Why “Starr Bright” dipped her forefinger into the pig-blood, to test its heat perhaps, to test its viscosity, she would not know and would not afterward recall. Whispering aloud, in wonder great as the dying man’s before God’s wrathful throne, “Now you see! Now you see! Pigs and fornicators!”
In the light of early morning, not yet dawn, an eerie calm prevailed. It was the silence of the West, the vast empty desert, the vast empty Western sky, the silence of unclocked time. In the courtyard of the Paradise Motel the kidney-shaped swimming pool was deserted, looking smaller even than it had looked the night before. And there floated the inflated air mattress, not striped like the American flag as “Starr Bright” had thought, but only red and blue stripes. A toy for adults, something demeaning and sad about it floating on top of the insect-stippled turquoise water that was like a skin stretched out over something living, invisible and inviolable and unknowable.
At 5:47 A.M. and in no apparent haste, “Starr Bright” quietly departed room 22 of the Paradise Motel; shut the door behind her, and crossed the empty courtyard to the parking lot at the rear of the motel; unlocked the platinum-silver Infiniti sedan with the Nevada rental license plates; placed her Gucci bag on the passenger’s seat, and her midnight-blue sequined purse on top of the bag. Had there been an observer he would have noted a tall, poised, coolly attractive blond woman in white linen trousers, a pale blue silk shirt, practical flat-heeled sandals. Oddly, she was wearing gloves; and though the sun had not yet risen, her eyes were hidden behind dark, smoke-tinted glasses. Her ashy-blond hair, still damp from the shower, had been brushed back neatly from her face and fastened into a chignon. She was stylishly attractive but not glamorous; her flawless cosmetic mask was subdued in tone, her lipstick beige-pink; she might have been an executive’s assistant, or a professional woman herself, alone on holiday. Certainly she appeared utterly natural departing the Paradise Motel at this early hour, showing no sign of agitation, nor even of unease. As if Starr Bright had been here before. In His sign. And all has passed in a whirlwind in His terrible justice and mercy.
In the eastern sky, beyond the fake-Spanish facade of a neighboring Holiday Inn, dawn was emerging out of an opalescent darkness of massed clouds. A fiery all-seeing eye. Beneath the scrutiny of this eye “Starr Bright” drove the Infiniti out of the parking lot and on Route 80 turned left and steadily east and south she would drive on that road and on Route 95 curving through the desert planes arriving later that morning in Las Vegas where amid a vast sea of sun-glittering vehicles parked at the Mirage she would abandon the Infiniti. She meant, for as long as she could, to keep that fiery eye before her.
2
At the Golden Sands, Las Vegas, Nevada
She was here, somewhere. He’d know when he saw her and maybe, even, she’d know him.
He carried himself through the crowds with the cocky air of a man bearing a secret too good to keep for long. Sucking a cigarette, licking his upper lip with his tongue as if savoring it, eyes roving, searching. He wore $150 cowhide boots with a substantial heel, designer jeans, a sporty wide-shouldered Italian-style gunmetal-gray silk-cotton-and-polyester jacket and a black silk shirt open at the throat. He was, with the heels, almost five foot ten; muscular through the chest and shoulders (a former athlete, maybe? high school football?); his flesh just slightly soft, going flaccid at the waist (but the stylish jacket hid that); his hair, receding sharply at the temples, was brush-colored and wiry and had been combed at artful angles to minimize hair loss. With his close-set watchful eyes and sharp-boned western-looking face he resembled a hawk ever vigilant for prey. Here in Vegas for the weekend he was thinking he deserved a good time, deserved some God-damned happiness like anybody else and he meant to get it.
In the Barbary Coast casino into which he’d stepped out of a sun-glaring temperature of 97°F a blast of refrigerated air caressed his forehead like a woman’s soothing fingers. Mmmmm he liked the sensation, he believed it was his due.
Back home in Sumner County, Nebraska, he had a life known to many; a “career”; an identity linked primarily to the career. He was proud enough of this without being blind to the fact that probably he’d never be promoted much beyond his present rank. When thinking along these familiar lines he was in the habit, when alone, of shrugging and muttering aloud, “So? What the hell.” Smiling a quick pained smile as if some asshole had told a joke meant to be hilarious and, sure, Ernie Fenke was a good sport, he’d laugh.
