The Secret History of Las Vegas

by Chris Abani

  I need more time, more research. Rage is not just chemical. It might be mimetic, too, do you understand? If we start administering that drug to soldiers, they will go berserk and kill each other. There is no controlling that kind of rage.

  Well, the U.S. military is not going to wait.

  I am close to a breakthrough. I just need more time and no more distractions. We have everything we need from them. MRIs, DNA, X-rays—

  I’m still not convinced.

  Well, I will give it one last shot. An interview today and then if you want them to stay, you’ll have to sign the papers, Sunil said.

  Brewster got up and walked over to the door. Pausing, he turned. It’s nice to have you back on board, Sunil, he said and closed the door behind him.

  Fifty-one

  Fred parked her jeep in the visitors’ lot, mentally noting the rental parked two cars down. She could always spot rentals and cop cars. She could also tell that the guy sitting in the front seat was up to no good. That was her true gift in the carnival, besides running everything. An unerring insight into human nature and a true gift for the con: a formidable combination. She lit a cigarette and walked over to the rental.

  Hello, she said.

  Hello, Eskia said.

  She touched the bridge of his glasses. Anyone ever tell you that you look like Superman with those glasses, she asked.

  Superman didn’t wear glasses.

  Fred smiled. All right, Clark Kent, then.

  So who are you?

  More important, who the fuck are you? Who do you work for, a rival institute? Are you some kind of industrial spy?

  I’m just bird-watching.

  I don’t need you fucking up my deal here.

  And what is your deal?

  That is none of your business. What is your business is not fucking up mine. So what are you anyway, some kind of private eye? I know you’re not a cop. All I want to know is will you be moving on?

  When I’m done, Eskia said, smiling. He wanted to ram his fist into Fred’s face. Who did she think she was, coming over to him and talking shit? How did she spot him anyway? That could mean only one thing; she was very well trained. Was she CIA or DOD?

  All the time they were talking, Fred was scanning Eskia’s car for clues. She noted the laptop and reached into her bag and switched on the hard-drive copier she always carried. She could tell he was spooked that she had spotted him, which meant that his laptop probably didn’t have any real firewalls or protection. Copying it would be easy.

  Eskia reached into the messenger bag next to him on the seat and took out a gun with a silencer on it. Nothing could jeopardize his mission here. Even as he leveled the barrel at her chest as she leaned in, he was scanning the parking lot to see if it was empty. It was.

  Clever, Fred said, seeing the gun. Just what every girl needs. A hole in her breast implants.

  Well, I guess that’s one way of ending this unpleasant conversation, Eskia said.

  I guess, Fred said. What’s the other option?

  I’m sorry, did I suggest there was another option?

  Fred smiled and blew cigarette smoke in his face. I have no idea who you are or what you’re about, she said. But I have some business here today that cannot be interrupted. Can you stay out of it for today?

  Or I could just shoot you now, Eskia said.

  I’m a downwinder and a freak, she said. That means I’ve been paranoid and driven my whole life.

  I don’t know what that means, Eskia said, smiling and adjusting his glasses.

  Fred watched his finger tighten slowly on the trigger and thought, What a fucker, he is one of those sick puppies who loves killing.

  Look at your shirt. It looks like you spilled something, she said.

  Eskia looked down and saw the red dot of a laser scope.

  Oh no wait, Fred continued, that’s my sniper. Silly me. Told you I was paranoid. Now, my advice is to lay low and forget your business here for today. Okay?

  With that she was gone, headed for the main entrance to the institute, leaving Eskia to wonder who she was and how she could have one-upped him.

  Across the lot, in a blue Volkswagen borrowed from a rookie, Salazar watched Fred. Who is that guy, he thought, and what the fuck was going on? He called in a favor with an old friend in the FBI to run the tags for him. Same guy he had looking into Sunil. He liked Sunil, but something was off about him. Something Salazar couldn’t ignore.

  Salazar adjusted the telephoto lens of the camera. Was that a targeting dot on the driver’s shirt? He swung the camera around, scanning the rows of parked cars for the source. Sure enough, in a black SUV, a midget with a rifle pointed at the silver car was visible in the window. He guessed that was one of Fred’s fighting midgets. Why she needed this kind of backup was unclear, but there was nothing he could do about it without compromising his cover in some way. Best to wait. He returned to looking at the rental just in time to see Fred disappear into the institute.

  Salazar put down the camera with the telescopic and reached for his coffee. It could be a while. With the air off in the car, he was getting a little too hot. Fuck.

  • • •

  Dr. Singh is expecting you, Janice said, handing Fred her pass. John over here will escort you to his office.

  Fred turned to look at John. Clearly security, she thought—black suit, black T-shirt, all a tad too obvious.

  Hi, John said. Before we go, I need to look in your bag. Is that okay?

  Sure, Fred said, handing over her snakeskin bag. While John expertly went through the bag, Janice tried to make small talk.

  On the form Dr. Singh filled out it says you run a carnival, she said.

  Yes, Fred said, smiling. That was the snake boy until he displeased me, she said, pointing to her bag.

