Preston Allen - Las Vegas Noir

He called the man who had installed the mirrors and offered to pay him double if he fixed the damage right away. After he had let the guy in, he put on his late Uncle Willie’s cowboy hat and went downstairs to join the crew and whoever else showed up. One of the cameramen recognized him and offered him a drink. As he reached out for it, fire alarms ripped through the early evening and the party was over. It was a small fire, on his floor.

A cop tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw that it was the same one who had interviewed him about the body in the elevator.

“I remember you. It’s Cleveland, right?”

Legs nodded. “Where’s the fire?”

“Fire’s out.” He pointed upward. “That your apartment? Number 1201?”

Legs nodded again. “Can I go up there?”

“I’ll take you. Gotta question you anyhow.”

The apartment was gutted, but the fireproof box filled with cash was intact. The mirror man lay on the floor facedown.

“Smoke inhalation,” the cop said. “We’re waiting for the coroner. Know anything about him?”

“He installed my mirrors.”

“Was he a smoker?”

“Yeah,” Legs said.

The cop turned to greet the coroner, who examined the body, then turned it over. There was blood underneath and two odd-shaped holes in the man’s stomach.

“Looks like he was kicked by some big-ass mule,” the cop said.

“Can I go now?” Legs asked. “I don’t have a mule.”

“For now.” The cop looked at him as if he were examining a roach. “But don’t leave town. Where can I find you?”

“Horseshoe,” Legs said. “I’ll get a room.”

He’d been playing on the Strip since Willie had left. This time, he picked up his box of money and rode a bus downtown. His plan was to put his money in the cashier’s cage at the Horseshoe, play a little hold ’em, eat a late-night steak at the coffee shop, and get a player’s rate for a room. His warm welcome in the poker room was followed by repeated questions about his Uncle Willie.

“How’s old Willie?” “Where’s old Willie?” Even the waitress at the coffee shop asked, “Where’s the old boy?”

Tired of the questions, Legs said brusquely, “How should I know? He’s dead.”

Lying on his bed in the small hotel room, Legs tried to figure out why his life was overflowing with dead bodies. He stared at his uncle’s hat perched on top of the television set. “It’s your fault, you old bastard,” he said.

Too tired to get himself a woman and disinterested in watching TV, he thought back to Nattee-Tohaquetta — alias Willie Cleveland — and his last night in Las Vegas. He didn’t sleep any too well but he did wake up with a plan, something to clear his head. He would rent a convertible and drive out into the desert where the last of Independence Day was being filmed. The location was in Rachel, a small town in the middle of nowhere, five or ten miles from Area 51. Willie had warned him to stay away from there, but what the hell. Maybe he’d meet someone interesting, maybe not, but at least there wouldn’t be any bodies with strange holes in them or cops who thought he was a killer. Tomorrow he’d get back to business, start looking for new clients, maybe even make a plan to take what was left of Willie’s fifty K to the reservation.

One thing he knew for sure: He’d had enough of Country Club Towers. He should have known it would be a place of bizarre happenings, with its strange architecture — off-kilter walls, a swimming pool that got no sun, and a tennis court that got no shade. The owner was old and very rich. His trophy wife was a tough broad from south Texas who ruled the place like an army sergeant. Despite being one of only four high-rises in Vegas, there were always empty apartments. The trophy wife moved tenants around until she had emptied the whole penthouse floor, which had its own elevator and locked entry. The entire floor was given over to pimps and prostitutes.

Not that Legs had anything against them. It was the dead bodies he could do without.

Top down, radio on full blast, he dug out the rest of a joint he’d hidden at the bottom of his wallet. He followed it with a candy bar he’d picked up on his way out of the Horseshoe. The sun was shining, the top was down, and he felt good until he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw what looked like an unmarked cop car. He pulled over to let it pass, but it pulled over with him.

Careful to maintain the speed limit, he veered onto Highway 375, which would take him to Groom Lake Road. The street was gravel but not unpleasant to drive on. After about twelve miles, with the cop still behind him, he swerved to the right down a narrow unmarked road. The car behind him made a U-turn, but Legs kept driving. A mile or so down, he saw what looked like a very large animal lying across the road. He started to circle around it, then planted his foot on the brake as a white Jeep Cherokee like the one that had taken Willie came hurtling toward him.

There was nothing he could do but watch.

The Jeep screeched to a halt. The same tall woman stepped from the passenger side, holding a gun in her hand. A man, also dressed in camouflage, stepped out of the driver’s side, walked over to the animal, and kicked it. Legs didn’t know much about weapons, but the pistol in the woman’s hand looked real enough. Too late, Legs realized that these people were Camo Dudes who patrolled Area 51. He didn’t have a camera, so most likely they would simply ream him out and hand him over to the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department.

“Ostrich is dead,” the man said. “Told you he wouldn’t make it to the road, not after what I shot into him.” He looked at Legs. “Dead as you’ll be if you don’t do what you’re told.”

“Move over,” the woman said, getting behind the wheel of Legs’s car.

“I... uh... uh...”

“We know who you are, Mr. Cleveland.”

“How...?”

“We figured your uncle might have told you a little too much about our business. Know what I mean?” Her laugh was harsh.

The man roped together the legs of the dead ostrich and looped it around the bumper of the van.

“Hope you’re into ostriches, Mr. Cleveland,” the woman said. “Dumb creatures. With Willie gone, someone’s got to take care of them.”

Twenty minutes down the road, the van pulled up in front of a huge barn, barricaded by a wide iron bar. The man removed the bar and Legs was shepherded inside. Corralled in the middle was a large flock of ostriches.

Legs closed his eyes, prayed for the cop who had been following him, and promised God that if he got out of this, he’d give Willie’s money to the Piutes right away. He’d never gamble again, never drink, never—

“Okay, Mr. Cleveland,” the woman said. “In you go. Our soldiers have been restless. Your job is to calm them down so that they do what we need them to do. Maybe later, if they don’t kill you, we’ll show you some of our other brigades. Noah knew what he was doing when he saved the animals.”

She handed him a key to the paddock.

“See you later, if there’s anything left of you to see,” the man said, and he and the woman walked out of the barn.

Legs heard the bar falling into place and felt the warm trickle of urine down his legs.

Moving to the far corner, he hunkered down and tried to control his fear. The ostriches looked calm enough to him. Most of them had their heads buried in the sand. The rest milled around in an almost listless manner, nudging each other occasionally. They were huge creatures, with small heads, long thin legs, and bodies that must have weighed three hundred pounds. Telling his story, Willie had said that his ostriches had marched away like a revolutionary army but never attacked unless provoked and that their brains were smaller than their eyes, which were none too large.