Motel. Pool.

by Kim Fielding

  “Holy fuck.”

  “Yeah, that Retina display is really something, isn’t it?” A salesman had crept up behind him without Tag noticing. He was blue-shirted and earnest-looking. “Have you watched videos on one? Amazing. Let me show you.”

  Before Tag could stop him, the salesman grabbed the iPad and tapped away a few times. Something science fiction came on the screen, all zooming stars and darting spacecraft. Then the salesman tapped again to a jungle scene with a million shades of green.

  “Impressive,” Tag said. Which was true enough but irrelevant.

  “It has more pixels than HDTV. The engineering is really cutting-edge. I’ll tell you, I can hardly watch movies on my flat screen anymore.”

  “That’s great.”

  “So do you think you’d be interested in the full-size or the mini?”

  What Tag was interested in was getting rid of this guy. He smiled sweetly. “I’m not sure. Can you give me more time to play with it?”

  “Sure! That’s the idea of the store, because we know once you spend some time with our products, you’ll be hooked.” With a cheery little wave, the salesman wandered away until he was accosted by a middle-aged man and his tween son.

  Tag turned back to the device. He did a general search for Jack’s name but didn’t find anything useful. Not the right Jack. Because although he’d accepted Jack’s existence back at the dam, it wasn’t until he got confirmation in print that the reality sank in. Not only was Jack Dayton a ghost instead of a hallucination, but he’d once been a young man, an actor who appeared in two small roles before he died.

  After a bit of fruitless browsing, Tag made his way to the website for the Flagstaff newspaper. Jack’s name didn’t come up there at all, but their archive only went back to the nineties. Jack found a salesclerk—not the previous one; this time it was a girl with her hair dyed black and red—and asked for a pen and paper.

  She frowned at him as if she weren’t quite sure what he was talking about. “The iPhone has a built-in note-taking app. Or if you want something fancier, there are a bunch of productivity tools like—”

  “Paper. I just want dead tree and ink, please.”

  After a dubious look, she headed into the back of the store. He thought about apps while he waited. It would be great if they had them for really useful things, like keeping you from making shitty decisions or zapping some feeling back into your heart. Or stabilizing ghosts so they didn’t have to worry about keeping themselves together or being sucked back to the middle of nowhere.

  The girl returned and handed him a paper and pencil. “I couldn’t find a pen,” she said. The paper was an invoice of some kind, but it was blank on the back.

  “That’s fine. Thanks.” He waited for her to go away before he wrote down some contact numbers for the newspaper. While he was at it, he scribbled some more information—the names of the movies’ producers and director, a couple of the technical details, the few tidbits he could glean about Jasper, Arizona. He wasn’t sure what value he expected any of these notes to have, but they might come in handy somehow.

  He left the store before anyone else in a blue shirt could grab him, and he wandered the mall for a while. It was a frightening place, with headless mannequins and vacant-faced shoppers. Music was pumped through the sound system, but he didn’t recognize it. Even the food court was scary. Everything was fried or sugared or covered in cheese, and people were shoving mounds of the stuff into their faces and washing it down with soft drinks big enough to drown in. And every surface in the complex was hard and plastic and shiny, mass-produced in China and prettied up with sparkles and glitz. Nothing was real—not even him. Time didn’t exist. The entire world could have disappeared in a bang—one of those nuclear blasts from the fifties grown bigger over the decades—and Tag and the others would still pace the halls and check the price tags, oblivious.

  Tag needed to get out of there. He needed his new but familiar shitty motel room with the bear at the desk and, probably, roaches in the kitchenette. He needed peace and quiet. He needed his ghost.

  Shit.

  Eleven

  JACK WAS naked on the bed. Only for a moment, right when Tag walked in the door, and then Jack’s usual T-shirt and jeans instantly reappeared. He ducked his head and blushed, which Tag wouldn’t have thought a ghost could do. “I didn’t hear you,” Jack said, waving at the TV. “This is a good show.”

