Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

Matt knew the song, loathed it, and so did Leticia. It was an eighties hit by the Police, a stalker’s anthem. The singer promised to observe every move and every breath the victim took, and tacitly threatened to end both.

Anybody who knew anything about domestic abuse recognized the stalker mentality, and the song seemed to glorify the omnipotence of the deranged rather than indict it. It was raw threat, very real. And even more threatening after 9/11.

Ambrosia’s Cleopatra eyes narrowed at Matt. She was aiming a stalker’s attitude right back at the caller. Both of them had instantly recognized Kathleen O’Connor, of course, who had called Matt’s show before to taunt him.

Matt wasn’t sure about fighting fire with fire in this case, but he guessed Kitty the Cutter would get the unspoken message: the police will be watching you.

Ambrosia made an up-yours gesture through the glass, and leaned into the mike, which was off-air now that the song was playing. “Guess your unwanted girlfriend will get the idea,” she cooed into the foam-guarded metal mesh.

Matt managed a pale smile. Ambrosia had encountered Kitty only once. She didn’t know how lethal the woman could be. And he worried. Kitty had already stripped Ambrosia of a necklace. This act of on-air defiance might motivate a more personal attack.

“You okay?” Ambrosia was asking Matt.

“Yeah, sure. I was hoping this would be a therapy session, though.”

“That woman does need therapy. A good rolfing.”

Matt’s smile became a weak chuckle. Rolling had been a trendy form of rough massage for decades. It was supposed to release inner demons. There were a lot of alternative physical and mental health therapies, but none of them addressed dealing with actual, outer demons.

Matt started thinking exorcism.

And then … the show rolled on. Ambrosia’s usual callers lined up to make the usual requests. In their voices, as if in a confessional, Matt heard the quiver of deep emotion expressed in half sentences and long pauses. There was nothing slick about personal pain. About losing a live lover or a dead child. They weren’t clever or glib, just honest. Just hoping a song and prayer would move someone’s heart, maybe even their own. Matt heard the truth beneath the hope: the fatal cancer that wouldn’t recede without more of a miracle than an upbeat song on the radio; the broken relationship that was obviously over with the other party, and obviously not with the caller. There were some happy calls, like McDonald’s Happy Meals: warming fast food for the soul. The thanks given for a relative’s recovery from a terrible car crash, for a child’s progress in physical therapy, for living with/loving/having “the best” man/ woman in the world.

Sophisticates might laugh at the hit parade of songs played to soothe or reflect the feelings on semianonymous display: John in Reno. Mary in St. Helens. Matt supposed people made these universal sentiments popular because they spoke to them as nothing else quite did, words and music in perfect harmony. It was a rite, like much of religion. Soul food.

And … after a few hours of listening, he felt better. Other people had troubles. His might be a bit more extreme, but no different, really. Guilt. Loss. Hope. Fear. Hope was always the leveler for a mountain of helpless feelings. For him, there was another word for hope. Faith.

He wondered how much of it he still had left. Perhaps enough.

Radio stations signed off by playing “The Star-spangled Banner.” Ambrosia signed off her show at midnight by always playing one song. After five hours of mellow, it was an odd choice: “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

In the aftermath of 9/11 and, personally, in the aftermath of Matt’s own disaster, it seemed to strike just the right note.

She gave him a fierce thumbs-up through the glass, and then leaned into the mike again.

“The hot seat’s all yours again,” she said. Threatened. Affirmed.

He stood up. You do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself about. And that’s what living is all about.

Chapter 16

… Men in Black Too

Max ducked into a narrow hall, and then found a service closet. The place was packed with them. No major soundand-light show operated in an electrical vacuum.

He peeled off the Phantom Mage’s mask and cloak, stripping to his naked face and black-clad form. Then he bundled the items into a ball and left them on the floor behind a pink neon palm tree.

He hoped to retrieve the Phantom Mage before he left. For now he planned to merge with the civilians packing the dance floor and in that innocent guise do some serious snooping.

If he was caught … hey, just a juiced night-dubber wandering into forbidden territory.

There had to be more to the building than the central neon core and the balcony offices.

At the moment, the center was incredibly loud, the crowd action more like a rave than an ordinary dance club. A deep bass beat vibrated every part of the building. Even the neon lights seemed to spit and hiss and tremble.

Then a herd of gigantic horses came galloping down from the pyramid’s peak. Max studied the illusion. Giant TV screens ringed the apex, each broadcasting the image of the single external neon horse to make a herd. A vivid rainbow of colors cascaded in its flying mane and made its eyes into manic flares.

The “nightmare” of the place’s title had come to life. Max had never seen neon so liquid, so mixed, so electric.

The crowd dancing below was the same, except it was also mostly under thirty. His partner of the moment was a sleek, model-tall black woman wearing tattoos and a filmy designer sari. They gyrated apart, nobody seeming to dance with anybody in particular, which suited his purpose. With every step he took, Max was moving to a wall opposite the entrance, his eyes searching through the strobe-light effect.

The control booth was probably on high, like the casinos’ Eye in the Sky snooping parlors, but there had to be ground access to a physical plant, to whatever powered the hyped-up soundand-light show.

The lower walls were covered in classic neon advertising designs. Pink flamingos. Signs announcing BAR. EATS. He stopped cold to recognize the Blue Dahlia’s fabled signage, then realized that it was an outmoded design. All these pieces were vintage neon, throwaways redeemed. Neon had been what made Las Vegas hot for a long time. Now it was not. Perhaps Neon Nightmare would make it cool again. Like going through a light cycle instead of a life cycle.

The major neon companies were still in business, but now they were fabricating computerized digital light shows, like the canopy over Freemont Street downtown. The new culture-driven megahotels spurned the obvious glitz of million-dollar neon light paintings for more subtle, if no less expensive lighting effects.

Max would guess that some of the neon classics before him had been plucked from storage in the Boneyard, a lot behind YESCO, Young Electric Sign Company, one of Las Vegas neon’s founding firms. Max had visited it when scouting props for his magic act. He had found Wonderland in a wasteland, marked by such gigantic landmark icons as Aladdin’s gilt lamp from the original Aladdin hotel and the gigantic Sliver Slipper. Both were studded with the dotted Swiss of lightless neon bulbs, piled together among other defunct signs like old drunks abandoned to the sun and the sand. Civic hopes foresaw a neon museum in the future. In the meantime some of the most unique signs had been dismantled and lost.

Were the Synth magicians feeling as outmoded as neon signs in the new Las Vegas? Was the Synth not some mystical ancient conspiracy but a response to the contemporary downsizing affecting every segment and part of the country?