What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  My non-exclusive and Jewish girlfriend calls this area Jew Town, and she was very nearly correct. On any given Friday, you will see conservative Orthodox practitioners with their tassels and braided hair, casually strolling down the streets, forsaking their vehicles in the name of piety.

  Perhaps I should forsake booze in the name of piety.

  Or not.

  I stepped out of my Cadillac and onto the crowded sidewalk that ran along in front of posh stores and upscale restaurants. Most of the shoppers tended to be lovely ladies with little dogs and big sunglasses. Most of the lovely ladies ignored me. Most, but not all. I still garnered one or two looks of curiosity, and maybe one or two of mild interest. Either way, I wasn’t used to being ignored, even after thirty years. Hell, I was used to hordes of fans everywhere. I was used to fine food and famous friends and fancy cars.

  Today, I was dressed in a polo shirt, cargo shorts with a hammer loop, no hammer; white Van tennis shoes, no socks. Cool, man. My longish brown/gray hair was slicked back. Some stray strands hung loose and dangled over my forehead and cheekbones. Yeah, the cheekbones are still there.

  I found him sitting at an outdoor table on the corner of Larchmont and Beverly, and recognized him immediately. The thick neck, the strong jaw, the short buzz cut. He could have stepped straight out of his high school year book. As I approached, weaving my way through a sea of yipping dogs and small saplings growing straight up from sidewalk planters, he didn’t bother to look up. In fact, he didn’t bother to do much of anything. He just sat there, shoulders slumped, head low, an air of deep melancholy surrounding him. Hell, just seeing him made me want to run to Dr. Vivian, who I may or may not be in love with. I’m leaning towards maybe.

  I pulled out a metal chair, scraping it noisily over the gum-stained concrete, and sat across from him. He looked up finally.

  “Bryan Barowski?” I said.

  “You got him,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” I said.

  “So am I.”

  “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Would you like to move to a quieter spot?” We were on a fairly busy street corner, heavy with traffic and pedestrians.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  His eyes dropped down, looking at nothing.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I said.

  He said nothing, although he might have nodded.

  “I lost a twin brother, too,” I said.

  He inhaled deeply and made a small noise.

  I continued. “It was long ago. He died at birth, but he was my brother for nine months and sometimes I can still feel him touching me.”

  And then Bryan started to cry. Right there in front of the bagel restaurant, his chin pressed into his chest, weeping silently, his body convulsing ever-so-lightly.

  * * *

  We were now in my car, both eating ice creams. Mine was chocolate malt crunch and his was straight-up vanilla. We both chose waffle cones, which, really, is the only way to go when you’re eating ice cream. The investigator in the green Intrepid was watching us behind his big cop glasses. I think he even took a photograph or two. I hate having my picture taken.

  “We fucked up,” he was saying. “We shared everything.”

  “And you wanted to share her, too.”

  “Weird, I know.” He slurped his rapidly melting vanilla. “Like I said, we fucked up, and then they broke up, and, I swear, Flip was never the same since.”

  “He missed her that bad?”

  “Yeah. There’s something about that girl.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I said. My ice cream was dripping faster than I could lick it. I’ve had worse problems.

  “Yeah, there’s that, but there’s something else.” He thought about what that something else was, working his tongue absently around his cone. “She honestly didn’t know how pretty she was, how appealing she was, how amazing she was.”

  “We should all be so lucky.”

  “No kidding. I begged him just to give me five minutes alone with her.”

  “Were you going to have sex with her?”

  “I think so, yes. I wanted her, and I was so excited. I thought my brother and I could pull it off.”

  “But she knew the difference?”

  “Yeah. Immediately. Right when we started kissing.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She screamed.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I tried to get her to stop screaming.”

  “How?”

  “Any way I could. I grabbed her and held her down and put my hands over her mouth.” His voice trailed off.

  “Did you rape her?”

  He said nothing, but I could hear him breathing wetly through his nose.

  “Did you rape her, Bryan?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  We were silent for a long time. My own breathing was nearly as loud as Bryan’s, amplified in the cab of my car. I decided to let it drop for now.

  “What happened next, Bryan?”

  “She grabbed her stuff and ran out.”

  “What did your brother say?”

  “He never forgave me. I mean, it had all been my idea...I had pestered the hell out of him.”

  “He didn’t have to agree.”

  “Yes, he did. I was relentless.”

  We both were racing time with our ice creams. My fingers were beyond sticky and now I was getting damn thirsty. Bryan’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and I think I was melting into my seat cushions.

  I said, “She never wanted anything to do with him again.”

  “Never again.”

  I was finishing the last of my cone. Chocolate was between my fingers, down my wrist. Sigh. My little napkin was in tatters.

  “And your brother was never the same.”

  He looked at the rest of his ice cream, opened his door a crack and chucked it out onto the hot street.

