The Secret History of Las Vegas

by Chris Abani

  Eskia stopped the car and pulled him out. He threw Sunil to the dirt and quickly attached a new plastic tie to his wrists while he lay there, breathing in the dust, feeling it tickle the back of his throat. He looked over to see Eskia pulling a duffel bag from the trunk of the car. Struggling to his knees, he looked around. There was a clump of Joshua trees in the distance and what looked like a flash of blue.

  Well, Eskia said. Here we are.

  Fifty-eight

  Sunil knelt there in the dirt while Eskia put his bag on the closed trunk and began to unpack it. Both of Sunil’s hands were securely fastened with zip ties, which were cutting deeply into his skin; still he struggled against them, feeling the sticky warmth of blood on his wrists.

  There’s no point struggling, Sunil, Eskia said, back turned. No one can get out of a zip tie. Not even Houdini if he were still alive.

  Sunil resisted every impulse to scream, to curse, to beg. Instead he mustered all his energy and got up on his feet. He fully intended to ram into Eskia from behind, then head off into the desert, take his chances there. But before he could gather momentum for his charge, Eskia turned and struck him across the face with a crowbar, dropping him to his knees again.

  Come on, Sunil, really? Do you know how long I’ve been doing this? Worked over people like you? I am justice, Eskia said.

  You sound like Eugene, Sunil gasped, licking at the blood from his cut lip.

  Eskia shrugged. Angels and demons have a lot in common, he said. Except of course to what service they put their powers.

  Sunil spat at Eskia, the spittle and blood landing short.

  Come now, bruh, Eskia said. Have some dignity. Now, here’s what I need from you. The password for the hard drive.

  You’re going to kill me anyway, so why should I tell you?

  I didn’t say how I was going to kill you. Sunil, you should know there are things worse than death.

  Sunil said nothing, but he was beginning to sweat.

  Did I ever tell you that I sent you the telegram announcing your mother’s death, Eskia said.

  What the fuck are you talking about?

  I was with your mother when she died. Or rather, I should say, when she begged me to take her life.

  You’re lying!

  Why would I lie? I have nothing to gain from that. Do you want to hear my story or not? Makes no difference to me.

  Fuck you!

  Your choice.

  Eskia turned and paused before a series of items he had laid out on the trunk lid. The crowbar, a set of pliers, several scalpels, needles in varying sizes, a small blowtorch of the kind chefs use to caramelize a crème brûlée, a piece of rubber six inches long and about as wide, taken from the inner tube of a small tire—from the days when tires still had inner tubes—and a plain jute bag. Everything needed to break a man, to destroy body and soul, was available in most hardware stores or pharmacies.

  Sunil glanced at the assemblage of materials and looked away, taking deep breaths, trying to brace himself. He knew only too well what was coming.

  Eskia held up the bag.

  In the old days, he said, the Afrikaner police would wet a bag like this, force you facedown, and squat on your back. Then they would pull the bag over your head until your lungs began to burn. Sometimes, depending on what they wanted, they would just let your lungs burn out, no questions asked. A fire made of air, or its lack. But I have something different planned for you.

  Eskia put the bag down and picked up the piece of rubber.

  Do you know what this is?

  Sunil looked away.

  The Afrikaner police called it the devil’s ski mask. Remember how it works.

  With a lot of effort, Eskia pulled the piece of rubber down over the struggling Sunil’s head until his entire face was covered.

  There, there. Now, how long should I leave it on?

  Sunil was thrashing around on the ground, trying to use the friction of sand and pebbles to dislodge the mask. He couldn’t breathe, or see, or hear, or swallow. He felt like his head was on fire. He heard himself yelling in his head but knew instinctively that he had made no sounds. Just as a warm blackness welcomed him, Eskia pulled the mask up over his mouth, exposing it. Sunil opened his mouth and swallowed air in big wheezing gulps until he began to choke.

  Password, Eskia asked, voice casual.

  Fuck—

  That was all Sunil could say before the rubber covered his mouth again, forcing him to once more thrash around like the chickens he’d seen being killed in the shebeen. Again, just at the threshold of that welcome wet, black blanket, Eskia pulled the mask up a couple of inches. And although he didn’t want to, although he wanted not to breathe, to end it now, his mouth and lungs overrode him, taking in deep gulps of air.

