The Secret History of Las Vegas

by Chris Abani

What’s the carnival called, Sunil asked.

  Carnival of Lost Souls, Bob said.

  Where can we find it, Salazar asked.

  Just turn right by the whorehouse and follow the yellow brick road.

  You’re shitting me, Salazar said.

  Ain’t shitting you.

  Fuck, Salazar said, getting up.

  Sunil settled the tab.

  The yellow brick road had no bricks, and it wasn’t particularly yellow, either. It was just a cracked and pitted tar road with orange paint splattered carelessly over it in a thin film, as if someone had driven up and down holding a paint can from an open window, splashing the road. Perhaps that was what made it extraordinary, because there was no denying that it was. That, and also, perhaps, the sudden blaze of a patch of California poppies to the side, and the weeds that flung back from the road into the houses, their heads bent from a gentle breeze. At the end of the road was a bristlecone pine laden with decaying shoes, hundreds of them strung up like dark lanterns.

  Under the tree stood a woman.

  She was at least six-three, with very short hair, almost a buzz cut, and a body that was cut and rippling with muscle. She was holding a clipboard in one hand, and a walkie-talkie in the other.

  Salazar pulled up under the tree and got out. Sunil followed.

  You can’t park here, Fred said, her voice deep and husky. Please follow the signs to the visitors’ lot.

  You must be Fred, Salazar said.

  And you are?

  Detective Salazar, and this is Dr. Singh.

  Well, all our permits are in order and I don’t recall calling the police.

  And yet we are here to see you, Salazar said.

  Has something happened?

  Is there anywhere we can talk privately, Salazar asked.

  Has something happened, Fred repeated.

  We came a long way, Sunil chimed in.

  Everyone who comes here does, Fred said, unimpressed.

  We can talk here or back in Las Vegas, Salazar said.

  Fred laughed. Does that ever work, Detective? I have to set up tonight’s show. You’re welcome to stay for it. Box office opens at nine. With that, Fred went back to giving instructions to someone over the walkie-talkie.

  Sunil stepped forward. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, he said. We are here to talk to you about two of my patients. I believe they were performers in your carnival.

  Fred shoved the walkie-talkie into her back pocket, where the bulge drew Salazar’s eyes. She cut him a dirty look and then brought impatient eyes to bear on Sunil.

  He suddenly felt breathless. Fire and Water, he said, more in a croak than anything.

  King Kong, Salazar added.

  King Kongo, she said to Salazar, then turned to Sunil: You have the twins. Thank God. I was worried about them. I haven’t seen or heard from them in over two weeks. Yes, yes, by all means, let’s talk.

  With that she turned and trudged off across a small patch of grass, headed toward a blue Victorian wood house, alone at the edge of a rise. It was so blue; the color was like a shout in the gathering darkness.

  She led them up some steps, through the front door, crossing a living room in a soft yellow, and out onto a back porch that was all red. Four Adirondack chairs sat there looking out over a sheer drop of about fifty feet. Below them, spread out across the floor of what was clearly an abandoned quarry, lit up like a scene from a fairy tale, was a carnival. But instead of the usual carney organ music, a young man sat in a wheelchair in the middle of everything, lit by a giant spotlight, playing a guitar and singing into an old-school microphone.

  Welcome to the Carnival of Lost Souls, Fred said.

  Thirty-six

  Eskia stared at the Kentridge on Sunil’s wall for a very long time. As he examined it from different angles, he smoked several cigarettes, taking pleasure in knowing that the smell would drive Sunil crazy. Eskia liked Kentridge, also Pieter Hugo. Their work was not invested in obscuring or blotting out the uncomfortable truths about apartheid.