  “Yeah, never the same,” he said.

  “He blame you?”

  “Of course.”

  “He loved her?”

  “With all of his heart.”

  Tears were in his eyes. His twin brother of twenty-two years was dead just a few weeks removed. Bryan was holding up well, although I suspected he could crash at any moment.

  “And to your knowledge they never saw each other again?” I asked.

  “Outside of random meetings at school, not that I know of.”

  “And you would know,” I said.

  “Yeah, he couldn’t keep anything from me.”

  Bryan was breathing heavily through his nose. The green car was still there, although the driver was gone. Bryan needed a hug but I wasn’t the guy to give it to him.

  “You mentioned there was something about this girl,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Lots of boys at your school liked her?”

  “And probably some girls, too.”

  I smiled. “What about you?”

  “Yeah, I liked her.”

  “Were you jealous that your brother had her and you didn’t?”

  “Sometimes, yeah.”

  “Were you jealous that she took time away from you and your brother?”

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  “And your brother still thought about her, even after all these years?”

  “I’m sure he did. He didn’t talk about it much, but he still loved her.”

  “Did you love her, too?” I asked.

  “No, not like that.”

  “But you were infatuated with her, like the other guys—and some girls—in school.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Is there a chance your brother might have been seeing her recently?”

  He looked at me sharply.

  “Why would you say that?” he asked.

  “Your brother was murdered, and a few days later Miranda disappeared. That might
not be a coincidence.”

  “I—I don’t know. We don’t live with each other, so I dunno. But I think I would have known.”

  “But is there a chance that he could have been seeing her without your knowledge?”

  “Maybe, but I would have eventually known.”

  “How would you have known?”

  “I just would have. It’s a twin thing. He couldn’t keep anything from me.”

  “Earlier, you said he seemed happier recently.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he was happier because he was seeing her,” I said.

  He shrugged and said nothing. We were both silent and I knew I was upsetting the poor kid, but I also felt that I was onto something here. What it was, I didn’t know.

  “Why would someone kill your brother?” I asked gently. There was no easy way to do this. You just plunged in and hoped for the best. I knew the facts of the case by now. Detective Colbert, after being bribed with more donuts, had agreed to fax me the preliminary police report. Flip had been found in his car outside a nightclub, dead. Shot once behind the ear. The police had no suspects and very little clues. From all indications, it had been a professional hit.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was he behaving any differently?”

  “I don’t know. If anything, he seemed happier. But like I said, we don’t live together, so I don’t know for sure. I moved out when I was nineteen and he stayed at home.”

  “Was it hard living away from your brother?”

  “Very hard, but you get used to it.”

  I could not find it within myself to torture the kid a minute longer. His twin was dead, and he himself would never be the same again, and a part of my heart went out to him, even though I was convinced he had raped Miranda. I gave him my card and told him to call me if something came up. He nodded, opened the door, and left. As he did so, I saw that his ice cream had melted into oblivion.

  I also saw that the green Intrepid was gone, too.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “They shared everything,” I said to Dr. Vivian.

  “Twins tend to do that,” she said. “At least initially. Later in life, they will outgrow the need for shared experiences.”

  “Do twins share girls, too?” I asked.

  She thought about that. “Depends on the extent of the twins’ bond,” she said.

  “I think the kid was horny and wanted to bop a hot chick,” I said.

  “It’s easy to assume that because that’s the obvious answer.”

  “Then what’s the non-obvious answer?” I asked.

  “As identical twins, they’ve had similar—if not identical—experiences. Because of that, they expect to continue having identical experiences. And if one of them has something that the other doesn’t—”

  “The other expects to have it, too,” I said, cutting her off. “Except there was only one of Miranda.”

  “Which is why twins, especially early on through high school and college, will often date other twins. Life is easier that way. Manageable. It makes sense to them. The world is complete, whole. Right. Symmetrical.”

  It was mid-afternoon. The east-facing window was in shadows, the sun hidden somewhere west of the house. The soft glow from the desk lamp highlighted her sharp chin and equally sharp nose. I wanted to nuzzle that chin, sharp or not.

  “I think that, if my own twin had lived,” I heard myself saying, “I think—maybe—I would have done anything for him, too. Anything to make him happy.”

  “That is often the case. Twins will do anything for each other.”

  “Even share a girl?”

  “If that’s what is takes to make the other happy, yes,” she said.

  “The twin that is lacking feels entitled to what the other has.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And this has been your personal experience, as well?” I asked.

  “Yes, but you outgrow some of it, although not entirely.”

  “But a high school student...”

  “A high school student would still be in the thick of it, and still be confused and prone to make poor decisions.”

  “Like allowing his brother to have sex with his girlfriend.”

  “Yes, that would be a poor decision.”

