned that he seemed like a cruel joke at Fire's expense. He was quite simply beautiful. And this made Fire seem all the more shocking and alien.

The ranger pulled a blanket out of the back of his truck and offered it to Water, averting his gaze from Fire. He was glad when the blanket covered him.

It was getting dark, and the ranger's truck, roof lights flashing, idled next to the hunched sedan whose slender back tires were sunk a little into the soft mud by the lakeshore. The sedan's door bore the legend
KING KONGO: AFRICAN WITCHDOCTOR
.

This is too fucking much, the ranger muttered, and walked a little up the trail to look out for the police cruiser.

Water, a stoic and perhaps even otherworldly look on his face, gazed off to the hills in the distance behind which the Hoover Dam sat like an alien ship anchored to the walls of the Black Canyon. Left of the dam, just a few weeks before, a magician had walked across the lake, stopping in the middle to sink from sight, down to the wreck of the B-29 bomber that had crashed there in 1948. To the right of his line of sight, the Valley of Fire, also known as the playground of the gods, named for the spectacular red sandstone rock formations that flickered like grainy flames against the sky, spread like a red rash on the landscape. Behind the twins, snaking up through the tall tamarisk like a green tunnel, was a path of shells.

Fire, hanging from Water's side, was getting cold and irritated.

Is this a citizen's arrest, he asked. You can't keep us here.

But he had swallowed so much water from the lake that his voice was raspier than usual and, muffled by the blanket, he wasn't audible.

The ranger didn't respond but kept glancing over at the twins with a very disturbed look, somewhere between open curiosity and repulsion. An unmarked police cruiser winding down the trail, dust cloud in tow, brought a tight smile to his face.

Salazar, in a gray suit, stepped out and walked over to the ranger.

Fire moved the blanket from his face and blinked in the sudden light.

You really have no right to keep us here, he shouted.

Salazar, his gleaming gold badge on a chain around his neck, glanced at Fire, not quite believing his eyes.

Some fucking Halloween costume, he said to Green.

I'm afraid it's no costume, Green said.

No shit?

No shit.

Fuck, Salazar said under his breath, approaching the twins. I'm Detective Salazar, he said, looking at them with a little unease.

Salazar took the call because he was only five minutes away when it came in. This could be the killer he had been looking for. He hoped it was; that way this case would finally be over. Salazar was a twenty-year veteran of the Vegas police and nothing fazed him much. Still, he was a little unsettled by the twins in front of him.

What the fuck are you, he asked.

People, Fire said.

You don't look much like people, Salazar said. He does, he added, pointing to Water. But not you, he said to Fire, and turned to spit.

Only humans and horses have hymens, Water said.

That's some fucked-up shit to say, Salazar said to him. Who the fuck talks like that?

Leave him alone, Fire said.

Are you Siamese twins?

There is no Siam, Fire said.

Feisty, Salazar said to Green, who looked unhappy. To the twins, he said: Listen, I don't usually respond to these calls. It's more for the uniforms, you know? I just happened to be in the area, and quite frankly I don't appreciate your shit, understand?

Water smiled serenely while Fire glowered.

Listen, I need you to turn around and put your arms behind you, Salazar said.

What the fuck, Fire said.

Come on, freaks like you, I can't be the first policeman who has cuffed you. Turn the fuck around.

Water turned. Salazar approached and, careful not to touch Fire, put cuffs on him.

Now, he said, which one of you fucks is King Kong?

King Kongo, Fire corrected.

Salazar squinted at the sign on the car door. Whatever, he muttered, not like I give a fuck. Then to Water: ID?

Water shook his head.

See, that's a problem, Salazar said. You're supposed to have your ID on you.

Is this a police state, Fire demanded.

Shut the fuck up, Salazar said to Fire. Names?

Water shook his head.

Water Esau Grimes and Fire Jacob Grimes, Fire said.

For real?

Water shrugged, which sent Fire into spasms, and Salazar looked away again.

Address?

We have no fixed abode, Fire said.

Occupation?

Fire waved at the car: We are King Kongo.

Didn't I tell you to shut the fuck up, Salazar said. Fire was confused because while clearly addressing him, Salazar's gaze never left Water's face.

Water shrugged, causing Fire to jiggle up and down again. Salazar looked away once more.

I can see the look in your eyes, Detective. You look like you've just seen the devil, Fire said.

Only if the devil is a fat man in a pink dress, Salazar shot back. Jesus, you've got me talking like a freak too. Is King Kong the name of some kind of act?

Yes, Fire said.
King Kongo
is our act.

And what are you doing out here?

Enjoying the ruins, Fire said. Is that illegal?

It is illegal to be in an area prohibited to the public, Salazar said, pointing to a sign leaning at a forty-five-degree angle.

It is illegal to ride a camel on the freeway in Nevada, Water said.

Cut that out, Salazar said to him. Why would you be out here on Halloween? That is, unless you are up to something strange. You know anything about the bodies that we've been finding around here?

Water had a serene look, but Fire was getting visibly agitated.

Come on, Freak Show, Salazar said. Tell me why you're really here.

We're here to sightsee, Fire said.

Do I look that fucking stupid, Salazar asked.

The twins were quiet.

The ranger says you were out in the lake. Says you were drowning that thing on your side. Says it was submerged under water, Salazar said. He was back to addressing only Water.

We have rights, Fire yelled. You can't treat us this way. We've done nothing wrong.

In Idaho you may not fish on a camel's back, Water said.

You're fucking with me, right?

There are feral camels in the southwest United States, Water said.

Shut the fuck up, Salazar said.

Hadji Ali was the lead camel driver for the U.S. Army Camel Corps. He died in 1902 and is buried in Quartzite, Arizona, where a metal camel on a pyramid marks his grave that bears his name as Hi Jolly.

Salazar looked intently at Water. Don't push me, he said. Where are the rest of your clothes, he asked, waving at Water's bare midriff.

On the hood of our car, Fire said.

Wait here, Salazar said, and walked over to their sedan. There was a baggy shirt and jacket on the hood.

A little big for you, Salazar said to Water.

I need space to breathe, Fire said.

I am searching your clothing for drugs and weapons, Salazar said to Water. Tell me if there are any sharp objects in the pockets.

There are no sharp objects, Fire said. Why would you think we have drugs or weapons?

Salazar ignored him.

You're really going to pretend I'm not here, Fire asked.

Saint Maximilian Mary Kolbe is the patron saint of drug addicts, Water said.

Fuckhead, Salazar said to Water. To Green he said: Get the digital camera out of my glove compartment and photograph the scene for me, will you, while I run their ID.

The scene, Green asked, a little confused.

The damn scene, Salazar said, waving around him. I'm going to go run them on my computer.

Sure, Green said, trailing Salazar, who was heading back to his cruiser.

Could you push our car out of the mud, Fire asked.

Tow truck's coming, Salazar threw over his shoulder. Your car's headed for impound.

This is a shakedown, Fire said. We are Americans.

Uh-huh, Salazar said. Keep talking and I'll arrest you.

For what, Fire asked.

You know, I'll get a camera from my trunk, Green said, wanting to put some distance between himself, the twins, and Salazar, whom he found abrasive.

Knock yourself out, Salazar said, continuing to his cruiser.

Green retrieved the camera and walked to the twins' sedan. Approaching from the rear, he noticed that the grass to the left was soaked in blood. He examined the spread of blood and found it coming from a plastic five-gallon drum lying on its side. The leak was slow, the blood coagulating. From what Green could make out, the drum was still about half full.