David Garnet: Bikini Planet

June 26, 1968 was a Wednesday in Las Vegas.

All over the world it was Wednesday. Except across Australia and half of Asia, where it was already Thursday.

Wayne Norton sat behind the wheel of a car parked outside a donut shop at the southern end of Las Vegas Boulevard. He had the window wound down because it was fractionally cooler on the sidewalk than in the vehicle. Only a few years ago this part of the Strip had all been desert. Now there were buildings everywhere, and at least half of them seemed to be hotels or casinos. Or both.

Norton looked in the rearview mirror again. After pulling in, he’d angled the mirror so he could see himself. This only confirmed what he already suspected: His new sunglasses weren’t right? He didn’t look cool enough.

When he straightened the mirror he saw that the stretch limo was still there, still in a no-waiting zone. Norton’s car was in the same prohibited zone, but that was different.

His was a police car, and he was a police officer.

He glanced toward the donut store, but there was no sign of King. They were meant to be on patrol, so one of them had to stay inside the automobile in case of a radio message.

Because he was hot and bored and tired, Norton allowed his eyes to close for a second. He quickly opened them again. It would have been so easy to fall asleep, giving King another excuse to complain about baby-sitting.

He had to do something, so he opened the door, climbed out, and walked back along the street toward the Lincoln. It was all black, even the windows. He bent down to peer inside, but could see nothing through the darkened glass. The polished paintwork gleamed in the sunlight, and it looked as if it had come straight out of the showroom. It had Illinois plates, but even a driver from out of state should have recognised a no-waiting sign.

Norton wrote a parking ticket and tucked it behind the windshield wiper. That was when the door opened and the driver stepped out. He was six and a half feet tall and must have weighed over two-fifty pounds. His expensive suit was so well cut Norton could hardly detect the bulge of his shoulder holster.

The driver stood looking at him, then reached for the ticket. He tore it in half, in quarters, in eighths, and he kept tearing until his massive fingers had reduced the paper to confetti. One squeeze of his huge fist, and he could probably have turned it to dust.

“There is,” Norton said slowly. “A city ordinance. Against littering.”

The driver raised his hand to his face. And stuffed every scrap of paper into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, swallowed it all down. His eyes never left Norton’s face. He didn’t even seem to blink. Then he climbed back into the car, closed the door, and disappeared into the blackness.

It was as if none of it had happened.

Norton decided it might not be such a good idea to issue another ticket. He turned away, and only then realised his right hand was on the butt of his revolver.

Sergeant King was leaning against the patrol car, eating a donut.

“Did you see that?” said Norton.

“I didn’t see nothing,” said King.

“That guy just destroyed state property.”

“Where’s the evidence?”

“He swallowed it.”

“Here.” King handed over a donut. “But a parking ticket probably tastes better.”

“So you did see what happened.”

“At least he didn’t make you swallow it.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing.” King slid into the passenger seat. “A limo like that, who do you think owns it? We all get on fine, Duke. We leave them alone, they leave us alone.”

Norton looked at the Lincoln, imagining the invisible driver watching from behind the black windows. The automobile wasn’t really his style, but he’d have liked windows like that. They were real cool.

And gangsters were always cool.

Eating a donut on the street wasn’t very cool, but it couldn’t be helped. Norton didn’t want any crumbs in the car. He wiped his mouth, took a final glance at the Lincoln, hitched up his gun belt, then got back inside the LVPD vehicle.

They weren’t called gangsters, of course. In Las Vegas they were known as businessmen or investors or property developers. This was their town. They’d built it. They owned most of it. And that included the police.

Not that there was any corruption. Or not much.

Gambling, prostitution, all night drinking; everything was legal. So there was no reason to pay off the police. Or not much.

When he was a kid, Norton had wanted to be a gangster. He’d seen all the movies, watched the television series, and he always cheered for the baddies. They usually ended up dead, mown down in a hail of bullets, but that wasn’t for real. Growing up in Las Vegas, he knew real-life gangsters didn’t get shot. They always wound up with the newest cars, the smartest clothes, the best-looking chicks.

“Get this wagon rolling, Duke.”

King had been Norton’s partner for six months. Ever since their first minute together, when the sergeant found out his first name was Wayne, he’d always called him “Duke.” Norton had never said a thing, never let on that he knew the reason for the constant Western references. He’d hoped King would tire of them. But he hadn’t, and he called the two of them “the King and the Duke.” Which meant Norton was always outranked.

Norton turned the key and the engine roared into life.

“Another two hours to go,” said King, as he checked his watch. “What you doing tonight?”

“Nothing special.”

“This is Vegas, Duke. Every night is special. It’s the greatest place in the whole wide world.”

Norton hoped Vegas wasn’t the greatest place in the whole wide world. Was this the best he had to look forward to? The way things were going, he might never find out.

The one time he’d ever been out of Nevada was to see the Grand Canyon, and that was only a few hours away.

“England, Italy, Germany,” said King. “I’ve seen them all, hated them all. I couldn’t wait to get back here.”

England. Italy. Germany. Just the names sounded so exotic, like mythical lands out of an ancient-history book. “Maybe you wouldn’t have hated it if they hadn’t been shooting at you,” said Norton.

“They didn’t shoot at us in England. We were supposed to be on the same side. It rains in England, Duke. It rains all the time. I don’t know what was worse—the boredom and the rain in England, or getting shot at in Italy and Germany.”

King no longer had that problem. It didn’t rain in Vegas. Or not much. And no one shot at the police. Or not often.

That was fine by Norton. He was used to the weather, although it might be interesting to try another climate. He’d never been shot at, but he definitely wasn’t interested in finding out what it was like.

If he had been, he’d have gone to Viet Nam.

Which was what had happened to friends of his, those who’d been unable to avoid the draft. And those who thought it was their patriotic duty not to.

Norton had no idea how to join the mob, and in any case it probably didn’t mean automatic exemption from military service. So he’d gone with his second career choice and joined the police force.

He wasn’t sure it was the right decision. If he’d entered the army, at least he’d have gone somewhere. King would never have been anywhere if it hadn’t been for the Second World War.

“You’ve never wanted to go back to Europe?” he asked.

“What for?”

“For a vacation.”

“On a cop’s pay?”

Norton glanced at King, and after a moment King smiled. He didn’t have to live on his police pay. Because he was a cop, he had other sources of income. And fewer expenses. He probably hadn’t paid for those donuts.