It wasn’t the first time he’d flown to Vegas for a weekend. And this time a three-day weekend, end of October. Leaving the Omaha airport late on Thursday, taking a single suitcase containing his Vegas clothes which were not clothes he wore in Sumner County, Nebraska. They were not clothes his wife knew about, nor anyone in his family; he kept them in a locker at headquarters. Going to Vegas once or twice a year was his own business, nobody else’s. None of his colleagues knew, either. In dreams he saw himself illuminated and virile as on a video screen. In dreams he had the power to gamble away all the cash in his pocket, reaching deep into his pockets and drawing out more, more, more, no end to the cash he had, he’d live forever. At craps, at blackjack, at poker betting ever higher stakes and winning as strangers watched in awe; beautiful women watched in awe. He worried he might be a binge gambler, maybe a binge drinker, he knew from professional experience what a deadly combination this was, what it did to even intelligent, decent people but he was too smart to allow any such weakness to overcome him. It’s just I deserve a good time, shit a man deserves some happiness doesn’t he!
His wife Lynette, poor sweet dumb girl he’d married, already pregnant, out of high school, the best-looking of the varsity cheerleaders but he’d always known how to keep her in line. Not scared of him exactly but never fully at ease, not her or the kids, never taking Ernie Fenke for granted the way the wives of most of his friends took them for granted. Why couldn’t I come with you just once, Lynette would ask, and he’d tell her bluntly no, these were professional trips, not vacations; these were “conferences” and “seminars” he had to attend, not in Vegas but, for instance, Salt Lake City, another time Albuquerque, this time Des Moines—hardly places a man would choose to spend a three-day weekend. And maybe Lynette believed him, and maybe she didn’t; looking sometimes as if she had more to say but hesitated to say it.
Though never once in eighteen years of marriage had he hit her, and vowed he never would, Ernie Fenke wasn’t that kind of man. Not in Sumner County, Nebraska.
In Vegas he rented a car and checked in, not at one of the big hotels, but at the Golden Sands Motor Lodge on the strip, a motel of no distinction, moderate-priced with a pool he wouldn’t use and where each room opened out directly onto the parking lot. Which was what you required when you required privacy. Not like the high-rise hotel, the Sahara, he’d made the mistake of staying in on his first Vegas visit six or seven years ago, bringing a girl back to his room and when things got too rough the girl had lost it and started screaming and within minutes a house dick had pounded on the door and he’d had no choice but to open it, disheveled and sweating and wearing only trousers he’d hastily yanked on, but managing to say in an offended voice, “Officer, there’s nothing wrong here, just my girlfriend and me,” and the detective said pleasantly, “I’ll need to look around, it’s just routine.” And so the man had come in and looked around, sniffing like he smelled a bad odor, and the girl was in the bathroom hurriedly fixing herself up, and Ernie said, “My girlfriend is a screamer, that’s all it is. Somebody called down to the desk?” and the detective said, pausing outside the bathroom door upon which, too, he knocked, “Oh, yeah? Is your girlfriend a screamer?” and Ernie said, managing to laugh, laughter like clearing his throat of clotted mucus, “Yeah, but I don’t hold it against her.” The girl then emerged from the bathroom, in a kimono wrapped tight about her short-legged, chesty body; she’d slapped on makeup to disguise the welts on the underside of her jaw, and she was wearing bright lipstick, and she was smiling; st
iff-bleached hair falling over half her face, and her eyes glassy as marbles. “Tell this officer there’s no problem, Sonya,” Ernie said, and Sonya said, “Officer, no problem,” with a twitchy smirk. Ernie was wondering if he should offer the detective a bill or two, fifty dollars maybe; or would that be a mistake of offering him money which was a God-damned insult—as if he, Ernie Fenke, was looking for bribes; as if he, Ernie Fenke, was in fact bribable!—which maybe in another set of circumstances he might be, but these days sting operations were so common, in the papers and on TV, so anyone who imagined Ernie Fenke was stupid enough or desperate enough to be tempted to take a bribe had insulted him doubly. So he decided no; and the girl was convincing enough; and the detective seemed to want to believe them, backing off and saying in a bored voice, “O.K., kids, but take it easy from now on.” So it was O.K. but Christ he’d resented having to deal with it. He resented his privacy invaded and scrutinized by some s.o.b. private cop near enough to him in age, size, disposition and possibly income to be his twin brother. So he’d never returned to any big hotel again, much preferring the small two-story motels along the strip like the Golden Sands which was about two miles from the center of Vegas.
