Still Life Las Vegas

by James Sie

  “Dear God! What are you doing there?”

  She looked up. Looming large over her, blocking the sun, was an enormous, shaggy bird-lizard man. Layers of ostrich feathers, in various shades of violet, billowed out from a scaly hide of silver and lavender sequins. Flaring from the neck was a crest of stiff white cock feathers tipped with purple. The brown hair, swept up and back, the round face, the dark eyes—

  Emily gasped in horror. She’d gone insane, after all.

  “Honey, you don’t look so good yourself.”

  It took her a good five blinks before she realized that of course it wasn’t Liberace. For one thing, this man leaning over her was Asian. His face was broader than Liberace’s, his nose smaller. He looked nothing like an Italian-Polish pianist from Milwaukee, except for the feathered and sequined cape, which, she guessed, had to be the Master Showman’s—

  “I wouldn’t stand there, if I were you. The Bangs are coming out.” The imitation Liberace swept away from the doorway into the parking lot. His posture was impeccable; he could have been walking down a fashion runway.

  Emily got to her feet and out of the doorway just as a small Latino man, completely engulfed in what looked like a giant, ruffled American flag, teetered out. He was short enough for Emily to see the top of his bald brown head as he stared down, trying to gather up the fabric trailing on the ground and fling it over his shoulders.

  “Shit,” he said, “I should have worn my boots.” He pinioned one side of the cape with his right elbow and was flapping his left arm, trying to free it from the sea of Stars and Stripes. “Lee, help me, Goddamn it!” he said, turning to Emily. When he realized his mistake he gave a little scream. “Who-the-fuck-are-you?”

  Emily ducked her head down and tried to figure out how to get past them to her car, but before she could shrink back a third man strode out of the museum, a mustached giant, wearing no cape but carrying at least four over one arm, including one that appeared to be the pelt of a drowned black monkey. He didn’t even look at Emily. “Mariposas! Stop dancing around and get in the car! Ahora!” He had a rough, pockmarked face. A scar puckered the skin above his right cheekbone. The giant strode over to the Chevy.

  “Big Bang, relax!” the small one said, attempting to sweep his arms upward and keep the fabric in place. “This is my moment!”

  “Your moment, Bang?” hissed Big Bang, stuffing the capes into the trunk. “This is your moment? Little B, this will be your moment with la policia!” He slammed the trunk door down. “It’s fucking seven o’clock!” he shouted. “Who makes a break-in at seven o’clock?”

  Little Bang tossed his head defiantly but walked to the car. “You know I’m no good in the mornings, bruja!”

  Big Bang hurled a stream of Spanish invectives as Little Bang stuffed himself into the passenger side of the car. Emily thought of running into the open museum but Big Bang suddenly turned and in four paces was upon her. “What, you bring your sister, chino?” he snarled at Lee.

  “Calm down, Big B,” Lee said evenly. “She’s not going to say anything.” He turned to Emily. “Right?”

  Little Bang called from the car: “Look at her, Bang. She’s loca. Get in the car, let’s go.”

  Big Bang spat on the ground. “You people are amateurs. Amateurs!” He pushed his way past Emily. “Start the car,” he told Lee, and returned into the museum.

  “Where are you going, Big B?” Little Bang yelled. He propelled himself out of the Chevy just as Lee was getting in. “Where is he going?”

  Lee shrugged. Little Bang hesitated, then scurried to the doorway. “Get me a candelabra!” he yelled inside. He strutted back to where Emily stood, and suddenly laughed. “Hah! Fuck the museum. They can go to hell! And Tony, too!” He stroked the red, white, and blue ruffles. “What do you want?” he asked Emily. “We can get it for you. Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  Emily shook her head. “You’ll never be able to sell those clothes,” she whispered.

  “Who wants to sell them?” Little Bang leaned closer to Emily and took a small stack of business cards out of the folds of his robe. “This is revenge.” He flicked one card up so Emily could read it. Before she could even register where she had seen the name Tony Sherbé before, Little Bang flung the stack of cards into the air toward the doorway.

