Preston Allen - Las Vegas Noir

“I know.” I ran my finger under his boxers. I smelled lavender from the bath.

“He’s a smart kid,” Casey said.

“I know.” I lifted myself on top of him and bit the corner of his lip. I felt his arms move around me. “I want to take him shooting, though.”

“Teresa,” he said. He unhooked his arms.

“So he knows what to do if he finds a gun or if someone breaks in.” I kissed his chin.

“It’ll never happen.”

“Just once. Then I’ll lay off.” I sat up straight and pulled my T-shirt off. “I promise.”

I leaned forward. Casey gave in. I didn’t like doing it this way, but it was all I had.

The next morning James was sitting at the table reading a book. I could hear kids out on the street shouting and playing. “Put it away,” I said.

He snapped to attention and threw the book aside, like it was porn.

I dropped the box on the table. I clicked the code into place. The .44 shone before us.

“Pick it up,” I said.

James reached for the gun. He took it by the butt, careful not to touch the trigger.

“Do you remember how to check if it’s loaded?”

He pressed the release. The wheel snapped open. Five bullets. The first chamber always empty, like I was taught.

“Pull them out. Careful.”

He slowly plucked each bullet out and laid them in my hand. I dropped them into my pocket. “Safe?”

He nodded.

“Put the wheel back. James, I want you to know that I love you very much. I would do anything for you.”

His wrist bent awkwardly as he tried to support the weight of the gun.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to stop Kevin from picking on you.” I touched his shoulder. “And I’m sorry I was mean to you last night.”

“That’s okay, Mom.”

“It’s not. But I realized something. Your dad was right. You shouldn’t have to fight if you’re smart enough. There’s always going to be a bully around, so you have to figure out how to deal with guys like Kevin. You need to be smart. You need to be confident in yourself.” I gave him a small smile. I felt awful for how I had acted. All this time, I had wanted James to trust and respect me. I screwed up. “Pick up the gun,” I said. “This is how you aim.”

I showed him the front and rear sights and how to center them. I told him to aim at the TV, the plant by the window, the fireplace.

“A gun is a very powerful weapon,” I said. “Whenever you feel scared or vulnerable, I want you to remember that you know how to use a gun. That makes you a little more powerful. If you feel powerful, it’s gonna come out your pores and everyone else will feel it too. I guarantee you that guys like Kevin will take a powder. And if it ever got more serious — probably never will — but if it did, you’ll be the one left standing. I promise.”

“Okay,” he said in a small voice.

“In the meantime, stay out of Kevin’s way.”

He nodded and smiled.

“Now go get some sneakers on and go find your dad. We’re going shooting.”

He jumped up and ran toward the garage.

I picked up the shiny gun lying on the table. It was heavy like a brick. I loaded the bullets into the chamber with soft clinks. Today we would kick up rocks and look for snake holes. We’d eat salami sandwiches while sitting on boulders. Then I’d lean against the car and fire the gun, even though it might blow my arm out of joint. Casey would be able to shoot it on his own. James would have to wait. I couldn’t support him the way my dad supported me. He’d be able to do it himself one day.

I walked out to the porch to check the sky. Blue. No clouds. Birds flapped between the trees. Just like in the commercials advertising the new housing developments. I held the gun behind me. Kids shouted up and down the street so I was careful not to let the shiny metal catch their attention. I leaned against the wall, the gun still at my back, my finger dusting the trigger. A boy playing in the street scooted in front of our house. He was throwing a football to some friends I couldn’t see, but I could hear their shouts. He was a big kid with a hell of an arm.

“ Motherfucker ,” I mumbled. It was Kevin.

I watched him move, swagger. Not a care. I pulled the gun in front of me. I held it in my palms, adjusting it to catch the light of the sun. I bounced a few rays into Kevin’s eyes. He glanced over, involuntarily. But the glance became a stare. I watched the recognition change his face, ebb his pride. He turned away and threw the football again. I shot another beam of light into his eyes. He struggled to catch the football. He looked nervously toward me. I held the gun up, so my message was clear. I nodded my head. I pointed my finger at the gun, then back to him. He swallowed. His friends shouted for him to throw the ball. He looked away and tossed it. If he looked back again, I was already gone.

Mount Charleston

Millicent Margrave, known affectionately to her students as M, an Associate Professor of Political Science, is sitting in Bagel Nosh on Maryland Parkway, a half-block from the university, reading the paper and licking the cream cheese off her pumpernickel bagel. It’s 1984 and a serial killer stalks Las Vegas. So far, six women, ranging from their mid-thirties to late their late-forties, all writers and teachers, have been targeted. All have been smothered in black plastic bags. Each has had the thumb and first two fingers of her writing hand severed. The middle finger is placed in the victim’s mouth, which is sewn shut around it, while the thumb and index finger are thrust up the vagina. They are otherwise not sexually molested. The last detail has not been made public. The little city of some 600,000 persons is in an uproar.

She is chilled by the account of the most recent murder, fully aware that she fits the profile of the victims, as she is well known for her high-profile, ultra-liberal writing. While her colleagues who want to pretend they are in the Ivy rather than the Cactus League look askance at her work as not traditional enough, her student following is as varied as the city’s population, including, among others, mobster’s kids, a couple of very savvy hookers looking more like Midwestern college girls than the campus’s traditional coeds who delight in looking like hookers, and an assortment of ex-cons, with a sprinkling of current con men.

She acquired the ex-cons when the university in its infinite wisdom briefly decided that all ex-cons should report to a specific advisor who would keep tabs on them, and she had volunteered, angry that they should be singled out after they had paid their debt to society and fearful that some asshole who would make their lives miserable would be appointed. She is particularly fond of a couple of them who know her troubles with her dean, and pleaded to be allowed to teach him a lesson in the parking lot. “We won’t hurt him. We’ll just teach him to respect you.” She refused, of course, but finds it neat that someone wants to look out for her. She’s pleased when she looks up to see them approaching her table. Somehow they always seem to know where she is. The two Es, Ed and Earl, sit down in the empty chairs across from her and proceed to lecture her on her personal safety, particularly insistent that Moose, her giant mastiff, is not enough protection, and that she needs to buy a gun, a street sweeper preferably, which has so much fire power she can’t miss and will turn whatever marauder is foolish enough to invade her space into hamburger. As ex-felons, they can’t buy it for her, but they can help her pick it out. She promises to think about it.

The veteran of three marriages, one to a fellow political scientist, one to a casino pit boss, and one to a black activist, she is the mother of three grown children, one by each husband. Although her body has begun to thicken and she is no longer beautiful in the traditional sense, she is still striking and has lost none of her charisma.