  When I went to see your mother I worked for a unit of the ANC that was dedicated to killing informants. Killing those who betrayed the cause. To send a warning to others who might be tempted to turn us in. A kind of incentive, you could say. We came to the camp where your mother was being kept. In those days, the republic put black mental patients in camps, temporary shelters in the worst parts of the city, under flyovers or in former dump sites. In your mother’s case, she was housed with others in an abandoned mine workers’ barracks right in the heart of a township, one big ugly building that housed three hundred crazy people and thirty attendants who treated them worse than dogs. There was not a doctor in sight or a single dose of medication. It was little more than a prison. The worst part was that all those attendants, all thirty of them, were black, just like the patients. There were twenty names on that list. Your mother’s was one of them. We knew about White Alice and the deaths of our men in Zimbabwe. There was a lot of debate about your mother, Sunil. Many felt she should be spared because she hadn’t really been an informer. That she had paid enough when she sewed her mouth shut, and that even though those scars had long since healed over, she was locked in the hospital. But mercy was in short supply in those days and her name was added to the list. When I came into her room, she knew why I was there, but she said nothing. I’m not saying that it was easy to kill your mother. I stood there a fair while just looking at her. And then she let out this moan. Oh my God, it was awful. Like the sound a dying animal makes, a keening to freeze your blood. So I did the only humane thing I could, I did what I saw her eyes begging for. It was a mercy, you know, that bullet to her head. You should thank me for that. The thing is, Sunil, you and I know that you should have died, not her. It was you who betrayed your father. Johnny Ten-Ten told us everything when he joined. Instead your reward was a job at Vlakplaas. Maybe that was punishment enough.

  The sound from Sunil was guttural and now he struggled to his feet, hands still tied behind him, and lunged for Eskia. A short blow from the crowbar brought him down.

  I’m getting bored, Sunil, Eskia said.

  With that, Eskia pulled the piece of rubber tubing back down over Sunil’s mouth and watched him writhe.

  In his head, Sunil begged for a quick death. Willed his body, and his mind, to stop fighting, to just give in. Please let me die, Sunil begged his body. Let me die. He couldn’t even bring himself to think about his mother, to think about all the ways he had betrayed her. That was too much to contemplate, even now. Instead he forced himself to only think of death, of his dying, of speeding it up. And then there it was, a deep, wet darkness, and it was taking him, like a river of blood, a waterway of oblivion.

  But then he was sputtering and his chest hurt and the sun burned his eyes. Words wouldn’t come, but he was thinking, No, no, no. Fuck, no!

  Slowly his eyes began to focus and he realized he wasn’t dead and that there was a new wetness. Salazar was giving him mouth to mouth. Closing his eyes, Sunil bit down on Salazar’s lip, forcing him to let go.

  What the fuck, you asshole! Salazar screamed, jumping back.

  Sunil c
oughed for a minute and then said: I’m sorry, man, but you were enjoying that a little too much.

  Fuck you! I should have let you die.

  Sunil struggled up, his hands still tied.

  Can you cut me loose?

  Salazar pulled a pocketknife and cut the plastic. Sunil rubbed his still-bleeding wrists.

  Where is—

  Over there, Salazar said, pointing.

  Eskia lay a little distance from the rental, his body twisted, glasses in the dirt, one lens broken. But it was the gaping hole in the back of his head that held Sunil’s attention.

  Had no choice, Salazar said. I had to shoot the fucker.

  Yeah, Sunil said, but his voice was sad.

  Here, Salazar said, passing Sunil his flask. Drink some of this.

  The whiskey burned Sunil’s air-deprived throat, but its sting felt good. It was the sting of life. Thanks, he said, passing it back.

  Welcome back, Salazar said. Now, wait here, I’m going to fetch my car, then radio the locals to come in. I think we’re on reservation grounds so it will have to be the tribal police. But they’re fair.

  Was that you I saw by the Joshua trees? In a blue car?

  Yeah, I borrowed the Bug from a rookie at the precinct.

  Hey, Salazar, he called as Salazar began to walk away. There’s your killer right there, he said, pointing to Eskia. He is the man who took the lives of all those homeless men.

  Yeah, Salazar said. I guess we solved it, then.

  Fifty-nine

  The security man shoved Water unceremoniously into his room. He sat on the bed for a moment and, lifting his shirt, he stroked Fire’s head gently, singing softly under his breath. Half an hour later the door opened. Brewster stood there sucking on his oxygen tank flanked by two security guards.

  Water, the man said.

  Water said nothing.

  It’s okay, boys, Brewster said to the guards. I think this one is harmless.

  If you say so, Doctor, one of the guards said.

  Brewster waved them away. Go, go, he said. Turning back to Water, he said, Don’t you think that’s creepy, stroking your dead brother’s head like that?

  How would you know that, Water asked.

  Brewster pointed to the ceiling. I have eyes everywhere. Remember me? I believe you belong to me now. Did Sunil explain to you that you are now here for good?

  Has anyone ever told you that you have a sort of Dr. Mengele manic look about you?

  Dr. Brewster laughed. This is good, he said. You are as feisty as I have been led to believe. I am really looking forward to studying you.

  Fuck you, Water said.