  As they hit the ground, several loud events happened almost simultaneously. The Chevy’s whining engine was trying, unsuccessfully, to engage. A large crash could be heard from inside the museum, followed by a heavy thud and the bellowing scream of Big Bang.

  Silence.

  An alarm began wailing from inside the museum, sharp and pulsing. Big Bang staggered out, hopping on one foot, carrying a silver candelabra. “Ai! Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” he screamed.

  “What the hell did you do?” Little Bang shouted, shoving Emily aside and running to Big Bang’s side.

  “I crushed my fucking foot! You said you turned off the alarm!”

  “Not the one for the Swarovski! It has its own alarm! I told you not to touch the giant rhinestone, pendejo! Did you touch it?”

  “It broke my foot! Do you know how much that thing weighs?”

  “Of course I know how much it weighs! I hear that fucking question fifty times a day! It’s 23 kilos, 115,000 carats, and I told you not to fucking touch it! You deserve to break your foot!”

  Big Bang started weeping. “I did this for you, mijo! Here’s your fucking candlestick!” He thrust the candelabra at Little Bang and sank to his knees, grimacing.

  Little Bang grabbed Big Bang and pulled his head down in an embrace. “It’s okay, it’s okay, mijo.”

  This would have been the perfect time to escape, and Emily felt her heart beating hard against her chest, but she could only stare, transfixed.

  “It’s not okay! I don’t want to go back to jail!” moaned Big Bang.

  “You’re not going back to jail,” said Little Bang fiercely.

  “It’s not okay!” Lee yelled from the Chevy. “The car won’t start!”

  Little Bang pulled away from Big Bang. “What? It won’t start?”

  “It won’t start!” said Lee.

  “Chingada!” screamed Little Bang into the air.

  Lee got out of the car. “Let’s run.”

  “No! Not without all of these!” said Little Bang, running to the car and popping open the trunk. He began pulling the costumes out and piling them onto his shoulder.

  Big Bang, however, was very still. He scanned the parking lot, eyes settling on the Volvo. He turned, looked toward the museum where Emily was standing. Limped up to her slowly. “Is that your car?”

  Emily refused to answer, clutching her bag tighter to her body. Big Bang towered over her. He was at least as tall as Owen, and much thicker. Black serpent tattoos curled themselves around his biceps, which were as big as Emily’s thigh. “Give me your keys,” he demanded.

  Emily shook her head, gritting down with her teeth. Little Bang was already piling clothes in the back of the Volvo. The museum alarm continued to blare. Lee started forward toward her, yelling, “Bang! Leave her alone!” but by that time Big Bang was already lunging for her bag.

  Emily found she couldn’t bear to let go of the car she had been trying so hard to destroy. With renewed energy, she tried punching Big Bang away, but it was like pushing against the side of a mountain. She stomped on his crushed foot. He roared to the skies, elephantine, and she was able release his grasp on her bag. A swift elbow to his solar plexus knocked the breath out of him. Big Bang crumpled.

  Emily ran to her car, grabbed Little Bang by his collar, and easily yanked him away. She reached for the driver-side door but Little Bang was already back, his arm with the candelabra swinging in the air. “He’s NOT going back to jail!” he said between his teeth. Emily ducked back, but too late; one of the silver arms caught her just above the left eye, gashing her forehead and sending her reeling back. She fell to the ground.

  A moment later, when she could open her
eyes, blood pouring down, Emily could see the Volvo making a wide circuit in the parking lot, feathers flying out of the window. Big Bang was driving, and Little Bang had his ruffled arm out the window, shaking the candelabra and shouting, “My name is Tony Sherbé!” at the top of his lungs. They made a tight curve and screeched out of the parking lot. Emily’s bag was a few feet away from her, contents strewn on the ground.

  She crawled to the bag, and, gasping, stuffed her belongings back in. The alarm continued to sound, this time echoed by police sirens in the distance. She looked up and saw her accordion four feet ahead of her. Behind it, feathers.

  “I thought you might want it.” The accordion was resting at Lee’s feet, who was standing in front of her, impossibly tall and grand in his cape. He came toward her and she flinched, but he was holding out a handkerchief. Lee knelt down, wiped the blood out of her eyes, and pulled her face toward his. His feathers tickled her cheek. “Time to go, my dear.”