  Janice winced and smiled tightly. John didn’t pause in his search. Fred noticed the look on Janice’s face and smiled at her sweetly.

  This way, please, John said, handing her back her bag. Fred took it, glad that John hadn’t thought to take her cell phone apart. If he had, in the place where the battery should be he would have found a small wedge of Semtex flattened and a small detonator that was activated by pushing the Call and pound-sign buttons simultaneously.

  The elevator ride up was fast and silent. Like bad sex, Fred thought. The door opened up on the sixth floor.

  This way, John said.

  Soon they were outside Sunil’s door. John knocked.

  Enter, Sunil called.

  Your guest, John said, leaving them alone.

  Sunil crossed from behind his desk.

  Welcome, he said, offering Fred his hand. How are you? Good trip?

  Yeah, sure, thanks. Hey, nice office.

  Thank you. Can I offer you a drink? Coffee?

  Something stronger?

  Yes, of course, he said, going to fetch the single malt from the sideboard. As he poured, Fred crossed to the wall of photographs.

  Why cows, she asked, touching their hides through the frames.

  Sunil looked up. Just something from my childhood, he said, handing her a glass.

  She clinked it against his and took a swig. Good stuff, she said, very good. Is it single malt?

  Yes.

  So tell me about the cows, she said.

  They’re nothing, he said.

  They take up a whole lot of wall space to be nothing, she said.

  They’re good photos. That’s all it is sometimes, he said.

  Yes, she said. Sometimes.

  Please sit down, he said.

  She sat in an armchair and crossed her legs. In jeans, knee-high boots, white shirt, and a simple necklace of turquoise, pale blue against her tanned chest, she looked casual, relaxed.

  Are you married, Dr. Singh, she asked.

  Sunil was taken aback by
the question, and he mumbled his answer. No, he said, holding up his ring finger as proof, absently wondering to himself why he had bothered to do that.

  Why not?

  I don’t know, he said. Work?

  She smiled. Me too. Work.

  Why do you ask?

  Just making small talk, she said, finishing her drink in one gulp and holding out her glass for a refill.

  Of course, he said, taking her glass and getting up. It wasn’t clear if he meant of course I’ll get you a refill, or of course you’re making small talk.

  I’m quite anxious to see the twins, she said as he handed her the refilled glass.

  Yes. I’ll have them brought up. This is going to be my last interview with them. If I sign them out you’ll be able to take them home tomorrow. You might want to find a place to stay for the night.

  Are you offering?

  That would be inappropriate, Sunil said.

  Of course, she said, and laughed.

  Sunil went to his desk and picked up the telephone and dialed. Bring Fire and Water to my office now, he said.

  Fifty-two

  Asia was heading west, to the King of Siam, a bordello way out in the desert. The King of Siam looked like an ordinary low-sprawling ranch house nestled among twelve acres of green oasis in the desert. The place boasted a world-class spa; a stable with horse-riding lessons, where the exclusive clientele could ride bareback while fucking, if their tastes ran that way; a Tantra teacher; an Olympic-size swimming pool; tennis courts; and a private airstrip. What wasn’t immediately obvious were the guards, who were everywhere.

  The King of Siam was an exclusive establishment, a members-only cathouse with a membership fee in the high five figures. Its clientele included senators, congressmen, and CEOs. In addition to a selection of the most gifted, diverse escorts, it prided itself on its discretion. Most of the escorts were well educated, many with graduate degrees, and most spoke at least two languages, a necessity since many clients were international.

  In a good week, even with the house taking its percentage, some girls could earn up to twenty thousand dollars. Even girls like Asia who didn’t have college degrees and spoke only English could still average five thousand a week. Girls couldn’t apply or audition for the King of Siam; Big Bill Brown, the owner, chose each girl usually after a chance encounter and a careful background check. In the ten years that they had been open, no one had ever breached the grounds, not even the most committed paparazzi. The joke was that only Area 51 had better security.

  Asia had a standing invitation from Big Bill, ever since she’d spent a night with him in Vegas when she first got there. She had taken him up on the offer only once, for just a week, but she found it difficult to follow the house rules.

  Even before Sunil had called her, pretty much as soon as she left his place, she ditched her phone and headed for this sanctuary where she knew she would not only be safe but could earn six figures easily in six months. She had every intention of calling Sunil, in a week or two. She wouldn’t give up on him but she couldn’t deal with the baggage in his life right now.

  The landscape was a blur as she picked up speed on an incline. There wasn’t much to see here anyway. Just ostrich and alpaca farms, abandoned malls built to service still-empty developments, the occasional deserted water park, desert, and more desert. Classic Nevada—where dreams died as quickly as they were born.

  Genevieve was waiting when Asia arrived. Not much older than Asia, at twenty-eight, Genevieve had the poise of an older, more experienced woman.

  Hello, Asia, she said. So Big Bill tells me you’ll be staying with us for a while. Do you know how long?

  Until I figure out some stuff.

  A man, Genevieve asked, her voice soft, the texture somewhere between pity and envy.

  Isn’t it always, Asia said.