  Tag glanced at the screen. It looked like a cop show, Law and Order maybe. He walked over to the kitchenette and set down his plastic bags. “Did you recharge a little?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been known to strip down to my briefs to relax.”

  “Told you. Clothing takes more effort. ’Cause it’s not really me, right?”

  “Could you wear anything you wanted?” Tag started unpacking groceries. He put the cartons of milk and OJ in the fridge, along with some cheese and lunch meat and a package of precooked meatballs. He stuck the loaf of bread in there too, in case his cockroach suspicions were accurate.

  “I guess so. But it’s easier when it’s clothes I’m familiar with. I’d have a hard time doing a suit of armor or a ball gown.”

  Tag had bought a big bag of potato chips. He grabbed a bottle of water and the chips and took them to the love seat. He ripped open the bag and began to munch. “You don’t have to wear clothes on my account,” he said, looking at the TV instead of Jack.

  Jack humphed.

  And then Tag remembered the discussion they’d had earlier, the one about jerking off. He was still in a strange mood—maybe he’d inhaled something weird at the mall, or maybe the burger he’d eaten on the way back was spiked—so he smiled. “Did you take advantage of your alone time and ability to, uh, touch yourself?”

  All he got for an answer was a wide grin. “Do you want some alone time?” asked Jack with a leer.

  “No. I’m good.” Tag’s libido had been dormant since he left Jason. A couple months back, he’d gone to a bar with thoughts of hooking up, but he ended up turning down all the offers and heading home solo.

  For a while Jack lay on the bed and Tag slouched on the love seat and they watched TV. Bad guys were tracked down, arrested, convicted. Tag ate chips. But during a car commercial, he glanced at Jack. “I looked you up on the Internet today.”

  “On what?”

  “On… computers. Do you know about them?”

  “I saw some on television, but I’m not sure I understand them.”

  “They can do a lot of stuff. You can find information on them.”

  “Like a library?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, but quicker and easier. And way more info than any library has, but also way more bullshit. The Internet’s like a library partly run by con men, lunatics, and perverts.”

  Jack snickered. “Sounds like a lot more fun than that dusty place where I had to write school reports.”

  Tag had liked libraries when he was a kid. They were peaceful and orderly. He was always relieved when his family lived within walking distance of a public library or when a sympathetic person let him stay late at the one at school.

  Jack got off the bed and plopped down next to Tag, leaving only a few inches of green cushion between them. “Am I on the computer?” he asked.

  “A little, yeah. I found the movies you were in.”

  “Oh.” Jack made a sour face. “They were nothing parts. Just a way for Sam to get me to keep putting out.”

  “Sam?”

  Jack chewed his lip, looking like he regretted mentioning the subject. “Is that all you found out?”

  “And when you were born and died. There might be more—I didn’t have a lot of time to look.”

  “There probably isn’t.” Jack shook his head. “There’s not much else to say about me.”

  “Well, at least you have a couple movie credits. I don’t even have that.” Tag leaned back and closed his eyes, and was startled when Jack jostled his shoulder slightly.

  Jack’s voi
ce was quiet. “You’re still alive. You have plenty of time to do things.”

  “Do things. Like make even more colossal mistakes?”

  To Tag’s considerable surprise, Jack toppled slightly sideways, his head landing on Tag’s shoulder. His head felt as solid and heavy as any living man’s, his hair tickling Tag’s neck and jawline. “Okay?” asked Jack.

  “Sure.”

  Tag could feel Jack’s heavy sigh. “I was never much of a fellow who… who touched people. Except in bed. But I miss it. You feel strong.”

  And Tag was never much into the touchy-feely either, but he liked the way Jack felt against him. He liked having companionship, to be honest. A friend he couldn’t screw over too badly, seeing as the guy was already dead.

  “What did the dam ghosts say to you?” Tag asked after a while. “They must have died building the thing, right?”