  “I can take care of myself,” rasped Emily, but her voice sounded weak, even to her.

  Lee shook his head gently. “I don’t think so.”

  It was hard to resist a man in plumage. He pulled her to her feet with one hand and took the accordion with the other, and soon Emily was flying down a back alley with the feathered man into the wilds of Las Vegas.

  WALTER

  HOME

  LATER

  When I wake up, I can barely lift my head. Apparently, it’s been filled with concrete. Someone’s covered me with a sheet and given me a pillow. I’m still in my clothes, which smell like I’ve been dragged across the floor of a bar. Which could have happened, for all I can remember.

  I’m holding something in my hand.

  I bring my hand up to my face and uncurl three fingers to reveal a crumpled business card. Even in the gloom with bleary eyes I can read whose it is:

  Chrystostom, it says in the middle, with a phone number on the bottom left corner.

  Chrystostom.

  The night’s events flash in my brain. Images both thrilling and cringe-worthy flicker in rapid succession, like one of those flip books of ladies dancing the hootchie-coo or a shark attacking a baby seal.

  I’ve got his number.

  “Back from the dead, Orpheus?”

  Jesus Christ, my father is awake. I feel like I’ve been caught jacking off. I quickly palm Chrysto’s card and shove it in my pocket. I don’t remember the last time my father has woken up before me. It’s unsettling. With a mighty effort, I manage to sit up.

  “What did you do last night?” my father asks mildly. He’s sitting at the kitchen table without the lights on. He’s still in his robe, but he’s awake, and aware. He’s even made himself tea. I’m not the only one back from the dead.

  “You’re better,” I say, on the way to the refrigerator to find something to wash my mouth out with.

  He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Maybe. Maybe … I am.”

  “That’s good.” I finish off the OJ, straight from the carton.

  “Where’d you go yesterday?” my father asks again. He’s back on track. Again, a little freaky. Where’s that medicated fog when you need it?

  “I told you,” I mumble into the fridge. “Staff meeting.”

  “And then?”

  “Um, we, there was a birthday and we, the staff, went out.”

  “Where?” he asks quietly.

  I’m deliberately vague, keeping my options open. “A place. I don’t remember.”

  “Did you drink?”

  “Nah,” I mumble quickly.

  “Walter?” His voice is soft but expectant. The whole conversation’s been leading to this. I know what this is. This is what it’s like in a house where the father looks after the son, and the son does things that need looking after. I’ve seen this on TV. Here’s my cue. I hang my head and nod sadly, a model of exposed shame.

  “Walter.” My father shovels as much grim disappointment into my name as it can hold. “You’ve got to be responsible.” I’m surprised he remembers the lines. “It’s okay to have a beer or something. Just let me know next time, okay, champ?”

  I smile and nod, hoping we’re going to cut to commercial, but then a horrified look comes over his face. “Walt,” he says, panicked, “did someone drive?”

  There’s my dad. Happy to see his son swilling alcohol, but terrified that he’ll step into an automobile. “No cars,” I say. That, at least, is true.

  I see the fog rolling in, finally. “Good. Good…” My father stares off somewhere to the left of his tea mug, picking at the skin around his fingernails. “You know about us and cars.…” He says it like they’re some newfangled contraption. “We’re not lucky with them. Ever since your grandfather—”

  But I don’t have time to hear about the family curse again—I’ve noticed the kitchen clock. “Shit!” I yelp. It’s rounding toward eleven. “I gotta go.” I’m due at work in fifteen minutes.

  “Did you have fun?” my father thinks to ask, but I’m already in the bathroom. Two minutes later I’m dressed and heading back to the kitchen. “Walter!” my father calls out as I rush past. “When you get home, let’s work on those college applications, okay?”

  I quickly shake out his meds into the Morning and Night cups. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, running for the door and stepping into the hall.

  He yells out, “Promise me you’ll be safe!” but the door’s already closed.

  * * *

  202. 202. I love you, 202. You’re my getaway, my hideaway, my private space in a public place. I love you, 202.

