Las Vegas Noir

by Jarret Keene

  “Hold this to your mouth,” I said. “Lay down on the couch.”

  “I’m fine here.” He pressed the blanket to his face.

  I ran to the kitchen and grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer. Casey came in from his office. “What happened?”

  “Kevin,” I said. I ran the ice pack under the faucet.

  “Not again.” He sighed and pulled a dish towel from the drawer.

  James was in the chair with his head back. Blood dripped down the sides of his face into his ears. It was starting to dry to his skin.

  “Here, baby,” I said. “Hold this on it.” I kneeled in front of him.

  He laid the pack over his face. He groaned.

  “I told you to stay away from that kid,” Casey said. He handed me the dish towel.

  “He’s outside all the time!” James yelled. His eyes were enraged, the purple mushrooming around them.

  “Then you need to stay inside more often,” Casey said.

  “Casey.” I shook my head: Not now.

  “I can’t stay inside forever,” James muttered. He slumped into the chair.

  “Let me see.” I pulled back the ice pack. His skin was raw. His eyes were swelling and turning purple. His nose leaked a trickle of blood. I ran the washcloth over his face. His cheeks were mottled: red, pink, and white with streaks of blood smeared across them. Casey stood behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

  I wanted to protect James, like my dad protected me, but I didn’t know what to do to stop the boy who’d been picking on him. I wanted to beat the kid bloody into the dirt. I wanted to press my thumbs into his throat until bright red bruises splashed across his skin. I wanted to kill him, if I had my way.

  I learned early on it was the men who fought. What power did I have? A rub on the arm, a doe-eyed blink? I couldn’t flirt the kid into submission. It infuriated me that I couldn’t just reach out and take control, that I had to coerce and manipulate. When I was younger and used to take my little sister out in her stroller, I’d stuff my pockets with pepper spray, a safety whistle, Dad’s buck knife, and a billy club. I would have gladly traded my breasts for muscles so I could be sure to protect her then. I’d do the same now so I could intimidate this Kevin like he was intimidating my son. I watched James spit a mouthful of blood into the towel. I swallowed the impotence burning in my throat.

  That night I changed into my pajamas while Casey lay reading Forbes. I could hear James getting ready to go to bed in the bathroom at the end of the hall. I sat down facing Casey. He peaked over the edge of the magazine.

  “We’ve gotta do something,” I said.

  “He needs to stay away from the kid.” He turned the page.

  “He shouldn’t have to be scared to leave the house.”

  “We can arrange to speak with his parents again. If you think it will help.”

  “His parents are schmucks. He runs the joint over there.”

  Casey set the magazine down. “This is what boys do. This is an important lesson for James. He needs to learn not to tangle with the wrong guy. Better now than later.”

  I stared at the back of the paper, stumped. I couldn’t believe he was being so dismissive. But what could he do, really? I’d already talked to Kevin’s mom and dad, the teachers, and the principal. They assured me everything would be okay, that Kevin would stop. Even though I’d glared at Kevin from across the street, I was still a parent, an adult. I didn’t even make the little jerk’s radar. The truth was, you can’t stop a mustached teenager who moves onto your street, who has a moped and a vengeance against your son. Not without fear. That was one tool I didn’t have.

  I stuck my tongue out at Casey from behind the magazine. He didn’t look up again as I left the room, closing the door behind me. I walked down the hall to the closet. If my dad was in Casey’s place, he would have fixed it. Somehow. Without words. A wop displaced to the desert; just a look and he was intimidating. Casey would probably try to reason with the kid if we ever got ahold of him. When we were younger, I was completely taken with Casey’s approach to conflict. He talked steady and calm. Looked directly into the eyes of those who challenged him. Legitimized arguments. Shook hands afterwards. I thought he was the smartest man I’d ever met, and I was in love with him immediately. Before Casey, everything in my life had been bristled with a slight sense of danger: where we lived, who we knew, even my dad himself. Casey’s composure was a hell of an aphrodisiac.

