Las Vegas Noir

by Jarret Keene

  “You know, Casey, sometimes it’s nice to be the toughest guy in the room.”

  “Yeah, honey,” he said derisively, “but it’s better to be the smartest.”

  I slammed the door as I walked out. Then I slammed the garage door and the door to my car. There was a part of me that knew Casey was right. A little nagging, weak part that I wanted to hit with a brick. I took a deep breath, a trick he’d taught me. I stretched against the leather of the car seat. I put my keys in the ignition and started the engine. I did love the Lexus, but I still questioned my decisions when Casey let someone cut in line at the grocery store or talk too loudly during a movie. He may have the power of debate and banter, but his presence never kept anyone from getting in our way.

  En route to work, I stopped my car in front of Kevin’s house, the engine running. It was nice house, like ours. Little assholes like him didn’t belong in these neighborhoods. Centennial Hills was designed to give a sense of community. Parks in the center of the developments with benches and swings, where boys should be able to run around safely. Homeowner associations to prod us about maintaining our yards and replacing the bulbs in our porch lights, to keep everything uniform and clean. But it was bullshit. There couldn’t be community without someone to protect the streets, to weed out the jerk-offs like we did the dandelions. I wanted to walk into Kevin’s house and strangle him, maybe his mom and dad too. I knew my small frame wouldn’t make the impact. No, I would have to do more; I would have to make a much larger statement to get the kid to back off. I revved my engine. I pulled off our street.

  I was a complete waste at work that day. I kept checking my watch, wondering if James was in class or at his locker. If maybe we got lucky and Kevin stayed home. I owed Janet, my boss, a short script for a commercial that would be shot soon, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sat in front of my computer, slumped over. I drew a sketch of the .44. Casey would never let me take James shooting. He’d make me listen to statistics about gun violence. He’d quote studies on children raised with guns in the home. I’d hear about it for days. By the end of it, he’d have me thinking it was time to buy James a tutu. Guns never did me any harm. I etched in the front sights on my picture and wrote BANG! down the side of the paper.

  I remembered when Dad gave the .44 to Casey at dinner a few months after we were married. Dad was streamlining his collection and couldn’t imagine another man wouldn’t want a shiny .44 like Dirty Harry owned. I’d shot the gun a few times growing up, always with my back to Dad’s brick-wall chest to absorb the shock. I knew the gesture was something special—his way of welcoming Casey into the family, man to man. I could tell Casey had no clue what the act meant. He told me later he thought it was some kind of omertà, as though my dad had handed him a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper. You take-a my daughter, I take-a you life.

  “Wow,” Casey said. A plate of spaghetti sat on the table in front of him. “Thanks.”

  “I like knowing you can protect my daughter. And that gun can kill a wild boar.”

  “Boar attacks are up this year,” Casey said, turning the guns in his hands. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll keep it in a safe place.”

  Dad grinned and grabbed Casey’s free hand. Then he became serious, staring into my husband’s eyes and gripping his shoulder. “If it ever comes down to you and someone else,” he said, “it has to be you who stays standing. You’re in charge of her now.” After a long moment, in which Casey and I both shifted with unease, Dad smiled again. He smacked Casey on the back of the neck. “You may not be an Italian, but you’re a good kid anyway.”

  Later that night, Casey laughed about the absurdity of needing a gun. He put it in the closet. Then he tried to pull off my panties.

  “Why don’t you want it in the nightstand?” I gripped my underwear.

  “It’s too big.” He worked on my bra.

  “It makes me feel safe,” I said. “My dad told you to protect me.”

  “Stop worrying.” He kissed my neck and worked his fingers up my leg. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

  In the end, I trusted him and let him lock the gun away. Casey did what he said. He provided, protected. He worked long hours and gave us a stable home. I was safe by his side; I was safe in his arms. There was comfort in lying next to him at night, while the wind tossed the curtains around, knowing that I was important enough for him to love. I’d feel the muscles in his chest flex against my back as he moved into sleep. I’d smile. He gave me more security than I ever expected.