  Genevieve smiled. You’re welcome as long as you want. You’ll be staying in Number 12. As always, the money gets processed through me, tips as well. The house now keeps thirty percent, but you’ll find that our new services justify that.

  Asia took the electronic key for her room. It felt strange to be back, yet oddly comforting. Here there was no pretense about what the girls did. They weren’t escorts or hookers or companions or dates. They were just girls—old-fashioned and classy. A good thing; wholesome, even. As she picked up her bag to head down the hall, Genevieve called after her.

  Cocktail hour is six. Prompt.

  Okay, Asia said.

  Whatever it is that you’re running from, you’re safe here, Genevieve said.

  Asia smiled. I know, she said.

  Fifty-three

  Salazar yawned and stretched. He was still in the institute’s parking lot. Eskia hadn’t moved. Salazar lifted his camera to his face and studied him through the zoom. He moved the focus around, but Eskia was too far away to get a clear look at his expression. What does he want, Salazar wondered. His phone vibrated against his leg and he reached for it.

  Yeah?

  So I’ve got some information on that guy you asked me to run.

  Do I need a notebook?

  No. He used to be in the ANC’s fighting arm in South Africa back when they still had apartheid, and then after the transition was made, he joined the South African Security Services. His file there is sealed even to Interpol, so I am guessing that means he has had some dealings in black ops.

  Why is he here?

  Visa says he is on holiday.

  So this is personal?

  Possibly—of course, he could just be lying.

  Yeah, you’re right. What about the other name I gave you?

  What’s all this about, Salazar?

  Just a hunch, you know?

  Well, his name checks out. Sunil Singh is who he says he is, a South African psychiatrist working here in Vegas on a green card. He has Department of Defense clearance, so he must be working on something important for the military.

  Any connection between the two of them?

  Nothing official, but I don’t have access to that kind of information.

  What kind is that?

  You know, South Africa before 1990. The police and military systematically destroyed most of the records in South Africa before things were fully handed over to the blacks—

  Was Sunil DOD or Special Forces over there?

  Not as far as I can tell.

  Thanks, I owe you.

  You owe me several for this, Salazar. I’ll never get to call in any of them, though, will I? I hear you’re planning to retire, old man.

  Fuck you, you dinosaur, Salazar said, laughing.

  Tell you what. My wife loves those crazy boats you make. Give me a nice one for her and we’ll call it even.

  Come over whenever you like and pick one out.

  He hung up.

  What do you want, Eskia, Salazar muttered to himself. Are you the killer we’re looking for?

  He finished his coffee and went back to looking through the telephoto lens. Fuck, he had to pee. He put down the camera, reached for the empty coffee cup, unzipped, and sighed.

  As he returned the now warm, half-full cup to the cup holder he made a mental note not to drink it by accident.

  Fifty-four

  Fred, Water said, and even Sunil could tell that he was in love.

  Water, she said, crossing the room to hug him. As unlikely as it seemed, Sunil could tell that Fred loved Water, too.

  At least one thing hasn’t been a lie, he thought.

  Doc, Fire said, where the fuck have you been?

  Hello, Fire, Sunil said. Please, guys, sit.

  They sat. Fred sat next to them on the couch.

  Fred, Sunil said. Do you mind moving to the armchair over there?

  Why?

  This will go faster and easier if you can remain neutral throughout my in
terview. Physical space is the first step toward that.

  Fred nodded. She squeezed Water’s hand and moved. Crossing her legs, she cut a look at Sunil.

  Water, how are you today, Sunil asked.

  Water shrugged.

  So where were you, Doc, Fire asked.

  I went to get Fred for you, Water, Sunil said.

  Water looked up and smiled shyly. I love Fred, he said. Fred loves Water.

  Fred smiled.

  Do you know what happened to us yesterday, Fire asked.

  Yes, you had an MRI done, Sunil said.

  It was an outrage. We were forced to undergo a medical procedure against our will at a zoo, a zoo!

  I’m sorry about that. I tried to stop it on principle, Sunil said.

  A lot of good your principles did us yesterday, Fire said.

  Boys, Fred said, voice soft. Play nice. The doctor is trying to help you.

  Water smiled at her, Fire looked away.

  So your MRIs revealed something interesting. It seems that you are not conjoined at any vital spots. No major organs, no major arteries.

  So, Fire asked.

  Did nobody do any tests when you were born? You could have been separated with relative ease, Sunil said.

  And what kind of life would I have had, Fire asked. I would be a small, immobile lump with a superior intelligence.

  Is the life you have now any better? Stuck as you are to your brother’s side? A burden to him?

  Doctor, Sunil, please don’t talk to them like that, Fred said. Her voice was still soft, but there was a definitive edge to it. The twins trust very few people. The only time they were presented with a chance for separation, as babies, it was by the doctors of Area 51 and there were conditions. Their mother, Selah, declined the offer, she said, riffling in her bag and retrieving her cell phone. She pretended to check it and then slipped it into her shirt pocket.

  Look, I understand that they are your friends and you want to protect them, but I have a job to do here. I must ask you to be quiet if you want to remain in the room, and if you cannot be quiet then I will have to ask you to leave.