  As we got older, though, his resolutions began to drive me nuts. Casey’s civility dragged problems out forever, fraying them one strand at a time, while I wanted to scream, to yell, to tear and bite. I didn’t want to “come to an understanding” with the pizza delivery boy. I wanted him to go back and give me my fucking pizza the way I ordered it. I wanted action and response. Especially now.

  I pulled the heavy metal lock box from the top shelf of closet. Dust shivered and clung to it. James was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I stepped over a wet towel, which lay in a heap, to get through the doorway. He glanced at me and spit in the sink. Pink. Black crescents with purple edges ringed his eyes at the bridge of his swollen nose. I pointed to the edge of the tub. “Sit,” I said.

  “What?” He ruffled his hair, misting the mirror as he sat, then touched a finger to his split lip. He winced.

  I sat next to him, the box on my lap. “I want to show you something.” I leaned across the sink to tighten the faucet.

  “Is that Grandpa’s—?”

  “Yup.”

  “I thought Dad made you—”

  “Nope.”

  I clicked the code in the box. It opened with a snap. James leaned forward. I edged the top up. I could smell the oil. It made me remember sitting with my dad, at the kitchen table, oiling and cleaning his guns. “It was Grandpa’s favorite.” I said. “He wanted you to have it.”

  I picked up the .44. It was heavier than I remembered. The white butt was worn and yellowing. The metal was flawless, though, shining like a new car. “I wasn’t strong enough to shoot it by myself. Still not,” I said. “I had to lean against Grandpa. You’ll be able to handle it on your own one day.”

  “You want me to shoot Kevin?” He sounded irritated.

  “No,” I said solemnly. “This isn’t about Kevin.” I shrugged. “Not exactly.” I shifted. I wanted James to experience a spark of power, to hold the gun, understand its potential. Even if he never shot it in his life, I wanted to embed the symbol in his mind, the knowledge, the concept, so he would never feel helpless. “I’m only going to teach you because I trust you. You’re too smart to ever do anything stupid.” I paused. “But men need to know how to use one.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Just in case.”

  He nodded grimly and leaned against me. I felt his skinny frame against my arm.

  “This is your first lesson,” I said. “Take it by the butt. Don’t put you’re finger on the trigger. Press this release to check for bullets.” I modeled for him and swung the wheel open. I let the bullets fall into my hand. “Always make sure it isn’t loaded before you aim.” I held it out for him. “Here, take it.”

  He traced a finger across the mirrored metal. “I’m tired, Mom.”

  I shrank back down, the gun going limp in my hands. I sighed. “If that little prick touches you, ball up your fist and hit him as hard as you can. Then run.”

  “Mom. He’s an eighth grader.” He said it like eighth graders swung batons and guarded mini-marts after hours. He raised his eyebrows, then his battered face crumpled. He sucked in two shallow breaths.

  I rested the gun on the sink. I wrapped my arms around him. He felt heavier, a lump of flesh. “We’ll fix this, honey. Your dad and I will fix it. I promise.”

  After a moment he pulled away and stood up with a small stumble. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a sniff. “I’m getting a lot of exercise running.” He smacked his belly. “Finally getting rid of some of that holiday weight.” He grinned.

  I rolled my eyes. “Don�
��t tell your dad about the gun.”

  He made a knowing face and held up his hands. “I don’t want to hear about it either.”

  I grabbed him for a quick hug, then listened to him go into his room. The bathroom was a mess. His bloody clothes in a heap in the corner. Dirty handprints on the tile. I wiped up some toothpaste and looked in the mirror. I pulled the skin under my eyes. When I was a kid, I would have taken any opportunity to examine a gun, practice my aim. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. I chuckled. Making jokes, damn kid. I put the gun back in the box and went to James’s room to tuck him in.

  I was born in ’68, six years after the Test Site’s last nuclear detonation but still a few decades before the mega-resorts would come to really alter the look of southern Nevada. Back then, Vegas really was the Wild West, with tumbleweeds blowing down the teenaged Strip. My parents both worked in the casinos. Dad bounced around a lot. Usually because he couldn’t stay at any one job too long without punching someone out.