At Caesars Palace, at Pleasure Island and the Mirage and the Hilton and the Sahara. At craps, at poker, at blackjack and at craps again. He’d won a few bucks, and lost; lost, and won; drew on his American Express card taking a chance he’d win enough to keep going, and so he did; for five hours of strain coming out a lousy $238 ahead. And he hadn’t yet hooked up with a girl, he’d been so anxious waiting to get hot, really hot; but it wasn’t happening.
I need one, I need a woman. For luck.
He had a habit, not nervous exactly but half-conscious, of slipping his hand inside his jacket and rubbing his chest; touching the .32-caliber pistol he carried close beneath his heart everywhere he went as if to check yes it’s there, he’s O.K.
In Barbary Coast cruising the slots hawklike and alert for prey. A man handsome and stylishly dressed as Ernie Fenke with his macho swagger Yeah, I think pretty well of myself and you would, too, in my place shouldn’t have trouble attracting desirable women, right? His hair oiled and combed to hide the balding spots, a gold chain glinting at his throat, and chest hair just visible at his opened collar. Of course there were always hookers, high-priced whorehouses outside the city limits (with shuttle service provided, he’d tried it once) but Ernie Fenke wanted something better. And deserved something better. The cowhide boots giving him a full inch or more in height, so he moved through crowds catching sight of himself in mirrors and reflective surfaces and admiring what he saw. But he was disdainful of the many homely, frankly ugly and overweight women in the casino; so many middle-aged, old and even elderly men and women playing the slots, dozens, hundreds, acres of them in Vegas, everywhere in Vegas, their clawed arthritic hands covered with liver spots and visibly trembling as if with palsy or Parkinson’s and some of them blind or in wheelchairs, or both, Ernie was shocked to see such behavior among his elders, people his parents’ age, damned depressing sights, and most of them smoking, too. The slots were, generally, depressing. Rigged for the house to win, for penny-ante suckers to play, lowest level of gambler. Not like the more manly games poker, blackjack and craps where intelligence and gambling ingenuity might prevail.
It was late, he was getting anxious, his eye snagged on two young women in jeans and designer blouses and too much makeup squealing with excitement as a small jackpot of silver dollars spilled out of a machine to the accompaniment of flashing red lights and hurdy-gurdy music. Ernie saw it was just a $277 jackpot, chump change but the girls were making a show of catching the coins in paper cups, exclaiming to each other. “Hey girls, congratulations!” Ernie said, and the plumper of the two actually whirled about and hugged him, a total stranger, smearing lipstick on his cheek like it was New Year’s Eve or Mardi Gras. So Ernie fell to talking with them, and bought them drinks at one of the bars, Irma and Janice who were “executive assistants” as they called themselves, meaning probably secretaries, from Topeka, Kansas, here in Vegas for the weekend. Their first time in Vegas, their first jackpot ever, oh they loved Vegas it was even more exciting than they’d hoped, there was surely nothing like Vegas back in Kansas! Breathless and giggling displaying their young bodies for Ernie Fenke and, yes, he was moderately turned on, bought them another round of drinks and listened to their chatter, then suddenly bored he said, “Hey, you gals are terrific but I gotta run. Have a great weekend,” tossing bills down for the waiter and walking off knowing Irma and Janice would be hurt, disappointed. The tall homely one with the buck teeth and the shorter plumper one with the brown cow-eyes like Lynette’s gazing after him wistfully as he strode off brushing his oiled hair back with deft motions of both hands.
Eat your hearts out, girls.
Enough of Barbary Coast, where his luck wasn’t with him. He left, crossing the street, surprised to see it was dusk already, almost night. In the casinos, which were windowless and clock-less, you were led to forget there was such a thing as time. Or, glancing at your watch, you saw it was 10:48 not knowing was this morning or night. And there’s a satisfaction in that. Like the time he’d poked a girl with the .32, teasing, tickling, nudging her breasts and belly and between the legs, not rough, really just playful and even affectionate, and she’d been laughing, high and laughing and suddenly she’d stopped laughing and got scared and it came to him in a flash You could, you know—just do it. And there’d be a satisfaction in that, for sure. Ending everything, not just her, whoever she was, but him, too. But in the next moment he’d forgotten, of course—Ernie Fenke could think of better things to do with a woman than blow her away.