  The clock above me ticked loudly in the darkened office. I knew that Dr. Vivian lived alone. I knew that she had never been married and I knew that her twin was indeed married. I wondered if Dr. Vivian felt entitled to have sex with her twin’s husband. I decided that it was probably best not to ask.

  “His twin was murdered,” I said.

  “So you’ve said.”

  “What will happen to him now, being the surviving twin?” I asked.

  “He’s in serious trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We might lose him. Drugs, depression, suicide. Pick one. His brother’s loss may be too much for him to bear, too much to deal with. In the least, he should probably be under careful supervision.”

  “What would you do if you lost your sister?” I asked.

  “Mr. King....”

  “Aaron,” I said.

  She closed her mouth and tilted her head a little. Her jawline looked sharp enough to cut paper. Sharp but delicate. Her thick glasses gleamed.

  “Aaron, that is an awful thought to think, perhaps the worst I can imagine.”

  We were silent. We watched each other.

  “Do twins kill each other?” I asked.

  “It happens, but it’s rare.”

  “What would provoke a twin to do that?”

  “The usual reasons, but more often than not it stems from jealousy. One twin has amounted to something great, while the other has fallen off the map, so to speak. Even still, something must trigger the killing. A fight, an argument, something. Like I said, it’s rare.”

  “But not out of the question.”

  “Nothing is out of the question.”

  “And the twin who does the murdering...?”

  “Is screwed forever. The grief is off the charts. The guilt is unbearable.” She looked at me for a second or two. “Do you think this boy killed his brother?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But either way, he’s in trouble.”

  She nodded. “The suicide rate for surviving twins is off the charts.” She looked at me steadily. “And this should give you some indication as to the depth of your own loss, Aaron.”

  Ah, my own loss. Little Jessie....

  “But I don’t remember him,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” she said with surprising urgency. “The memory of your brother is within you, stored away, and can be triggered by any number of techniques.”

  I knew of a technique, although I sometimes wondered if it was just my imagination. Sometimes when I am alone—especially in bed and especially in the wee hours of morning—I can hear a tiny, frenetic heartbeat, a beautiful sound that surrounds me and fills me. And when this happens, I just lie there and close my eyes and recede deep into my subconscious and slip into a tiny and warm and inviting place. And sometimes...sometimes I have the ghostly sensation of little fingers exploring my little body, touching my head, my cheek, my arm, my leg...and if I am lucky, if I am really lucky, sometimes I can feel this loving little creature hold me close, wrapping his tiny arms and legs around me, and our hearts beat as one and I can feel all the love in the world radiate from this perfect little angel....

  And then the sensation would pass and I would lie there in the morning, alone and in agony and weeping.

  “I miss him,” I said to Dr. Vivian. “I miss him so damn much.”

  She said nothing, but there were tears in her eyes.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The package was once again delivered via UPS. It was left on my doorstep, propped against my apartment door. UPS and I have this agreement: they keep my signature on file and leave all packages at my door when I’m not home, and I don’t throw a shit-fit. It’s a nice agreement.

 
Once again, the package was addressed to E.P. I studied the writing. Small, neat writing. Could be anyone, but more than likely my gig was up, unless I found this person. Unless I convinced them to keep this secret of mine under wraps. The convincing part could turn ugly.

  I unlocked the door, tossed my keys on my kitchen table, and immediately opened the small package. Inside was a compact disk. I pulled it out and turned it over.

  Son-of-a-bitch.

  It was my daughter’s latest album. In fact, it wasn’t even in the stores yet. A pirated copy, perhaps. A red disclaimer in the bottom corner read: Advanced Copy—Resale Strictly Prohibited, followed by penalties and fines, which included more money than I had in my savings and checking combined. Oh, and jail time, too.

  So who had sent it? And why? Obviously someone who worked within the music industry, right? Or perhaps the CD had been stolen. In fact, more than likely it had been stolen.

  My heart thumping loudly in my chest, I looked at my daughter’s picture on the CD cover. God, she was beautiful. And she was certainly my baby. We had the same eyes and lips, only my eyes and lips looked far different now. She looked happy in this picture, real joy in her eyes and in her smile. Daddy was proud.

  So was this CD sent as a direct threat against my daughter? A warning? Was something going to happen to her? What the fuck was going on?

  I went to the fridge and popped a Miller Lite and drank it right there in front of the open refrigerator. I tossed the empty bottle, popped open another, and brought it and the disk over to the CD player.

  I inserted the disk and pressed play.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Hours later, long after I had listened to my daughter’s newest CD more times than I could remember, my feet were up on the old artist drawing table that doubled as my desk, and I was deep in thought.

  Kendra the Wonder Kat was up on the desk, too, next to the keyboard, sleeping on an afghan blanket that I had folded there for her. She was curled in a tight ball, her black tiger stripes prominent against her gray fur. She spasmed slightly in her sleep, perhaps dreaming of chasing mice or rubber superballs.