  Vegas was more visceral in those days. Now all the sharp edges have been worn down, sanded to a dull impression to make the town’s tables more accessible. Then there was no glossy exterior, nothing to hide us from the fact that we lived in the middle of a desert, miles away from judgment. Guys got murdered for counting cards. Locals could get a comp to the buffet anytime, day or night. There was no charade like there is now. No casino nannies or carnival games, no street attractions. No, in those days, Vegas was here for one thing: sin.

  We lived five minutes from the Strip in a trailer park, before we finally got a house, before my little sister was born. The trailer park was the last thing between the town and open desert. Dad loved it because we just had to walk to the end of the property to shoot our guns. “I couldn’t do this back in Brooklyn,” he’d always say, his accent flaring for a moment in the dry wind. In the summertime, I’d trail behind him, my bare feet crunching the parched dirt, the rocks biting them like piranhas, the stickers hooking themselves between my toes. By fall, my feet would get so tough that I could walk across glass. The sun would scorch my neck well into October. At night, my mom would lay cold towels across it so I could sleep.

  My parents traded shifts so someone could always be with me when I was young. Mom doing cocktails days and Dad dealing nights. We were lucky. Dad and I spent a lot of time watching reruns and cleaning his guns, talking and making snacks. Once, when the July heat kept us from venturing too far, Dad had given up for the couch. I stuck outside to play with some neighborhood kids. I was ten or eleven. A teenaged boy I vaguely knew coaxed me behind the dumpsters.

  “Show me your panties,” he said. He was wearing blue jeans and no shirt.

  “No,” I said. I dug my bare toes into the powdery dirt.

  “C’mon, just show me.” He pinched me hard on the arm.

  “No. Leave me alone.” I turned to go.

  “If you leave, I’ll chase after you and hit you in the face.”

  “You’d have to catch me,” I sneered.

  “I’d catch you easy. I’m bigger. Show me your panties and I’ll let you leave.”

  I turned around and took off running as fast as I could. I heard my heart beating loud in my ears, but it didn’t cover up the stomping of his sneakers inches behind me. Get to the steps, I thought. I ran as fast as I could through the parking lot and the patch of desert between the dumpsters and our trailer. Inside, my stomach flipped with the idea that I had provoked this. I’d given the boy reason to think he could look at my panties. I wanted to stop and stand up for myself, but I was too scared. He was bigger than me. Then my stomach flipped again, thinking about Dad. I wouldn’t tell him if I could just make it home. I would be in trouble for going behind the dumpster with this boy who Dad had never liked and had specifically told me to stay away from. As soon as I hit the grass at the base of our slot, the boy’s slapping footsteps died away. I kept running, hopping over the tomato plants and hitting the aluminum door with all my weight. I’m sure I shook the entire trailer.

  “What happened?” Dad asked. He was still lying on the couch, smoking a cigarette. His pink bowl was on the floor filled with potato chips and pretzels. M*A*S*H played on TV. I panted against the door. It didn’t matter what I said, I realized. There was no use lying. Dad could always read my mind.

  “What happened?” he repeated. He sat up, already angry. I caught a sob in my throat thinking I was in trouble.

  “You were playing with that boy, weren’t you?”

  My face got hot. I gulped a nod.

  “What did he do?”

  “He, he …” I stammered and coughed. “He told me to show him my panties!”

  Dad’s eyes clouded red. His fists clenched. He grew as big as the room. The walls rippled. I closed my eyes anticipating his roar. Even the TV laughter shrank away.

  “But Daddy, I didn’t show him. I told him no, and he said he’d punch me!”

  “Motherfucker!” he growled. He was outside before I could control my sobs. I followed, squatting to watch from behind the slats of our picket fence.

  Kids dotted the street. Dad moved so determinedly that summer seemed to freeze. He walked like a soldier into combat across the pavement, barefoot in his dusty jeans. The boy was sitting on the steps of his trailer. He turned to go inside when he saw Dad coming for him.

  “You stay right there, you little cocksucker,” Dad said.