  He’d half expected to find Asia hiding out here, and wondered where she was. Normally he would be tracking her down; he hated to leave loose ends. But this was no normal case. He fully intended to kill Sunil on Monday and by Tuesday evening to be home in Johannesburg. Since he had no intentions of returning to the United States in the foreseeable future, she posed no real threat to him. He wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself really, but he was glad not to kill her. Asia had something that got under your skin very quickly, and not just because she was beautiful and could do things sexually he never knew were possible. There was a vulnerability to her that brought out the protective instinct in men. In a way he understood Sunil’s fascination with her; too bad it felt like such a fucking cliché.

  He wandered into the kitchen to open the fridge and poked around. He popped the top on a beer and drank deeply, then set it down on the counter and checked the freezer and every other inch of the fridge for hiding places, shaking every can, every box, opening the yogurt and running his fingers inside, even pulling the shelving panel away from the door frame. Nothing.

  The bedroom was next. Bed frame, mattress, behind every picture, chest of drawers, wardrobe, and light fixtures, ceiling: nothing.

  Bathroom: medicine cabinet, toilet tank, sink plinth, bathtub. He banged against the tiled walls checking for hollow spaces, emptied out soap and shampoo containers, squirted toothpaste down the sink, checked the floor for hollow tiles, especially in the shower, then the ceiling, and the laundry basket: nothing.

  Back in the kitchen, Eskia imagined all the places he would hide a hard drive. He needed Sunil’s research. Killing him was personal, but the South African government would want Sunil’s research on psychopaths. Where had that fucker hidden it? He wouldn’t have it on him; that was too risky. Eskia had already gone over every inch of Sunil’s office at the institute. It seemed Sunil kept only one copy of his work on a portable drive. It had to be in his home somewhere. There was no safe, that much Eskia already knew. By the time he left the kitchen for the living room, the microwave, the coffee machine, toaster, stovetop, oven, cupboards—everything—had been taken apart: still nothing.

  There would be no time to put everything back together, to make it look like no one had been here, not even with a team of men. That only happened in the movies. The best thing to do was to leave the place looking like it had been burgled or vandalized. Difficult in a secure building like this, so he would have to hurry up so he could hit a couple more apartments, reduce the suspicion. He didn’t want to spook Sunil before tomorrow. Being one of several apartments vandalized in a building was an unfortunate accident. If only his was robbed, it would be clear that it was deliberate. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was about five p.m.; Fred should still have them tied up out there in Troubadour.

  From his spot on the couch, he stared at the Kentridge. It was a limited-edition print, numbered and signed. Surely Sunil wouldn’t have hid it there. It would be a shame to destroy something as good as that. He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. He decided to leave the Kentridge for last, and started in on the couch, pulling stuffing out of cushions and cutting into the frame fabric. Another myth was that an experienced person could guess where someone was likely to hide something. People were too different and irrational for that kind of prediction to work more than occasionally. Shit, Eskia muttered. It wasn’t in the couch. Where the fuck was it? It had to be somewhere easily accessible since he took it to work and back home every day, but where?

  He took a break to finish his beer, sitting amid the debris. Absently he tapped on a book while he smoked. Fuck, Sunil, he said out loud, are you really going to make me rip apart the Kentridge? Then he looked down at the book he’d been tapping: the Bible. Eskia laughed out loud, flipping the cover open. There in a perfect cutout sat the disk, in the one book most people
wouldn’t touch even if they happened to come upon it.

  Really, Sunil, Eskia said to himself. You are depressingly romantic. He stood up and stubbed his cigarette out in the middle of the white coffee table. Now to pretend to rob a couple more apartments. He looked at his watch. It was six.

  Thirty-seven

  Sheila wondered if she should go over. It wasn’t that late, not even seven. She had called Sunil several times already to check up on him, to see how he was taking the fact that the twins had their zoo MRI today. Three times, to be exact, she had called, and each time it went straight to his voice mail. She didn’t know if that was too many times, perhaps even excessive enough to qualify as stalking. Sheila was a proud woman and yet with Sunil she found all that pride had eroded as she subtly (she hoped) tried to woo him. She wasn’t very good at dating, and she had no girlfriends to call for advice. Working for the institute left little time for any relationships outside of work.

