The Secret History of Las Vegas

by Chris Abani

  Sunil had been in college on a state scholarship when he met Jan Krige. The first thing he noticed about her was the Bible. She had it with her always, a red pocket-sized leather-bound book with a red five-pointed star and a gold-and-black kudu in the middle stamped on the front: a South African Army Bible. Sunil had loved that there was a meticulousness to her. To the blond hair pulled back severely into a bun so tight he could see the blue veins pulse just under her hairline. To the green eyes carefully shaded by eye shadow and lined in fine black liner. To the expensive cashmere sweaters buttoned over newly starched white shirts, and then the white coats with the pens lined up like little soldiers in the breast pocket: red, blue, green, and black. Pens she never used, never even took out of her pocket. She always wrote with a heavy fountain pen—all black body with a gold cap—wielded like a wand, like a sword. He sat next to her at every opportunity, mostly because she was the only one who never moved away from him when he sat. Never shrank or wrinkled her nose as if he secreted an odor. It intrigued him that she treated him no different from anyone else, and it wasn’t like she couldn’t tell. He was the only black in the room.

  He would sit next to her, watch her pull open an old leather satchel, a man’s satchel, worn and fading in brown. She would select her notebook, a different one for each class, whatever text they were studying, and her pen. She would line them up on the desk and then, finally, she would pull out the Bible, and lay it down. Then, turning to look at him, as though noticing him for the first time, she would smile, her red lips parting to reveal small white teeth in pink gums. Hello, Sunil, she said, every day. Hello, he said, and smiled back.

  When he finally plucked up the courage to ask her about the pen and the satchel, she explained that they had belonged to her father. He died before she was born, on a peace mission to Mozambique, she explained, to convince the ANC terrorists to give up their attacks on the government.

  That was his, she said, pointing to the Bible. It had been a gift from Mr. Botha to her father. It’s signed by Mr. Botha, she added.

  Sunil couldn’t tell which Mr. Botha she meant. May I see, he asked, reaching for it.

  She put her hand on his, white on black, small on large, and shook her head gently, sadly even. No, she said, it would be like looking into his soul. I’ve never even opened it.

  Oh, he said, his hand burning under hers, wanting the pressure. My father died before I was born too, he said, lying.

  I’m sorry, she said, moving her hand imperceptibly.

  He felt it ignite a flame in him, feeling the delight of her, the warmth of her, and yet the conflict of his desire was strong. How could he feel this for a woman whose people were oppressing his? Desire is a fool, he thought then, wondering if it was his thought or something he had read somewhere.

  He had never seen a Bible like hers before, so red, and that day it pulsed under his palm like a heart.

  But that had all been so long ago. And yet here she was, at least the ghost of her. Material and present; a heavy silver ring with a wing. He touched the computer screen.

  Seven

  Fire watched keenly as Shiva’s eight arms waved dangerously close to Chewbacca’s face every time he moved. Chewy, tired of ducking, threatened to pull off Shiva’s extra arms if His Royal Blueness didn’t sit still.

  Fire looked at Water, but Water had his eyes closed. Fire returned to watching, peering out from Water’s shirt.

  Across the aisle from the ER waiting area, a man, pants down around his ankles, shuffled up to the nurses’ desk to find out how much longer he had to wait. The wool sheep attached to his waist kept him at arm’s length from the desk and the nurse had to cup her ear to hear him over the noise of the ER.

  It was six when I got here, he said, pointing at the clock. Now it’s seven thirty. What the fuck is taking so long?

  Please sit over there, sir, she said in a tired voice, pointing to the waiting area. The man sighed loudly and shuffled back to sit down next to a woman and her daughter. The woman pulled her child closer.

  In the corner a very skinny Spider-Man was being harangued by a three-hundred-pound Wonder Woman wearing her hair in a three-foot updo: Don’t rub up against me, pervert, she said, pushing against his chest. The skinny Spider-Man backed away and Fire realized that apart from a leather G-string he was naked, his costume painted on in colored vinyl.