  The boy froze. Dad stomped up to him and wrapped an enormous hand around his skinny shoulder. He dragged him off the steps. The boy moaned like a dying cat.

  “You listen to me,” Dad snarled, inches from the boy’s pained face. I could barely hear him, but I knew what he said. “If you ever come near my daughter again, I will rip your fucking balls off and shove them down your throat.”

  The boy’s mother ran down the steps, screaming, “Let him go! He didn’t do anything! Let him go!” She cried into her hands, unable to release her son from Dad’s grip. “Let him go!” she wailed.

  “You understand me, you little prick?” Dad said, shaking the boy back and forth.

  The boy groaned, but managed to nod his head. His face burned bright pink.

  Dad let go. The boy stumbled back. His mother engulfed him. She cried into his shoulder. Dad walked back toward our trailer as quickly as he had left. I felt a mingled sensation of pity for the boy and personal triumph. Dad picked me up when he returned. He asked me if I was okay.

  “Yes,” I mumbled, still in shock.

  “You know, boys do stupid things,” he said carrying me into the living room. “You’re getting older now and you’ll have to watch out for them.” As quickly as he had gone into the rage, he was back, Dad again. Even his thick mane had settled down to his normal messy hair. He set me on the couch. “But the lucky thing is, you are too smart for them and you’ll never let someone tell you what to do. You’re tough.” He brushed some sticky hair away from my face. “I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself.”

  I felt like crying all over again, but I wasn’t sure why. I often felt like that when Dad told me something important. I wanted his trust and his approval more than anything. I’d seen him angry, and I’d seen him rip guys apart. I loved that he was on my side, always.

  I never respected a man so much until Casey came along, completely the opposite, but still a man in his own way. Casey was kind of a big deal in town, doing energy consultations with the casinos, helping the buildings to follow FCC guidelines and save money on energy at the same time. It was the kind of job that wasn’t around ten years earlier. The days of covering its troubles with lightbulbs and neon were over. Vegas had to grow up, and the town struggled just like I did to fit into mainstream society. Casey was helping us both.

  The next morning, Casey pulled back into the driveway after dropping James off at school. He didn’t have any appointments until later that afternoon. I’d been pacing the kitchen, wanting to talk to him before I left for work. I was standing at the door when he opened it.


  “Jesus!” he said, startled.

  “We haven’t prepared James for the real world,” I said. “We’ve made everything too safe.”

  “Honey. This is what boys do.” He set down his keys. He grabbed an apple from the fridge. He kissed me on the cheek, then stuck the fruit in his mouth.

  I followed him. “Think about it. We live in this house with an alarm system. We have air bags in the car.” I folded my arms tight in front of me.

  “You didn’t want the Lexus because of the airbags.” He smiled and winked at me. He walked toward his office.

  I rolled my eyes. “We’re not prepared for anything,” I said. I was at his heels.

  “We have every kind of insurance you can imagine.” He pulled up the blinds.

  “But look at James. The shit has hit and he has no idea how to handle himself. He’s too insecure to stick up for himself. He’s terrified.” I sat on the edge of the couch.

  “He should be terrified,” Casey replied, sitting behind his desk. “Have you seen that boy yet? He’s a moose.”

  “James should feel invincible.” I paused. “He should be feeling out his …” I grappled with my hands, trying to pull the words out of the air. “… his machismo. I don’t know.” I threw my hands up.

  “We didn’t raise him like that.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “What do you want to do, Teresa?” He dropped his hands on the desk. “You can’t follow him to school. You can’t spank the other kid.” He picked up a stack of papers and straightened them. “The boy doesn’t like James for whatever reason. James can’t help that. He needs to stay out of the kid’s way.”

  I crossed my legs and stared at Casey. “I want to take James shooting.”

  “What? No way.”

  “It will give him self-confidence. So he isn’t so scared.”

  “You’re being incredibly impractical.” He turned toward the computer and punched in some data. “I think it’s a terrible idea. It won’t solve anything. There’s nothing good that can come from it.” He was done talking. It infuriated me.