  The thing is, she had been thinking of resigning from the institute for some time now. There were job offers across the world from universities who wanted her on faculty and although it would be a significant drop in salary, she didn’t care. In fact, her trip to Cape Town was part holiday, part job interview at the University of Cape Town. From what she could tell from the photos of the place, it looked like the south of France. Not a bad place to spend the rest of your days, especially if you had the right person with you.

  Fine, then. That was it. She was going over to Sunil’s. Better people than her had made fools of themselves for love. If they hadn’t, the world wouldn’t be full of sad love songs and Fellini movies. Still, she thought, selecting a big pair of glasses and a giant scarf to cover her face and head, no need to be caught on his building’s security cameras doing it.

  Thirty-eight

  Asia pulled out of the Bellagio’s parking lot and made a left onto the Strip. In less than ten minutes she would be pulling up at Sunil’s apartment complex.

  After the attack, she had woken up in an office deep in the bowels of the hotel. She was lying on a massage table with an IV drip attached to her arm.

  Hey, a pleasant voice said.

  Hey, Asia croaked through cracked lips. Her nose was burning and as she touched her face gingerly, she could feel it was swollen like a melon.

  The woman with the pleasant voice came over. She was wearing white scrubs and a name tag that said Kim.

  Hello, Adele, Kim said.

  Asia flinched at her name, a name she used only for legal reasons. The name on her ID, the name from the past she was trying to escape. From the man who had turned out to be a traitor, a word she had tattooed on her arm when she got to Vegas. But the tattoo shop was less than reputable, and the guy who ran it spoke bad English, and so she had ended up with Trae Dah.

  You took quite the beating there.

  Asia nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. Chicago would always remain in the past.

  You were unconscious when we found you. Mr. Richie, head of security, thought it would be best if we dealt with this in-house. You understand?

  Asia nodded again. Casinos went to great lengths to keep from getting bad publicity, especially in a depressed economy.

  A doctor examined you, and it doesn’t look like you have a concussion, but you do need to be careful. He left some pain pills for you. Here, let me disconnect the drip. Can you sit up? Yes? I’ll help you. There.

  Asia sat up and gasped as the room swam into focus.

  Kim handed her the bottle of pain pills. Those are pretty strong. Use them carefully, she said.

  Thank you.

  Don’t thank me. Mr. Richie says he’s an old friend of yours. There was a bit of steel in her voice.

  Asia nodded.

  Do you want me to call someone to come get you?

  Who could she call? Who did she want to call? She nodded, and when Kim passed her her bag, she fumbled for her cell, took a deep breath, and dialed Sunil’s number.

  I’ll be back in a little bit, Kim said.

  Five times over the course of an hour she called Sunil and each time it went to voice mail, and each time she left a message. Kim returned intermittently, and when Asia shook her head, she would leave. But each time she came, she brought something for Asia: tea, then water, finally a giant soda. The last time she came in, she had a regretful face and a clipboard in one hand.

  I’m afraid Mr. Richie says you have to leave now, Kim said.

  Asia nodded and stood up. She was a little light-headed and her face still throbbed but otherwise she was fine. The ice packs that Kim had pressed onto her face while she was out, and which she had renewed with every visit, had visibly reduced the swelling.

  Mr. Richie also needs you to sign this, Kim said, pressing a pen and the clipboard into Asia’s hands. It’s a release for the hotel, you understand?

  Asia nodded and signed. She hadn’t expected them to treat her as nicely as they were, even if she had given Mr. Richie a couple of complimentary dates. Fifteen minutes later, here she was, pulling out of the parking lot and heading for Sunil’s. She didn’t want to be alone. She wanted him to hold her. There were no other women in his life, she was sure, but still, it was a risk going to him uninvited.