  Salazar stood a ways down the hall talking to the duty cop. Vegas County saw a lot of law enforcement and correctional patients and there were always several cops milling around, in addition to the two officers permanently stationed there to make sure that nobody left unless they wore the appropriate wrist tag. Everyone was issued a tag at check-in: red for convict, blue for supervised (which included mental patients or people not yet processed, like Fire and Water), and green for everyone else. Simple but effective.

  In the back row, a teenager wearing the costume from Scream bled from a knife embedded in his head. It was hard to tell if the knife was real or fake, and if it was blood or syrup dribbling down his face. A man in a Predator costume, sans face mask, screamed: Shit, I’ve been shot, shit; all the while holding a thick piece of gauze tight against his alien arm. It’s not that bad, the woman next to him said, I only shot you with a BB rifle. It was clear that she was his girlfriend. She wasn’t wearing a costume, and for that reason, she looked the weirdest in the room. The man next to the twins wore a gorilla costume with a cage attached to the front. In the cage was a man in jungle fatigues, hands wrapped around the cage’s foam bars. The twins didn’t immediately realize it was one costume, and that the wearer’s head was poking out of the gorilla’s chest, becoming the head of the caged man.

  Fire undid Water’s buttons and pushed out into the open. Staring around with open curiosity, he seemed completely at home in the melee.

  Hey, you’re not going to the Halloween pageant at the Fremont, are you, the gorilla asked the twins. ’Cause your costume looks even better than mine. The pot is five thousand dollars and frankly, I don’t need the competition.

  This isn’t a costume, Fire said. We are twins.

  Right, got you, the gorilla said. Bending down, he added in a conspiratorial whisper: I won’t tell.

  Before Fire could answer, Salazar came over and led them to an examination stall, screened off but otherwise open to the ward. Fire overheard him say to a nurse: I want a psych consult for the patient.

  Why, the nurse asked.

  Salazar looked at her name tag: Andrea Hassiba. Listen, Andrea, Salazar said. My assessment of the scene leads me to believe they are a risk to themselves.

  Fine, Nurse Hassiba said, I’ll call for one. In the meantime, it would help if you go to the admissions desk and fill out all the required paperwork. They will get the duty psychiatrist down here.

  I would rather have my own psychiatrist come down, someone who has worked with me before on police business. A Dr. Singh.

  Nurse Hassiba shrugged. Work that out with Admissions, she said.

  Salazar headed off to take care of things.

  Alone with the twins, Nurse Hassiba attempted to wrestle what she thought was a wet doll away from Water. Dressed as she was for Halloween, as a vampire, teeth and all, and having been an ER nurse for twenty years in Vegas, she had seen weirder costumes.

  Please unhand me, Fire said, his grip unexpectedly firm, all but immobilizing the nurse.

  When she realized that this was no costume, and just before she apologized and let go, a primordial look of disgust crossed her face.

  Can you fetch the doctor now, Fire asked.

  Yes, Nurse Hassiba said, glad for an excuse to leave the examination stall.

  While Water stroked Fire’s bald head, Fire rolled his eyes and muttered, Bigot, under his breath. Lost in meditation, the twins waited for the doctor.

  Eight

  Hello.

  Sunil started, looking up. Sheila was st
anding at his door. Dr. Sheila Jackson was a colleague and one of the smartest and most beautiful women he knew. He liked her but there was something about the way she dressed, like a young Pat Benatar with spiky black hair, dark shaded eyes, boxy ’80s tweed jackets with weird lapels, Palestinian neck scarves, and ripped jeans, that made him wary of her. It was Halloween and yet Sheila wasn’t in costume. He’d always thought it was an odd way for a black woman to dress, although if pressed to explain what he meant, he wouldn’t be able to.

  Hello, Sheila, he said. You startled me.

  She sat opposite him and put her legs up on his desk. Her shoes were shiny.