  Casey was just so damn smart. Everything he did was gilded with wisdom and success. Even our neighborhood; he moved us out here right before the boom. There was nothing for miles then, but we paid so little for our home. If we tried to buy it now, we couldn’t afford it. I’d be an idiot not to do what he said.

  But new Vegas suited Casey. He had almost no connection to what it used to be, where I had come from. There was no grit to him and no way to adapt. Instead, he was making the town adapt to him, taking apart one casino at a time. Stripping their primitive wires and bringing them up to speed. There was something nice about the old ways, the plumes of smoke that hung over the slots, the burnt-out haze of electric lights on Las Vegas Boulevard. The fact that I could walk barefoot down the Strip. The fact that my dad could bust a guy in the head and still find another job. I always wished a little that some old-time aggression would find Casey. That he’d go blind with emotion, let something muss his hair, even if it meant we’d have some hard times. With Kevin harassing James, I wanted something to snap in Casey worse than ever. But when that bug of insanity hit, it wasn’t Casey it got, like I’d vaguely hoped. It was James.

  I’d been taking a stab at the copy in front of me when my line rang. It was the clerk at James’s school. He’d done something, gotten in trouble. I needed to pick him up.

  “Janet,” I said, grabbing my coat, “I gotta pick James up from school. I gotta go.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “No, he’s in trouble.”

  “James?”

  “I know!”

  “You’re worthless today anyway.”

  James had never been in trouble at school before. He charmed his teachers and got A’s on all his tests. His homework was always neat. He enjoyed presenting projects to the class. I wondered if there had been a mistake.

  At the school, the secretary ushered me into the dean’s office. The dean was a tall man, balding. “Your son has something to tell you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. I felt almost as scared as James sitting in the light-blue office in front of the big oak desk.

  James’s head drooped. “I peed on Kevin’s ball.”

  “On the playground,” the dean said.

  “You peed on his ball?” I asked, confused.

  “It was a soccer ball,” James replied.

  I leaned back in the chair. Stumped. Then I imagined my son, fed up with the pushing around, whipping out his little pecker in a show of machismo, screaming at the bigger kid, Iain’t scared of you, asshole!

  “We’re going to suspend James for three days,” the dean said. “We have a no-tolerance policy for things as inappropriate as what your son did.” He stared at me as though I’d been there to unzip James’s pants. “I trust it won’t happen again.”

  “He hit me at recess,” James said. He looked at me. “In the stomach.”

  “Now, son, you need to take responsibility,” the dean said. “Regardless of what Kevin did, it’s you who violated his property. If you’re going to become a good young man, you need to not make excuses for your actions.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. They both stared at me. I grabbed my purse. “Do you see my son’s face? That’s from Kevin. And he’s sitting in math class right now with no repercussions.” I looked at James, threateningly, then back at the dean. “It won’t happen again. But do me a favor and make sure that other kid keeps his hands off my son at recess or we are going to have a problem.”

 
; I had to sign something. James needed his backpack. Soon we were outside again, James at my heels, making our way to the car.

  “That guy’s a schmuck,” I said as I started the engine.

  James didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not mad at you,” I said.

  “You’re not?”

  “Nope. Actually, I’m a little proud of you,” I smiled. We pulled onto the street.

  “Why?” he asked. He pushed hair out of his face.

  “Because you stood up for yourself.”

  “But all I did was pee on his ball.”

  I shrugged. “You didn’t let him push you around.”

  “So I’m not in trouble?”

  “When I was little, my dad always told me that no matter what I did, he would stick up for me, even if I was wrong. He’d always be on my side. And he always was.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, even when I didn’t always do the best stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like when I threw a container of coleslaw at a boy because he was picking on me. Or when I punched a guy in the stomach because he called my friend Pimple Puss.”

  “You did that?”