  Thirty-nine

  Brewster gasped for air, choking silently. He moved quickly, replacing the oxygen tank in his pocket. In a few seconds his breathing returned to normal.

  Brewster was sitting at his desk, studying the MRI image of the twins on his computer. He could see that a band of tissue connected the twins, but they didn’t share lungs or a heart or any major organs. They could very easily have been separated at birth. It’s confusing why they weren’t. Maybe their parents couldn’t afford the operation. But he knew so many surgeons would have performed the procedure for free, just to get papers out of it. Even more confusing was that on the little one there was no brain activity showing up. He appeared brain dead.

  It would be interesting to hear Sunil’s take on all this. He was far more qualified on matters pertaining to brain scans. He’d have to make up for the whole zoo thing. Honestly, when were these blacks going to stop being so sensitive? Best to call and get it over. Brewster picked up his cell phone.

  Forty

  Fred held the cigar in her palm, barely moving her hand, as though gauging its weight. Then she let it roll up and down her palm a few times, watching it critically. Pinching it between forefinger and thumb, she brought it up to her nose and ran it across the ridge of her upper lip, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. Satisfied, she put the tapered end in a guillotine and deftly snicked the end off. She took out an old Zippo with the emblem of the Atomic Testing Commission on it, held the flame away from the rough edge of the tobacco leaves, and inhaled deeply as the cigar caught fire. The smoke ran out of her nostrils as she puffed. Satisfied it would stay lit, she leaned back in the Adirondack.

  Gentlemen, help yourselves, Fred said through the smoke, pointing to the humidor.

  Both Salazar and Sunil declined.

  Best Cubans this side of the Mississippi, she offered.

  No, thank you, though, Sunil said.

  Well, cheers, Fred said, raising her beer bottle.

  The men raised theirs. It was growing chilly on the porch, high up as it was, like a bird’s nest. A blue orb on the wall behind them attracted and zapped the whirling insects. Without it, the setting would have been almost bucolic.

  So tell me, why do you have Fire and Water, Doctor, Fred asked. Are they hurt?

  He’s a shrink, Salazar said. We got them undergoing psychological evaluation. We think they are serial killers.

  Serial killers, Fred asked, sitting up. You have to be joking.

  I should add that I am not sure yet whether they are guilty of a crime, much less whether they are serial killers, Sunil said.

  They don’t have it in them, Fred
said.

  That’s what the neighbors of every serial killer say when the police come by, Salazar said. He was such a nice guy, blah, blah, blah.

  I’m afraid he’s right there, Sunil said. Most serial killers are high-functioning people who go by unnoticed for a very long time.

  And why are you here, Fred asked. You, Doctor, specifically. What is your interest?

  Please call me Sunil.

  Fine. So tell me, Sunil, what’s your stake in all this?

  Freaks and serial killers are his specialty, Salazar said. Best in the country, that’s why I had him hold them for seventy-two hours. So I’m in charge here, so you talk to me.

  Fred took a long drag from her cigar and blew smoke slowly into Salazar’s face. Turning her head, she said: Sunil?

  Well, it is a rather delicate matter.

  Why is that?

  There are several parties interested in their incarceration—in prison or hospital. It would help me to have some background on them, something to help with a diagnosis.

  Just so you know, Salazar said, I for one believe they are as guilty as fuck and there’s little you can say to prove otherwise. I am here because the doctor thinks you are key to this because one of the freaks is in love with you. He figures if they did this, whatever set them off is connected to you.

  Fred smiled. Water?

  Yes, Sunil said. Is there any truth to that?

  I am just one of those women, Sunil. You know the kind.

  No, I don’t.

  The kind men want to possess but can’t, Fred said, and laughed deliciously.

  You don’t seem that perturbed by all this.

  All what, Fred asked. This little show you’re both putting on? If you had anything serious on the twins, would you be out here in the middle of nowhere asking for my help?

  Sunil drained his beer. Why don’t I tell you what I think?