  So, he said, what’s up?

  Not much. Just heading out for the day. Thought I’d stop by and warn you to stay out of Brewster’s way.

  Bruiser Brewster, as the interns called him. Bad mood, Sunil asked.

  Worse than usual, Sheila said. How’s it going, anyway, Sheila asked.

  It’s good, he said.

  Really, she asked. I’m sorry, Sunil, but all those dead apes and no results can’t be good. She paused at the look on his face. It wasn’t you? I knew it. Is Brewster hijacking your work?

  Why would you say that? Has he ever hijacked your work?

  My work is not that interesting, I build robotic insects, she said, sitting up and craning her neck to see the images on his screen. How do you tell anything from these MRIs? I mean, how can you even be sure they are meaningful?

  Sunil said nothing. He wouldn’t admit it, but Sheila’s question had touched a raw nerve. All this time and he still had nothing to show. Putting the thought out of his head, he turned his attention back to the screen and the MRI images.

  There were two groups of MRIs, the test subjects and the controls. All the test subjects were inmates of the same prison and the controls were kids from the same university, a fact that seemed important at the time but in retrospect didn’t matter at all, as it ended up not affecting the process at all. His prison subjects were all serial offenders. They were the perfect study group because while also having committed many small crimes, they usually had one major crime they returned to over and over. It was the pattern of these major crimes and their triggers that held the most promise for his work.

  To generate the MRI images that were meaningful in any way, his test subjects were shown different sets of photographs, sometimes concurrently, sometimes consecutively. The sets included photos of flowers and sunsets and children laughing and also horrific and often bloody images: one moment flashing a flower, the next a mutilated human body. The MRI took scans of the brain, and the accompanying computer program tracked what parts of the brain lit up in response to the images. The variances were what Sunil studied.

  Sheila finally broke the silence.

  Are you happy with these new MRIs?

  Yes, he said.

  Compared to your test subjects, mine are harmless, Sheila said.

  You’re right, Sunil said. My subjects are unsavory and I must admit many people would find this kind of research difficult.

  But not you, she asked.

  No, he said. That wasn’t entirely true, but he shrugged off the small nag from his subconscious.

  Sunil’s research was part psychological, part chemical. He was studying the causes of psychopathic and other violent behavior with the aim of harnessing and controlling that behavior. To turn it off and on at will, as it were, with a serum or drug of some kind.

  For Sunil, though, the work at its core was redemptive. He wanted to find cures, ways to help.

  Brewster laughed at him when he expressed that sentiment. Redemption is easy, Sunil, he said. Restoration, now, there’s the kicker.

  Sunil hated that Brewster was right. Redemption was easy—that momentary flash of conversion, the road-to-Damascus moment. Turning it into a lived thing was what made it restorative and that was hard.

  Don’t kid yourself, Sunil, Brewster said. There’s a reason only the U.S. Army will fund your research. This serum you’re developing is to weaponize the condition.

  Is that even a word, Sunil thought. He hated words that ended in “ize.” They never led to anything good: weaponize, Africanize, terrorize. Weapons, all of them.

  His research, in comparing notes from his control subjects and his prison group, seemed to indicate that at least 5 percent of the general male population of the United States was afflicted with the condition. These were successful psychopaths, successful in the sense that they had found ways to live with the condition, either by sublimating desires or by being smart enough not to get caught.

  Like other researchers in the field, Sunil was sure that the condition had its cause in a defect in the paralimbic system, a network of the brain stretching from the orbital frontal cortex to the posterior cingulate cortex. These areas were involved in processing emotion, inhibition, and attention.

  The brain scans on his computer were the last step in this new data-collection phase. Next he would have to conduct field studies, which meant triggering the condition in people whose brains showed latent possibilities for it and then waiting to see if the drug he had developed to control the condition was effective.

  Two years earlier they had moved into human trials prematurely, with disastrous results. Sunil tried not to think about that time. But he was worried about this new phase of testing.