  “Yeah. Don’t think I want you to go around picking fights, but I want you to feel like you can stick up for yourself if you have to. Whatever happens, good or bad, I’ll be on your side.”

  He smiled down at his knees. I finally felt like I had gotten through to my son. “You up for ice cream?” I asked.

  At home, James was quiet. Lights were off, books were closed. Drapes were drawn. We kept looking at each other and shrugging. Neither one of us knew what to do in the wake of his offense. James had never been in trouble before; I’d never been more proud. Casey would be pissed, though. He was going to blame me for this and probably want to ground James for a month. I just couldn’t let him.

  When Casey finally got home, the sky already turning purple like the fading marks around James’s eyes, he stared at us suspiciously. “What’s wrong?” he asked. He sat on the couch.

  “Everything’s okay,” I said. “But James has to tell you something.”

  James looked at me. I nodded. “It was P.E. and we were playing soccer,” he said. He sat up straighter. “I ended up on Kevin’s team, but he kept pushing me away from the ball. Then he said that it was his ball so I couldn’t play.”

  “That little asshole,” I said. I couldn’t help feel triumphant. I bounced in my seat.

  “Keep going,” Casey said to James. He looked confused.

  “So I started to walk away. He took the ball and threw it right at me, and it hit me on my ear. Then he came to get the ball and punched me in the stomach too.”

  “What a fuck this kid is.”

  “Teresa! Let him finish!”

  “I went up to the nurse’s office,” James continued. “And I must’ve not heard the bell, cause I went back outside after they gave me the ice pack and everyone was gone.”

  “Wait,” I said. “So when did you pee on the ball?”

  “He did what?” Casey asked, then shook his head. “You peed on Kevin’s ball?”

  James shifted nervously. “I thought about what Mom said. About me sticking up for myself, so I peed on it. The P.E. teacher saw me.”

  “But Kevin didn’t see?” I asked.

  “No, he was in class.”

  “So he doesn’t even know you did it?” I asked.

  “No,” he repeated, “he was in class.”

  I fell back into my chair, deflated.

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” Casey said. “I can understand wanting a little revenge.”

  “Are you crazy?” I hollered at Casey. “That’s okay to you?”

  “You seemed thrilled a minute ago,” he said, shocked.

  “That’s when I thought he did it in front of everyone.” I looked at James. He seemed terrified. “That’s just sneaky,” I said, and I walked upstairs.

  When I was a kid, I’d stay barefoot until November, about the time my mom started wrapping me in jackets. The walks my dad and I took across the desert would continue all year. Dad always with the .44 on his hip, me carrying my BB gun, then a .22 as I got older. Once, we were about a mile from home checking out a nearly dried-up spring. I was young, carrying a salami sandwich in one hand and choosing rocks to put on my windowsill with the other.

  “Look, Teresa,” Dad said. “A dust devil.”

  In the distance, a funnel cloud twirled and spun dust into the air. We watched it hop and bend, twisting itself like an exotic dancer. The wind around us picked up. Wrappers from our sandwiches lifted into the air. Dad kneeled next to me. Bullet casings rattled on the ground. The dirt devil continued twisting toward us. My jacket and my hair pulled away with the wind. I dropped my sandwich in the dirt.

  “Daddy?” I said. I wanted to ask what would happen if it came straight at us. We were too far to run back to the trailer. There wasn’t anything to hide under. The dirt devil moved closer, like it was coming to shake our hands. Everything around us jumped and clattered. Our clothes flapped against us like loose tarps. My hair covered my face. My heart pounded. I wanted to run.

  “Just stay next to me,” Dad said calmly. The devil tore toward us, whistling and leaving rivets in the dirt. It was bigger now, as tall as a house. I looked up just as it was about to engulf us. Then it was gone. I was wrapped tightly in my dad’s jacket, crushed to him in a comfy nest of chest hair and warm skin. I’d been plucked from the world and sheltered. Even though the earth rattled around us, I was safe and still.