  “Yes. They told me not everyone becomes a ghost. I guess I knew that already. I saw people die at the motel. Drug overdose, stroke, heart attack. One poor lady got shot in the head by her husband and then he shot himself. And there was a guy who keeled over while he was fucking. I don’t think she was his wife. She was a lot younger than him. Anyway, they all just died and that was it.”

  “Did they… move on? Heaven or reincarnation or something?” Tag wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer but couldn’t help asking.

  “How the heck would I know? They checked out for good and I stuck around.” Jack sat up, which was kind of a shame, but then he casually slung an arm around Tag’s shoulders, drawing him closer.

  Involuntarily, Tag started humming “Hotel California.” Jack made an interrogative sort of noise, reminding Tag that his new pal was about sixty years behind on pop culture references. “Do the dam ghosts know why not everyone goes spectral?”

  “They have a theory. They think it happens when people die with unfinished business. One of the fellows there? He wanted to see his girlfriend back in Texas one more time. Only now that’s never going to happen, because she’s probably dead by now too. He can’t get over it. The other fellows told me that’s what it takes—you have to deal with whatever’s bothering you or learn to let it go. Otherwise you’re stuck.”

  That made sense, in a paranormal sort of way. “What’s your unfinished business?”

  It took Jack a long time to respond. “I don’t know.”

  Tag didn’t believe him.

  The crime show ended. Tag considered just crawling into bed, but he felt restless. Maybe that was a good sign. He’d been too sedentary lately. He stood and brushed the chip crumbs off his lap. “I’m gonna go out for a while. Want to join me?”

  Jack brightened. “You don’t mind?”

  “Nope.”

  Jack jumped up and gave Tag a quick, sloppy hug. Then he looked down at himself. “Am I wearing the right thing?’

  “We’re in Vegas. Anything goes. But jeans and a tee are a classic look anyway.” Tag grabbed his wallet and keys, and together they ventured outside.

  He’d considered driving, but one glance toward Las Vegas Boulevard convinced him that was a bad idea. Even this far up the Strip, traffic was crawling. He’d make better time on foot.

  Now that night had fallen, the lights were bright and the crowds were out, and Jack found even more to amaze him. He kept stopping in his tracks to exclaim over the casinos, the signs, the scantily dressed girls slurping at giant cups of margaritas. People walked into him and swore, but he ignored them. Tag found himself smiling at his companion’s excitement. It had been a long time since he’d seen someone so worked up.

  They strolled for quite a while, sometimes pausing to see the sights. When a guy in a fedora handed Jack a flyer, Jack looked at it carefully. “Escorts?”

  “Hookers.”

  “And they’re just… right out in the open like that?”

  “It’s legal in parts of the state. Was that true back in your day?”

  Jack nodded. “I knew fellows who went. But they didn’t advertise so openly, I don’t think.” He gave the flyer another long look before tossing it in a trash can and glancing at Tag. “What do you think about them?”

  “Not my taste, dude. Told you. I like dick.”

  “There must be hustlers too. Boys, I mean.”

  “I suppose so. But why pay when you can get it for free with Grindr?” At Jack’s blank look, Tag shrugged. “You know, if everyone’s clean and consenting and not being strong-armed and ripped off by some pimp, why not? It’s business.”

  For some reason, Tag’s answer made Jack scowl. “Just business,” he muttered. Then he added more loudly, “But you don’t care if people sell themselves?”

  “Not in principle, no.” Then Tag remembered Jack’s cryptic comment about the movie roles he had. “Jack, did you—”

  Jack disappeared.

  Now, Tag had come to accept that Jack was a ghost, and he’d seen him pop in and out before. But it was annoying, especially in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. Fortunately nobody seemed to notice except a couple of girls who screamed and clutched each other. But the girls were obviously wasted, teetering on their six-inch heels and spilling some of the contents of their plastic to-go cups. They gave Tag wide-eyed looks, laughed, and tottered down the street.

  “Fuck this,” Tag said.

