Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

The King of Siam was an exclusive establishment, a members-only cathouse with a membership fee in the high five figures. Its clientele included senators, congressmen, and CEOs. In addition to a selection of the most gifted, diverse escorts, it prided itself on its discretion. Most of the escorts were well educated, many with graduate degrees, and most spoke at least two languages, a necessity since many clients were international.

In a good week, even with the house taking its percentage, some girls could earn up to twenty thousand dollars. Even girls like Asia who didn’t have college degrees and spoke only English could still average five thousand a week. Girls couldn’t apply or audition for the King of Siam; Big Bill Brown, the owner, chose each girl usually after a chance encounter and a careful background check. In the ten years that they had been open, no one had ever breached the grounds, not even the most committed paparazzi. The joke was that only Area 51 had better security.

Asia had a standing invitation from Big Bill, ever since she’d spent a night with him in Vegas when she first got there. She had taken him up on the offer only once, for just a week, but she found it difficult to follow the house rules.

Even before Sunil had called her, pretty much as soon as she left his place, she ditched her phone and headed for this sanctuary where she knew she would not only be safe but could earn six figures easily in six months. She had every intention of calling Sunil, in a week or two. She wouldn’t give up on him but she couldn’t deal with the baggage in his life right now.

The landscape was a blur as she picked up speed on an incline. There wasn’t much to see here anyway. Just ostrich and alpaca farms, abandoned malls built to service still-empty developments, the occasional deserted water park, desert, and more desert. Classic Nevada — where dreams died as quickly as they were born.

Genevieve was waiting when Asia arrived. Not much older than Asia, at twenty-eight, Genevieve had the poise of an older, more experienced woman.

Hello, Asia, she said. So Big Bill tells me you’ll be staying with us for a while. Do you know how long?

Until I figure out some stuff.

A man, Genevieve asked, her voice soft, the texture somewhere between pity and envy.

Isn’t it always, Asia said.

Genevieve smiled. You’re welcome as long as you want. You’ll be staying in Number 12. As always, the money gets processed through me, tips as well. The house now keeps thirty percent, but you’ll find that our new services justify that.

Asia took the electronic key for her room. It felt strange to be back, yet oddly comforting. Here there was no pretense about what the girls did. They weren’t escorts or hookers or companions or dates. They were just girls — old-fashioned and classy. A good thing; wholesome, even. As she picked up her bag to head down the hall, Genevieve called after her.

Cocktail hour is six. Prompt.

Okay, Asia said.

Whatever it is that you’re running from, you’re safe here, Genevieve said.

Asia smiled. I know, she said.

Salazar yawned and stretched. He was still in the institute’s parking lot. Eskia hadn’t moved. Salazar lifted his camera to his face and studied him through the zoom. He moved the focus around, but Eskia was too far away to get a clear look at his expression. What does he want, Salazar wondered. His phone vibrated against his leg and he reached for it.

Yeah?

So I’ve got some information on that guy you asked me to run.

Do I need a notebook?

No. He used to be in the ANC’s fighting arm in South Africa back when they still had apartheid, and then after the transition was made, he joined the South African Security Services. His file there is sealed even to Interpol, so I am guessing that means he has had some dealings in black ops.

Why is he here?

Visa says he is on holiday.

So this is personal?

Possibly — of course, he could just be lying.

Yeah, you’re right. What about the other name I gave you?

What’s all this about, Salazar?

Just a hunch, you know?

Well, his name checks out. Sunil Singh is who he says he is, a South African psychiatrist working here in Vegas on a green card. He has Department of Defense clearance, so he must be working on something important for the military.

Any connection between the two of them?

Nothing official, but I don’t have access to that kind of information.

What kind is that?

You know, South Africa before 1990. The police and military systematically destroyed most of the records in South Africa before things were fully handed over to the blacks—

Was Sunil DOD or Special Forces over there?

Not as far as I can tell.

Thanks, I owe you.

You owe me several for this, Salazar. I’ll never get to call in any of them, though, will I? I hear you’re planning to retire, old man.

Fuck you, you dinosaur, Salazar said, laughing.

Tell you what. My wife loves those crazy boats you make. Give me a nice one for her and we’ll call it even.

Come over whenever you like and pick one out.

He hung up.

What do you want, Eskia, Salazar muttered to himself. Are you the killer we’re looking for?

He finished his coffee and went back to looking through the telephoto lens. Fuck, he had to pee. He put down the camera, reached for the empty coffee cup, unzipped, and sighed.

As he returned the now warm, half-full cup to the cup holder he made a mental note not to drink it by accident.

Fred, Water said, and even Sunil could tell that he was in love.

Water, she said, crossing the room to hug him. As unlikely as it seemed, Sunil could tell that Fred loved Water, too.

At least one thing hasn’t been a lie, he thought.

Doc, Fire said, where the fuck have you been?

Hello, Fire, Sunil said. Please, guys, sit.

They sat. Fred sat next to them on the couch.

Fred, Sunil said. Do you mind moving to the armchair over there?

Why?

This will go faster and easier if you can remain neutral throughout my interview. Physical space is the first step toward that.

Fred nodded. She squeezed Water’s hand and moved. Crossing her legs, she cut a look at Sunil.

Water, how are you today, Sunil asked.

Water shrugged.

So where were you, Doc, Fire asked.

I went to get Fred for you, Water, Sunil said.

Water looked up and smiled shyly. I love Fred, he said. Fred loves Water.

Fred smiled.

Do you know what happened to us yesterday, Fire asked.

Yes, you had an MRI done, Sunil said.

It was an outrage. We were forced to undergo a medical procedure against our will at a zoo, a zoo!

I’m sorry about that. I tried to stop it on principle, Sunil said.

A lot of good your principles did us yesterday, Fire said.

Boys, Fred said, voice soft. Play nice. The doctor is trying to help you.

Water smiled at her, Fire looked away.

So your MRIs revealed something interesting. It seems that you are not conjoined at any vital spots. No major organs, no major arteries.

So, Fire asked.

Did nobody do any tests when you were born? You could have been separated with relative ease, Sunil said.

And what kind of life would I have had, Fire asked. I would be a small, immobile lump with a superior intelligence.

Is the life you have now any better? Stuck as you are to your brother’s side? A burden to him?

Doctor, Sunil, please don’t talk to them like that, Fred said. Her voice was still soft, but there was a definitive edge to it. The twins trust very few people. The only time they were presented with a chance for separation, as babies, it was by the doctors of Area 51 and there were conditions. Their mother, Selah, declined the offer, she said, riffling in her bag and retrieving her cell phone. She pretended to check it and then slipped it into her shirt pocket.