  I lay in bed thinking about the dirt devil the night James peed on Kevin’s ball. I stared up at the high ceiling, the fan turning slowly. If it had been me and James in that wind, I wouldn’t have been able to protect him. The thing was, though, I hadn’t seen a dust devil in years. Maybe the town was too built up now. There was no room. Maybe Las Vegas had grown out of its tantrums of youth. And maybe I was trying to fit James into a mold that was no longer necessary.

  Casey cracked the door, slipped into the room, and shut it silently. I watched the strip of light from the hall widen and disappear. I didn’t move. I listened as he put his watch on the table, put his shoes in the closet, and emptied his change onto the dresser. Then he went into the bathroom and turned the water on in the bathtub. The bath was for me; he knew I’d still be awake. I peeked over the covers and watched him shuffling though my bottles of scented bubble baths, choosing something special for me. He put one down and picked another. He poured some into the water. He dimmed the lights, lit candles. Then he came into bed and lay down next to me.

  I rolled over and rested against him. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Me too,” he whispered.

  I moved my leg over his and rubbed his chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I put my lips against his ear. “You’re right,” I said softly. “James needs to learn the right way to handle these situations.” I kissed the line of his jaw. I wanted to feel him submit. I needed him to forgive me.

  He leaned closer. “I just don’t want him to get into more trouble than he has to.”

  “I know.” I ran my finger under his boxers. I smelled lavender from the bath.

  “He’s a smart kid,” Casey said.

  “I know.” I lifted myself on top of him and bit the corner of his lip. I felt his arms move around me. “I want to take him shooting, though.”

  “Teresa,” he said. He unhooked his arms.

  “So he knows what to do if he finds a gun or if someone breaks in.” I kissed his chin.

  “It’ll never happen.”

  “Just once. Then I’ll lay off.” I sat up straight and pulled my T-shirt off. “I promise.”

  I leaned forward. Casey gave in. I didn’t like doing it this way, but it was all I had.

  The next morning James was sitting at the table reading a book. I could hear kids out on the street shouting and playing. “Put it away,” I said.

  He snapped to attention and threw t
he book aside, like it was porn.

  I dropped the box on the table. I clicked the code into place. The .44 shone before us.

  “Pick it up,” I said.

  James reached for the gun. He took it by the butt, careful not to touch the trigger.

  “Do you remember how to check if it’s loaded?”

  He pressed the release. The wheel snapped open. Five bullets. The first chamber always empty, like I was taught.

  “Pull them out. Careful.”

  He slowly plucked each bullet out and laid them in my hand. I dropped them into my pocket. “Safe?”

  He nodded.

  “Put the wheel back. James, I want you to know that I love you very much. I would do anything for you.”

  His wrist bent awkwardly as he tried to support the weight of the gun.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to stop Kevin from picking on you.” I touched his shoulder. “And I’m sorry I was mean to you last night.”

  “That’s okay, Mom.”

  “It’s not. But I realized something. Your dad was right. You shouldn’t have to fight if you’re smart enough. There’s always going to be a bully around, so you have to figure out how to deal with guys like Kevin. You need to be smart. You need to be confident in yourself.” I gave him a small smile. I felt awful for how I had acted. All this time, I had wanted James to trust and respect me. I screwed up. “Pick up the gun,” I said. “This is how you aim.”

  I showed him the front and rear sights and how to center them. I told him to aim at the TV, the plant by the window, the fireplace.

  “A gun is a very powerful weapon,” I said. “Whenever you feel scared or vulnerable, I want you to remember that you know how to use a gun. That makes you a little more powerful. If you feel powerful, it’s gonna come out your pores and everyone else will feel it too. I guarantee you that guys like Kevin will take a powder. And if it ever got more serious—probably never will—but if it did, you’ll be the one left standing. I promise.”

  “Okay,” he said in a small voice.

  “In the meantime, stay out of Kevin’s way.”

  He nodded and smiled.