Preston Allen - Las Vegas Noir

“You’re being incredibly impractical.” He turned toward the computer and punched in some data. “I think it’s a terrible idea. It won’t solve anything. There’s nothing good that can come from it.” He was done talking. It infuriated me.

“You know, Casey, sometimes it’s nice to be the toughest guy in the room.”

“Yeah, honey ,” he said derisively, “but it’s better to be the smartest.”

I slammed the door as I walked out. Then I slammed the garage door and the door to my car. There was a part of me that knew Casey was right. A little nagging, weak part that I wanted to hit with a brick. I took a deep breath, a trick he’d taught me. I stretched against the leather of the car seat. I put my keys in the ignition and started the engine. I did love the Lexus, but I still questioned my decisions when Casey let someone cut in line at the grocery store or talk too loudly during a movie. He may have the power of debate and banter, but his presence never kept anyone from getting in our way.

En route to work, I stopped my car in front of Kevin’s house, the engine running. It was nice house, like ours. Little assholes like him didn’t belong in these neighborhoods. Centennial Hills was designed to give a sense of community. Parks in the center of the developments with benches and swings, where boys should be able to run around safely. Homeowner associations to prod us about maintaining our yards and replacing the bulbs in our porch lights, to keep everything uniform and clean. But it was bullshit. There couldn’t be community without someone to protect the streets, to weed out the jerk-offs like we did the dandelions. I wanted to walk into Kevin’s house and strangle him, maybe his mom and dad too. I knew my small frame wouldn’t make the impact. No, I would have to do more; I would have to make a much larger statement to get the kid to back off. I revved my engine. I pulled off our street.

I was a complete waste at work that day. I kept checking my watch, wondering if James was in class or at his locker. If maybe we got lucky and Kevin stayed home. I owed Janet, my boss, a short script for a commercial that would be shot soon, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sat in front of my computer, slumped over. I drew a sketch of the .44. Casey would never let me take James shooting. He’d make me listen to statistics about gun violence. He’d quote studies on children raised with guns in the home. I’d hear about it for days. By the end of it, he’d have me thinking it was time to buy James a tutu. Guns never did me any harm. I etched in the front sights on my picture and wrote BANG! down the side of the paper.

I remembered when Dad gave the .44 to Casey at dinner a few months after we were married. Dad was streamlining his collection and couldn’t imagine another man wouldn’t want a shiny .44 like Dirty Harry owned. I’d shot the gun a few times growing up, always with my back to Dad’s brick-wall chest to absorb the shock. I knew the gesture was something special — his way of welcoming Casey into the family, man to man. I could tell Casey had no clue what the act meant. He told me later he thought it was some kind of omertà , as though my dad had handed him a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper. You take-a my daughter, I take-a you life.

“Wow,” Casey said. A plate of spaghetti sat on the table in front of him. “Thanks.”

“I like knowing you can protect my daughter. And that gun can kill a wild boar.”

“Boar attacks are up this year,” Casey said, turning the guns in his hands. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll keep it in a safe place.”

Dad grinned and grabbed Casey’s free hand. Then he became serious, staring into my husband’s eyes and gripping his shoulder. “If it ever comes down to you and someone else,” he said, “it has to be you who stays standing. You’re in charge of her now.” After a long moment, in which Casey and I both shifted with unease, Dad smiled again. He smacked Casey on the back of the neck. “You may not be an Italian, but you’re a good kid anyway.”

Later that night, Casey laughed about the absurdity of needing a gun. He put it in the closet. Then he tried to pull off my panties.

“Why don’t you want it in the nightstand?” I gripped my underwear.

“It’s too big.” He worked on my bra.

“It makes me feel safe,” I said. “My dad told you to protect me.”

“Stop worrying.” He kissed my neck and worked his fingers up my leg. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

In the end, I trusted him and let him lock the gun away. Casey did what he said. He provided, protected. He worked long hours and gave us a stable home. I was safe by his side; I was safe in his arms. There was comfort in lying next to him at night, while the wind tossed the curtains around, knowing that I was important enough for him to love. I’d feel the muscles in his chest flex against my back as he moved into sleep. I’d smile. He gave me more security than I ever expected.

Casey was just so damn smart. Everything he did was gilded with wisdom and success. Even our neighborhood; he moved us out here right before the boom. There was nothing for miles then, but we paid so little for our home. If we tried to buy it now, we couldn’t afford it. I’d be an idiot not to do what he said.

But new Vegas suited Casey. He had almost no connection to what it used to be, where I had come from. There was no grit to him and no way to adapt. Instead, he was making the town adapt to him, taking apart one casino at a time. Stripping their primitive wires and bringing them up to speed. There was something nice about the old ways, the plumes of smoke that hung over the slots, the burnt-out haze of electric lights on Las Vegas Boulevard. The fact that I could walk barefoot down the Strip. The fact that my dad could bust a guy in the head and still find another job. I always wished a little that some old-time aggression would find Casey. That he’d go blind with emotion, let something muss his hair, even if it meant we’d have some hard times. With Kevin harassing James, I wanted something to snap in Casey worse than ever. But when that bug of insanity hit, it wasn’t Casey it got, like I’d vaguely hoped. It was James.

I’d been taking a stab at the copy in front of me when my line rang. It was the clerk at James’s school. He’d done something, gotten in trouble. I needed to pick him up.

“Janet,” I said, grabbing my coat, “I gotta pick James up from school. I gotta go.”

“Is he sick?”

“No, he’s in trouble.”

“James?”

“I know !”

“You’re worthless today anyway.”

James had never been in trouble at school before. He charmed his teachers and got A ’s on all his tests. His homework was always neat. He enjoyed presenting projects to the class. I wondered if there had been a mistake.

At the school, the secretary ushered me into the dean’s office. The dean was a tall man, balding. “Your son has something to tell you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. I felt almost as scared as James sitting in the light-blue office in front of the big oak desk.

James’s head drooped. “I peed on Kevin’s ball.”

“On the playground,” the dean said.

“You peed on his ball?” I asked, confused.

“It was a soccer ball,” James replied.

I leaned back in the chair. Stumped. Then I imagined my son, fed up with the pushing around, whipping out his little pecker in a show of machismo, screaming at the bigger kid, Iain’t scared of you, asshole !

“We’re going to suspend James for three days,” the dean said. “We have a no-tolerance policy for things as inappropriate as what your son did.” He stared at me as though I’d been there to unzip James’s pants. “I trust it won’t happen again.”