Preston Allen - Las Vegas Noir

I put them back in the drawer, those cuffs. The calm horniness was disappearing now. I set my rum on the dresser, careful even then to place the glass on top of a magazine. I knew that this was probably nothing — just another guy who dug some kinky shit in private — but I always told myself I’d leave a place if things ever got a little strange.

Clay was still in the shower, the bathroom door open a crack, steam ribboning out into the hallway. I walked past slowly, feeling a little less drunk now, but also feeling odd, not myself really. I figure, what the fuck, I wouldn’t be the first guy to bail on a one-night thing before any action took place.

I was in his kitchen, noticing the rum bottle on the counter, when I heard him twist the water off. “Henry,” he called, “why don’t you fix us a couple more drinks? I’m just starting to get in the mood.” But his voice was different, a shade deeper, more direct, though even then I felt I was reading something into it, that I was letting an unreasonable suspicion get the best of me.

Clay was as queer as me. Of that much I was sure.

“Really,” he called, “pour us a couple more drinks. The bottle is on the counter. I could use one now.”

“Sure thing,” I said, moving quietly through the kitchen. His knife rack, I saw now, was missing all of its blades.

“Make mine extra strong.”

As I passed his front window, I could see my car three stories below, a maroon Explorer with the sunroof open just a crack. I fingered the keys in my pocket, making sure they were there. I was anxious now, anxious yet sleepy, worn out. In the dim light I focused on the front door, its locks and handle, though I felt I was looking at it through a thick piece of glass.

By then I couldn’t see so well, all objects having a softness to them. At first I thought I was seeing his door wrong, but then when I was closer I understood: The deadbolt was a keyed entry, both in and out. No knob. Only a thin groove to accept a key.

I touched the lock briefly, still not believing in full, but then it came to me. I looked around: two windows, the kitchen, the hallway leading back to Clay. It was a cage. I searched for something — a lamp, a hard metal sculpture, a piece of wood set aside for the fireplace — but the room was only sofas and pillows, nothing that could be a weapon.

“Henry,” he called, “you pouring those drinks?”

“I’m making them now,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Make mine extra strong.”

“I will.”

I heard what sounded like a cord snapping tight, pieces of leather quickly lashed together.

“Now don’t go anywhere,” he said, “cause I’m going to be ready in just a minute. Then we can have a little fun.”

Centennial Hills

My dad taught me all the parts of a gun before I turned five. He showed me with oil-smudged fingertips and a joint hanging out of his lips. “Teresa,” he said, “always hold it down, even if it’s not loaded. Never point at someone unless you intend to kill.”

I smiled and nodded, kicking my bare feet under the table.

He clicked the clip into place. “You can always trust me,” he said. “I’ll always protect you.”

I believed him and, before even learning the alphabet, I knew he made me invincible.

Two days ago, I repeated those words to my son. He laughed through the blood dripping over his teeth.

I stirred a teaspoon of parsley into the pot of sauce while I watched the small flat-screen TV embedded in the door of our refrigerator. The news anchor stood in front of Gilcrease Orchard announcing the continued growth of Centennial Hills.

“Did you hear that, Casey?” I called. “They’re finally breaking ground on that new shopping center on the other side of Gilcrease.” I dropped a few extra cloves of garlic into the boiling sauce. “That’s good for us, right?”

Casey called out something from his office, but it was stifled by the sound of the front door opening and slamming. I heard James’s strangled cry. “Mom!” he yelped.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” I said. I dropped the wooden spoon on the counter, splattering drops of tomato sauce like blood across the cream-colored tile. Thoughts of the burgeoning housing market were gone, and I was running to him in an instant.

James stood at the front door, his hands to his mouth. Blood came through his fingers in sheets. It streamed down his shirt, onto the carpet. There was so much. A jackpot. He tried to catch the drops, smearing clotted hands across his shirt to displace all the fluid. The metallic smells of blood and perspiration curdled the air. They overpowered even the pungency of the sauce on the stove.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. I grabbed the throw off the couch and put it to his mouth. “Tilt your head back. Was it Kevin?”

He reached up to pull some hair from his eyes. “Uh-huh,” he mumbled. Warm wet soaked through the blanket. My fingers turned red and sticky.

“Hold this to your mouth,” I said. “Lay down on the couch.”

“I’m fine here.” He pressed the blanket to his face.

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer. Casey came in from his office. “What happened?”

“Kevin,” I said. I ran the ice pack under the faucet.

“Not again.” He sighed and pulled a dish towel from the drawer.

James was in the chair with his head back. Blood dripped down the sides of his face into his ears. It was starting to dry to his skin.

“Here, baby,” I said. “Hold this on it.” I kneeled in front of him.

He laid the pack over his face. He groaned.

“I told you to stay away from that kid,” Casey said. He handed me the dish towel.

“He’s outside all the time!” James yelled. His eyes were enraged, the purple mushrooming around them.

“Then you need to stay inside more often,” Casey said.

“ Casey .” I shook my head: Not now.

“I can’t stay inside forever,” James muttered. He slumped into the chair.

“Let me see.” I pulled back the ice pack. His skin was raw. His eyes were swelling and turning purple. His nose leaked a trickle of blood. I ran the washcloth over his face. His cheeks were mottled: red, pink, and white with streaks of blood smeared across them. Casey stood behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

I wanted to protect James, like my dad protected me, but I didn’t know what to do to stop the boy who’d been picking on him. I wanted to beat the kid bloody into the dirt. I wanted to press my thumbs into his throat until bright red bruises splashed across his skin. I wanted to kill him, if I had my way.

I learned early on it was the men who fought. What power did I have? A rub on the arm, a doe-eyed blink? I couldn’t flirt the kid into submission. It infuriated me that I couldn’t just reach out and take control, that I had to coerce and manipulate. When I was younger and used to take my little sister out in her stroller, I’d stuff my pockets with pepper spray, a safety whistle, Dad’s buck knife, and a billy club. I would have gladly traded my breasts for muscles so I could be sure to protect her then. I’d do the same now so I could intimidate this Kevin like he was intimidating my son. I watched James spit a mouthful of blood into the towel. I swallowed the impotence burning in my throat.

That night I changed into my pajamas while Casey lay reading Forbes . I could hear James getting ready to go to bed in the bathroom at the end of the hall. I sat down facing Casey. He peaked over the edge of the magazine.

“We’ve gotta do something,” I said.

“He needs to stay away from the kid.” He turned the page.