  He entered the nearest casino, which happened to be New York, New York. He’d never been to the real NYC, but he guessed it probably wasn’t much like this place. If he were to open a casino, he’d have more imagination. Instead of making a bad copy of some city, he’d theme it creatively. Hey, maybe there should be a haunted house casino where phantoms served you free beers while you played hold ’em, where werewolves provided the entertainment, and where vampires provided security, sucking the blood from anyone who cheated.

  The gaming floor here was like any other—big, smoky, noisy, and hard to navigate. The carpet was the usual psychedelic horror, and banks of slot machines stood row by row, tempting the passersby. Much like hookers, actually, but at least when you handed your money to a call girl, you were fairly likely to get something in return. Hand your money to a slot machine and you’d just get screwed.

  Tag bypassed the blinking lights and headed for the blackjack tables. Blackjack. Jesus, what if Jack had got himself sucked back to Arizona? Shaking his head over his own folly, Tag chose a table. The dealer looked like Tiny Tim—the ukulele player, not the Dickens kid. His nametag said Timothy, which might have been intentional or maybe was a coincidence. Three other people sat at the table: a middle-aged guy who looked like he was in town for a convention, a grandmotherly type, and a younger woman in a bright-pink dress that showed a lot of cleavage. Tag sat next to her and she smiled at him.

  He hadn’t gambled much in the past. His previous trips to Sin City hadn’t been his idea—he’d been dragged there by friends—and during those times he’d mostly walked the Strip, eaten buffets, gotten laid, seen a couple of shows. His lack of experience was one reason he’d chosen this game—it was fairly simple.

  Tag handed several bills to Timothy, who gave him back a pile of chips. Then Tag thought about how much to bet. Twenty was the minimum, but he set a hundred on the mark. The other players put down their chips too, and then Timothy dealt the first and second rounds of cards. Tag had a king and a seven; Timothy had a six showing. The lady next to Tag chuckled and added to her pile of chips, doubling down. Tag decided to do the same. Timothy gave another card to everyone except the salesman and Tag, who decided to stand. With a slight grimace, Timothy put another card in front of himself—a nine—and flipped over his remaining card. An eight. “Busted!” the lady in pink said. Timothy handed out winnings to all four players.

  Okay. That was a good warm-up. Tag left his winnings on the mark and added more chips. A lot more, in fact—now he had over six hundred bucks at stake. That would pay for over a month at the Baja Inn and Casino. Would have covered his half of the rent in the place he had shared with Jason. It was a couple car payment
s, a round-trip plane ticket with money left over for a couple days in a decent hotel. It was a semester’s worth of books back when he was in college. It was a lot of money.

  For a brief moment, Tag had second thoughts. He could cash out and leave. He could walk back to the Baja, wait for Jack to show up, and get the hell out of Dodge. He could find a place to live somewhere, a job, a—

  He could fuck up again, leaving more pain in his wake, more disappointment in his heart.

  He let the chips stay.

  Timothy got blackjack on the next hand, but so did Tag, so it was a push. The other players all lost, at which point the salesman clucked his tongue, shook his head, and got to his feet. “Done enough damage for now,” he said before walking away. Tag wondered if he’d make it to his hotel room without gambling again. Pink Dress and Grandma remained.

  Before Timothy could take more cards from the shoe, the cocktail waitress came by. She smiled at everyone, but she looked tired. Her feet probably hurt. When Tag’s mother had managed to get a job—which wasn’t often—she usually ended up with something that left her standing all day, dealing with dickish bosses or asshole customers. When she came home, she used to slide her shoes off with a groan and collapse onto the couch with her feet up. “Bring Mama a cold drink, Aggie,” she’d say to him. Always Aggie when she was in those moods, never Tag or Taggart. He’d hurry to bring her a can of Coke and she’d sip it with her eyes closed, one hand rubbing the back of her neck.

  “Can I get you something?” the waitress asked, breaking him from his reverie.

  “Bottle of beer,” he said.

  She nodded, wrote on her order pad, and walked away.

  “Ready?” Timothy asked the players. Nobody objected, so he dealt. He ended up with nineteen, but Tag had doubled down on a seven and a three and then got a queen.