  To be really sure the serum worked, the more advanced stage of testing would have to be conducted outside laboratory conditions—in the real world, so to speak. There was no exit strategy, and neither were there real controls in place to limit the damage. As Brewster said, To see if the product works, we have to see it work.

  I’m going away in a few days, Sheila said, changing the subject. This will be my first holiday in five years.

  Good for you, Sunil said.

  You should get away too, she said.

  I do need a break.

  Come with me?

  You’re going to Cape Town, aren’t you? I have no interest in going back there. There I’m just a black man.

  I thought it was here that you were just a black man, Sheila said.

  As black as I am, I am also Indian. Not half, not part, but in equal whole measures. In the new South Africa, there is no room for complications like me. I know there’s no real room in the U.S. for the kind of complication I present either, but at least it’s big enough to give the illusion that there is. And you, Sunil asked.

  And me what?

  How much of you has been tainted and fucked up by the racism here? Is that why you dress like a white soft-rock singer from the eighties, he asked.

  I’m not sure. I think I’m just a nerd who thinks she looked her best back in the eighties. I think that it’s more about being a woman that preoccupies me, she said. You know, the cost of the extensive education I’ve had, the demands of the work I do, the expectations I have for myself and also for a partner, all these concern me more than race.

  You think these things isolate you, as a woman? Lead to a lonelier life?

  Of course they do. There are just fewer men in the world who want or can deal with a black woman like me; even fewer that I want.

  Funny, I didn’t even think about that, Sunil said.

  Never thought about me as a woman?

  I mean, Sunil began, but stopped.

  Yeah, well, it’s different for women, Sheila said. Time and all that.

  Yes, time and all that, Sunil echoed.

  Trying to clear the air, she asked: So—seeing anyone?

  It’s complicated, Sunil said.

  It always is, Sheila said.

  Sunil smiled. He crossed the room and refilled his cup, pausing to inhale the fragrant, woody smell. He loved this blend—all wet forest leaves and warm hearth fires. Sheila watched him.

  I’m sorry, he said, catching her look. Would you like some coffee?

/>   She shook her head. No, I don’t want to be up all night.

  Right, he said, of course.

  When you were a child, did you imagine your life would ever turn out the way it did? I didn’t. I don’t really know what I expected, what I thought it would be like. It’s elusive, like the fragment of a song, or a smell or even a taste, all of which come upon me in the least expected places at the least expected times, she said.

  I know what you mean, he said. The smell of pipe tobacco and rain will always remind me of my father, of long drives in a car, none of which are mine or true. Yet sometimes the memory is so visceral it makes me want to cry. And it feels like I know what’s missing but then it’s gone.

  In my case, I know exactly what’s missing, she said.

  You do?

  And then he caught that look in her eye. The one he’d seen so many times. The one she had when she thought he wasn’t looking. And he loved it, the look, the feeling it gave him, like he could fall into it and be in love. But he was already in love, with Asia. And though it made no sense since she was a prostitute and unable to love him back, he couldn’t help it. And what if he gave up Asia and fell for Sheila? What then?

  Whatever Sheila saw in his face made her sit up. Look at the time, she said.

  Yes, he said.

  I must go, she said. I have work.

  Yes, me too.

  See you tomorrow, then?

  Yes, sure.

  At the door she paused momentarily, then shut it resolutely behind her.

  Nine

  Sunil knocked on Brewster’s door and entered without waiting. An older, often offensive, and unpleasant man, Brewster had founded the institute thirty years before. His early work had been in the area of group dynamics, a term that was a catchall for all kinds of work and that made Sunil in particular deeply worried. When it came to Brewster, everything sounded like a euphemism for something darker. There were five other projects housed there, all sponsored by the Department of Defense—Psychological Research; Weapons and Applied Tactics; Information Extraction and Analysis; Robotics and Organic Intelligence; and Planetary Resource Management.