He was headed for the Century, a tall golden-glimmering tower of lights against the murky sky. Grateful the sun had gone down though it was still muggy, hot; temperature in the high 80s; and the hazy-gritty air hard to breathe. He was excited, edgy; he recognized the symptoms; another drink helped, but not enough. Knowing his luck wasn’t with him yet but, God damn, he was too restless to keep from trying it; found himself at a blackjack table where he dropped $370 in four minutes. To prove what? When he already knew? Not lonely but keenly feeling the absence of a woman, a good-looking sexually charged woman at his side. A woman to bring Ernie Fenke the luck he deserved, a woman to explore that king-sized bed at the Golden Sands Motor Lodge with him. Not a screamer if he could help it but how’d he know beforehand? He never did.
Wandering through the crowded noisy smoke-filled casino with rainbow spotlights overhead, crisscrossing one another like the tails of random comets. What a place, Vegas: a dream, but not a dream you had to sustain, yourself: an easy dream, a pure-pleasure dream, like a fold-out 3-D children’s storybook. His pockets were stuffed with coupons, everyone trying to give away something, or give that illusion to bring the suckers in. He had coupons for a half-dozen meals but hadn’t sat down to one yet; too much excitement, too much electricity in the air. It was like being a teenaged kid again, in Vegas; horny as hell, charged up ready to explode. In his cowhide boots, in his sexy Italian-style jacket, his black silk shirt open at the throat he was a predator uncertain of the specifics of his prey but knowing it was in his vicinity, he’d locate it soon; knowing he had to eat, and soon. Following a woman then abruptly losing interest when he saw she was his age, at least—late thirties; following another, fantastic ass in almost-translucent purple shorts and a tiny halter top, punk-style dyed green hair meaning she’d be wild as hell in bed and wouldn’t need to be respected, but, God damn, he lost her to a guy. Mostly the Century was packed with couples, all ages, all sizes and races; Vegas had changed in just the six or seven years he’d been coming here, more ordinary people every season, more families with kids; there were couples who reminded him of his parents and in-laws; couples who reminded him of himself and Lynette as they’d been ten years ago, or would be twenty years in the future, God! No wonder he hadn’t any appetite to eat.
At last at a crowded
roulette table he sighted a good-looking redhead in an eye-catching costume: sexy gold lamé minidress and high-heeled cork shoes, she appeared to be alone, though plenty of guys were noticing her; numerous rings on her fingers so he couldn’t tell if she wore a wedding band, but in the case of a woman like this, what would a wedding band signify if the husband wasn’t within a hundred feet of her? A divorcée, Ernie supposed; maybe spending a few days in Vegas to clear out her head; looking for a pickup, too—maybe. It was Saturday night, after all. (In Vegas it was always Saturday night except for a few depressing hours on Sunday morning.) He saw her pushing chips out, and not getting chips back; pushing chips out, and not getting chips back. He saw a hurt, stung, scared look in her face that’s the look of a woman losing a bet; he couldn’t see how much she’d lost, but he was glad she’d lost; when a woman wins, she isn’t likely to need a man. He followed her when she left the table abruptly, walking quickly in her high-heeled shoes, her pale face slightly flushed, a breathless look to her, hoped to hell she wasn’t meeting up with some guy. Red-haired and sexy and not too old for him, in her late twenties possibly; reminded him of Sharon Stone, that tough-sexy look. Like her legs would wrap around you and practically break your back and you’d love it. He didn’t like it that she was tall, preferred shorter women, of course the heels added inches to her height and when she kicked them off she’d be more to his taste. A creamy-pale face smooth as a mask, not much expression, a bright red mouth like something gouged into flesh. He followed her through the casino, in and out of crowds, possibly she was aware of him by now and not minding it that he, a good-looking guy, was following her; you don’t dress like that, wear your hair tousled like that, unless you want men to look seriously at you, and think serious thoughts about you. Jesus!—that gold lamé dress that fitted her slender but voluptuous body as if she’d been poured into it! The sight turned him on, shiny gold fabric tight as a tourniquet especially at her belly, pelvis. Her legs were long as a dancer’s legs, maybe she was a showgirl, or had been; long, bare, smooth legs; a thin gold chain around her left ankle. Honey look at me: Ernie Fenke’s your man. He was disappointed, though, she’d gone to the slot machines; losing at roulette and back to playing slots, both of them sheer blind chance and slots the lowest form of casino gambling. And she wasn’t having luck here, either. Slots was a sucker’s game, took no brains at all, still there’s always the flutter of hope you might win; rigged to favor the house ninety-nine times out of one hundred but you might win; there were wins timed regularly in a row of machines to keep the credulous hopeful; to keep the suckers going, going and gone.
Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon Page 3