Preston Allen - Las Vegas Noir

Then he called the girl over again and shoved a couple hundred in the pocket of the pants he had bought her. “Run,” he told her. “Run. Soon as you get a chance, run. Grow up and be a doctor. Save lives.”

Then he scowled at her and made his bug eye jump in its socket to make her laugh one more time. She hugged him around his face as he died.

A nobody.

Just an ugly, coal-black man who didn’t take kindly to people hurting kids.

That was back in the early ’90s, about fifteen, twenty years ago. You look around Las Vegas today and you’ll see the casinos are more lavish, more prosperous, and the gamblers are even more desperate. They still don’t have a state lottery in Nevada, only casinos. And they still got that Air Force base at Nellis. Still got problems with the boys stationed there and their gambling. The Gold Man’s Gentlemen’s Club is still doing good business with those who like to see the titties dance, though the Gold Man himself is partially retired because of his stroke. He has a son who runs the place now. The son has a degree in business from UNLV, but he’s just as cruel as his old man and just as slimy as his brother they used to call Snake.

Of course, the Mustard Man is gone, and if you want to see the only sign that he ever existed you’ve got to know what you’re looking for and you’ve got to look real close to see it. It’s right outside the Gold Man’s Gentlemen’s Club. Barely perceptible. Four smooth grooves in the polished marble tile where a throne used to rest.

Well, there is one other sign that a coal-black man with a twisted face and a tender heart once did exist, but you’d have to fly to Tennessee to find it.

She’s a young, very pretty pediatric physician who’s married to another doctor, a general practitioner by the name of Dr. Eli Yates McKitrick.

They named their firstborn son Eli Mustard McKitrick.

Not too many people know why they did that.

North Las Vegas

His guitar was out of tune and he was fiddling with the strings when he heard her voice.

“It’s my wedding and I’ll curse if I want to!” the bride growled, flipping her veil behind her, whipping her new father-in-law in the face.

Wally recognized the voice. His head began to hurt, and he rubbed his temples, touching his calloused hands to his unruly sideburns.

A wedding party paraded into a dark-walled Irish pub inside a locals’ casino on Tropicana Avenue, which was crowded at that hour — bustling with quick-handed dealers and green gamblers who couldn’t count.

Brenda, the bride, was carrying her train in one hand and a bottled beer in the other. She took two more steps and then murmured, “Isn’t that right, baby?” nuzzling her face into her new husband’s neck. The groom just smiled, gazing at her, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses, saying nothing.

The wedding party took seats in the middle of the room, so they could see the round stage. She placed herself front row, center.

Wally Whittaker, the Irish singing wonder who played three times a night, every other night at the pub, eased out from behind a heavy burgundy curtain. He cleared his throat. The lights dimmed, though she remained glowing. She was a big stark white reminder in the middle of the room.

“Tonight’s a Wednesday, folks, and all the good people of Las Vegas have come to see me. We’re gonna have some fun, my fellow drinkers. Why don’t I tell you a wee story about a girl I used to know,” he began, strumming his guitar, sitting on a wooden stool. “There once was a girl named Sherry. But Sherry had no cherry. I said that’s okay, hun. We can still have fun. Cause the hole still works where the cherry came from!”

Some people giggled. Some blushed. Wally guffawed at his own limerick, then immediately burst into song. His laugh was phony, and his voice was off, but he was getting through the verses.

He looked at her.

The bride was clapping with her mouth open. She was a shade too tan for that time of year and a little too pudgy for her dress. Bright orange swells of skin for arms squeezed out of short white satin sleeves. She yelled “ Baum, baum, baum ” into cupped hands as a vocal representation of the horn section in Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.” And as Wally serenaded her, singing, “The good times never seemed so good,” the bride cannoned back, “SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!”

They caught each other’s eyes. She raised a drawn-on eyebrow. He looked away.

He had slept with Brenda just once. She was nothing like his Linda. But that’s what drew him in. She was just a fun party girl he thought he could enjoy for a moment and soon forget.

She tipped well, wore low-cut tops and piles of shiny gold jewelry. She drank until sun up, chain smoked, and a never-ending heavy metal concert played in her head.

Several years back, she began attending all of his performances, every other night, wherever he played in town. Sometimes she wore green plastic leprechaun hats. It was almost as if she wanted to be Irish. He thought she was strange and annoying at first. She often lingered around the pub too long, trying to get his attention. After he played, she always wanted a hug. She was his biggest fan.

Usually he just smiled at her, acknowledging her support of his music. He was always friendly to his crowds. From the kids to the kooks, he thought he knew how to read people. Give them what they want. Sometimes she was so into his whole act, he’d sing directly to her. It was just good showmanship.

But as he saw her more, her allure grew. On Tuesday nights, she showered him with compliments that made him feel taller, smarter, and like the musician he wanted to be. Sometimes she brought him gifts. Heart-shaped ashtray. Engraved silver hip flask. Tortoise shell guitar pick with his initials embossed on one side.

She wanted to be possessed. He was willing to surrender. One too many Jack-and-Cokes, and he willfully fell into bed with her. He hadn’t seen Brenda since their coital encounter two years prior.

Sabrina “Brenda” Marie Rosetti. She was a busty blond Italian who said her father was so-and-so in the Mafia. Wally never paid much attention to her mob talk at the bar. Who in this town didn’t think they knew something about the mob? He had heard it all. It was always a cousin of a friend who had some small encounter in some obscure place. Everyone was fascinated with bodies buried in the desert and mysteries of the city’s history. Everyone thought they really knew particulars about the Bugsys, Tonys, and Moes.

Whenever she spoke, he hardly listened. Wally was never interested in her for her mind, and could care less about who she thought she knew. He just shook his head, pretended that she was significant, and continually drank the whiskey she bought for him.

Brenda was tattooed all over her back in navy and emerald inks. There was a snake over her left shoulder and a dragon covering her right. He knew her tattoos well. He had counted them once, tracing that inked back with cold fingers.

When he had taken her to his apartment nearby, he thought of Linda the whole time. Closing his eyes.

Brenda was wild, as he knew she would be. She kept laughing at odd moments. Halfway through, as she was being her most obnoxious, Wally heard a dull clank as car keys fell onto taupe carpet. He had peered up from the bed and saw Linda standing right there. He swiftly pushed Brenda away, stood up, and reached out in one big panic. “She means nothing.” He scrambled, pulling pants over himself, and knocking Brenda to the floor. Linda just stood there, stiff. Her eyes welled up, but tears did not fall.

As he practically crawled after her out the door, Brenda lay on the rug, bruised and watching him. She clenched her jaw.