Preston Allen - Las Vegas Noir

She stands aside for him to enter, more than a little annoyed at his boyish assumption that eight dollars worth of flowers and wine are recompense for what he has put her through in the last twenty-four hours.

As she makes no move to accept his offerings, he goes past her to the kitchen where he scrounges up a vase for the flowers, then reappears asking if she wants him to open the wine or if she wants something else.

“You’re an ass, Raph,” she says, unsmiling.

“Don’t do this, M,” he says, suddenly panic-stricken. “You are my best friend, my only real friend. I can’t face this without you. I need your help.”

“Where were you this afternoon, Raph?”

“I couldn’t stand the apartment, so I drove to the lake, then I came back to see you.”

“Why didn’t you sleep? We were up all night.” She can’t understand how he looks so invigorated with no sleep at all.

“Come on, comb your hair and I’ll take you to Chapala’s for dinner.”

Realizing that she is hungry, and feeling rather ashamed for treating a good friend this way, she shakes her head and smiles an acceptance. “I guess I’m too old for this sort of thing. In the old days, it would have made me wired like you. Hang on while I get ready.”

From the bedroom, she calls, “It’s been a weird day. Martha stood me up and I can’t get her on the phone and no one’s seen her. I’m worried about her.” She emerges, purse in hand. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, what could happen to old mud-fence Martha, the ugliest woman I’ve ever met?”

“You know, sometimes I really hate you,” she says, locking the door after her.

He doesn’t answer, but opens the passenger door of his Bronco, heaving the cooler into the backseat before she can get in. They drive the two miles in silence.

Seeing them arrive, Rosie, their favorite waitress, ushers them to their usual booth. They order margaritas before they realize how empty the usually buzzing restaurant is.

“Where is everybody?” asks M.

“It’s the murders,” answers Rosie. “Everybody is scared. I was afraid to stay at home so I came to work.”

“Oh, come on,” Raph says. “Who’d want to hurt a pretty lady like you? Nobody is hurting pretty ladies.”

Rosie sashays off, unimpressed.

They drink one margarita each, then order another round, plus nachos. M goes to wash her hands, giving Raph a chance to slip some white powder into her fresh glass.

“Are you going to break down and get me a lawyer, pretty lady?” asks Raph when she returns, turning on all of his charm. His hand hovers near her glass where he can accidentally spill it if she answers correctly.

“Raph, I can’t. They don’t really think you did it or I wouldn’t have been able to get you out. I think you can do with a public defender. Some of them are quite good. We used to work with them a lot in the old days. Besides, I don’t have the money. You’re already into me for the thousand dollars bail, which I doubt I will ever see. Besides, it’s time for you to grow up and take some responsibility.”

“So that’s all our friendship means to you, is it?”

“This is friendship. I’m neither your mother, nor your girlfriend. I have to take care of myself. You need to stand on your own feet, not mine.”

“Then we will drink to friendship,” he says, raising his glass in a toast.

She raises hers, takes a big sip, makes a face, and puts the glass down. “This doesn’t taste right. Maybe I’ll order a beer.” She turns, looking for Rosie, and he quickly switches glasses.

“Mine’s fine. Take another taste.”

She does and it tastes fine. Thirsty, she drinks it too fast. She doesn’t seem to notice that he isn’t drinking. He signals for another round; making the switch back will be easy.

Rosie brings the drinks, but looks worried. She’s never seen M overindulge and asks if she’d like some coffee. M blinks and nods. The drinks seem to have hit her and she feels very odd. She takes another sip of the original drink, which is now in front of her, and tells Raph that she thinks she should leave. She’s had too little sleep and too much alcohol.

He partially supports her as they leave the chilled restaurant for the inferno outside. With some difficulty she manages to get into the Bronco.

“I think you need a little walk,” he says, heading across Eastern Avenue into Sunset Park, ill lit and deserted at this time of night.

“I just want to go home,” she moans, barely holding onto consciousness, but growing dimly aware that her survival depends on it.

“You told me to think for myself and I am. You know, you really aren’t very pretty anymore. In fact, you’re almost as ugly as old mud-fence Martha was.” He drives to the center of the park. “Now, get out.” He opens her door and she spills onto the ground, dead weight, feigning unconsciousness. He swears and drags her into the hidden area in the mesquite trees where some kids have built a fort. “I liked you once, but you leave me no choice,” he mutters before going after the murder kit.

Placing the kit down next to him, he kneels over her inert form, unaware that they have been followed and that two figures are making their stealthy way toward him. He wonders if he should try to bring her back to consciousness, because it would be so much more fun if she were awake. He wants her to know just who she’s been messing with.

“Ding, dong, the bitch is dead,” he sings under his breath and reaches for the plastic bag, when he feels the gun barrel on the back of his neck. Tommy clicks the safety off.

“You filthy, ungrateful little fucker. I ought to kill you right now, but you aren’t worth going to jail for, so I’ll just keep you here for the cops, who’ll be here any second. On your face, hands behind your head! If you’ve hurt her, your time in jail will be very unpleasant.”

The cops come and Tommy and Fast Freddie, two unlikely guardian angels, hand over their prisoner and take M home. When they arrive, Ed and Earl, are waiting outside the house and all troop inside.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got this fan club,” Tommy tells her. “Ed and Earl have been tailing you since yesterday morning at Bagel Nosh. They followed you to Fast Freddie’s and called after you left. They can’t pack heat, so we agreed to come in if things got sticky, so here we are.”

“God, I love you guys,” she says tearfully, giving each a hug and peck on the cheek as they leave.

Later in bed, feeling like Dorothy in Oz, she whispers to Moose, “There’s no place like home.”

Area 51

In Las Vegas, greed is king, the culture of anonymity is God, and ritual rules them both — except in the case of my friend Alex “Legs” Cleveland. Though a full-blooded Piute, he had refused to seek his spirit guide, declaring it to be nonsense. He carried no totems to the gambling tables, liked black cats, and walked defiantly under ladders. Upon the few occasions a minor doubt crept in, he pushed it aside as if it had a bodily presence and reminded himself that luck was what you made it.

Like today, he thought, leaning against the mirrored pillar that separated the elevator from the picture windows on the twelfth — thirteenth, really — floor of his high-rise apartment building. Today, luck would be making a few bucks on the ponies, enough to delight his latest chorine.

It was not for nothing that they called him Legs.

He watched the shuttle to Area 51’s Groom Lake circle and head toward the Janet Airlines terminal. The morning sun caught its wings and highlighted the snow at the top of Mount Charleston and the elevator dinged behind him. The doors opened and he saw a shadow reflected briefly in the mirrored column at his side.