  I’ve got the window seat, no one next to me—optimal conditions. Four times in three stops I’ve tried putting away Chrystostom’s card, tucking it into my notebook, slipping it into my pocket, only to find it—presto!—back in my hand again. There’s nothing more to read on it, just a name and a number, but I can’t help studying it, trying to decipher the deeper meaning. It’s a golden-yellow card with dark purple lettering. Plain and exotic all at once. What does a living statue need a business card for? Maybe he does birthday parties. Charity events. Why has he given me a card? That’s even more mysterious. The likes of me.

  A name. A number. That’s all. But an entire world spins out from this card, like a yellow brick road. One telephone call.

  I am not the giddy type. Swooning does not come naturally to me, yet here I am, palpitating. I might as well be scribbling Do you like me? notes with little curlicue clouds on the borders and a heart dotting each i. Do you like me? Yes No Maybe—check one. I’ve never been like this. Even at Venice Venice, my obsession with the statues was always in the service of Art. Now, I look down at my sketchbook with its pages full of Chrystostom and it’s different: this is no longer a god I’m looking at, or a study in shadows and geometric planes; it’s a man, a nearly naked man, in parts and whole, who I’ve spent my time staring at, transcribing.

  I want to see him again. I want to see him now. My mind is full of Chrysto, there’s no room for anything else. There’s a pain, right below my breastbone, that catches my breath, but feels like relief. I guess I know what this means. Surprising, but not surprising. This has been waiting for me my whole life.

  A hardened husk is cracking open and something inside is wriggling loose. This me. Being released. The bus ride is short but my life has changed.

  I touch his outline on the page, the pencil lines I’ve used to try to capture him in two dimensions. The line smudges, leaving a little of his mark on my finger. But he’s not here in the drawings, he’s escaped. He’s become flesh; he’s real, somewhere out there. I’ve got to punch the numbers in and he’ll appear suddenly, in a wisp of smoke, genie of the card. I just have to call. My long-neglected cell phone is in my backpack pocket, waiting to be used. It would be easy enough.

  Yes No Maybe.

  EMILY

  LEE’S HOUSE

  EARLIER

  Lee had just managed to close the security gate to his apartment complex when the police car raced by
the building. His home was five blocks from the museum and they practically sprinted the entire distance. How he had managed to guide Emily, carry the accordion, and not trip over Liberace’s enormous cape was beyond her, but he never faltered—he flowed.

  “Don’t bleed on the feathers” was his only instruction. Emily kept his handkerchief plastered to her forehead.

  The outward appearance of Lee’s building—the chipped concrete steps, the rusty railing, and the thin wooden front door with the peeling blue paint—didn’t prepare her for the oasis of greenery inside. Plants grew everywhere in Lee’s apartment. From pots, in concrete troughs, on shelves, twining around the arms and over the backs of chairs. Greenery cascaded from tables and formed dangling curtains from containers hung on the ceiling. Succulents spiked out of stone-filled jars; ivy insinuated itself down the walls. Somewhere, a fountain burbled.

  “Welcome to my jungle,” Lee announced, pushing aside two elephant palms and uncovering a couch.

  Emily sat, breathing in the heady, humid odor of dirt and oxygen, her hand still pressed to the stiffening handkerchief, while Lee disappeared. She wasn’t alone: there were faces staring at her from every wall of the room. Crude wooden African tribal masks with slashes of paint looked down their trapezoidal noses at her; brightly colored Mexican coyote and Thai lion heads snarled mutely. There were Mardi Gras masquerade masks, Beijing opera masks, and Caribbean horned devils glaring in red, yellow, and black.

  A door banged open and Emily could hear a small animal clattering down the hall, its nails clicking furiously against the hardwood floor. It ran into the living room and jumped onto the end of the couch, a tiny Balinese demon mask come to life, all bulging eyeballs and open-mouth glower, yammering.

  “Mercutio, down! Down!” Lee commanded. He was carrying a large glass bowl filled with water and a washcloth. Lee had taken off the cape and was wearing a simple black T-shirt and jeans. He’s a lot thinner plucked, Emily thought. She couldn’t figure out what age he was; the skin on his face was unlined but stretched tight over the bones, his full hair had receded far up his forehead. Lee could be thirty; he could be twice that.