  No, no, my friend, it’s you who’s getting fucked. You are not going anywhere. You don’t seem to understand that I have complete power over you. Unlike Sunil, I am not soft, or trying to make restitution for my sins. In my experience, men of science—true men of science, mark you—are like unto the gods. I have no interest in your humanity. No, I am only interested in your monstrosity, and that, my friend, is the medical term for your condition. So if I decide to cut your hands off as part of my exam or dissect you where you stand—

  It’s vivisect, Water corrected.

  What?

  Vivisect if alive; dissect if dead, Water said. You should know that, being a doctor and all. Or are you so high off that oxygen tank you’ve been sucking on?

  Why you—

  Oh, shut up, Water said. While he spoke, Fire retreated under his caul.

  I—, Brewster began.

  Fuck this, Water said. He reached forward, ripped Brewster’s ID off, and then, wrapping his oxygen line around his neck, he slowly strangled him. It took longer than he expected. It was like Brewster wouldn’t die.

  He let himself out with Brewster’s key and headed to the elevator, which he rode down to the hidden labs in the basement, the ones he knew Sunil had never seen. Selecting one that seemed right in the middle, he gathered all the tanks labeled FLAMMABLE into a pile. Next he took out the cell phone that Fred had given him. He pushed the buttons in sequence and the countdown began. He had five minutes to get out. Best to go, he thought, placing the phone in the middle of the pile of tanks. He took off at a fast trot, and three minutes and fifty seconds later he was out the back door, past the loading dock, and into Fred’s car.

  Fred gunned it out of the institute’s grounds and quickly onto the main road.

  Did it go well?

  I had a bit of unexpected luck, Water said.

  Oh yeah?

  Yeah, Brewster came to see me.

  Did he?

  Yes, with his own oxygen line.

  They laughed, and Fred gunned the engine some more, pushing the car even faster. Then she pulled off the road into a strip mall that afforded a perfect view of the institute from its lot, parking right next to the black SUV that held the midgets. They all got out and sat on the roof of the SUV. Fred glanced at her watch.

  Not bad, she said, we have ten seconds to spare.

  In exactly ten seconds, the institute went up in a ball of fire. It was spectacular, as though the old days of the bomb tests were back. Flames and smoke in a big plume that rose over a hundred feet into the sky, throwing debris everywhere, showering the parking lot of the strip mall with ash.

  I told you I was a fire wizard, Water said.

  Yes, baby, Fred said, kissing him.

  We should have brought Champagne, he said.

  You don’t drink, remember?

  Oh yeah.

  I feel bad about all those poor apes still trapped in the building, one of the midgets said.

  I know, the other said. I wish it could have been different.

  By the time the fire brigade got there, there was nothing left to save. They just concentrated on making sure the fire didn’t spread. The entire institute was gone; even the peacocks had gone up in flames.

  Spectacular work, Fred said.

  Water turned and kissed her deeply.

  Where now, he said.

  The desert for a while. The carnival has already moved on. We’ll catch up later.

  And like that, Fred, Fire, Water, and the fighting midgets were gone.

  VERB

  We are many things—shapeshifters, actresses, mothers, sisters, virgins, whores, homemakers, and home wreckers—but more than anything, prostitutes are mirrors. We reflect only what the john wants, what he has paid to see, to experience. There are many different kinds of johns and a prostitute to match each need. In that way the best prostitutes are those who aren’t ever there. Not really. We are only the desire of men slowly taking shape in the muted lights and scented rooms of their shame and need.

  I never have figured out why we call them johns. Some say it’s because men arrested for soliciting always give their names as John Smith. I don’t care much for this stuff. The origin of things is more Sunil’s thing.

  In fact, it was Sunil who once told me that the word “prostitute” comes from the Latin verb prostituere, which means to put forth in public, to expose, to dishonor, to put to unworthy use. I thought it curious that he mentioned it was a verb, and not a noun, because that means we can only exist in the moment, in the doing. We are always prostitutes but since we are not always prostituting, we cannot therefore always exist. A real mind fuck, if you ask me. Like the world truly disappears when we close our eyes. I only exist in the verb of doing the thing, the nasty, so to speak. Shit, I’ve even started to sound like Sunil, proof that five years with someone you adore but who doesn’t really see you will make you mold yourself around your own desire to be seen.

  Personally, I think the word john comes from John Doe, as in a person who is and who can never really be there except in body, a need that forms only in the reflection of us. Any true hooker will tell you that this is never really about sex for the men—no matter how horny the joh
n is. Maybe that is why it becomes easier with time, to fuck all those men, this knowledge that you are never really fucking them, you are never really having sex. Some johns come to empty themselves in your mirror, to peel away their own loss, until finally they see what they truly are. The trouble with this kind of john is that they often don’t like what they see, because they stunted their own growth so long ago. What is most longed for, their deepest nostalgia, is lost forever—and while that youth they imagine, that virile self who could have taken over the world, is dreamed of, the truth is that in the face of the mirror, they are little more than grotesque dwarves. And then the desire for you turns to hate. These johns vary in tone from the mild asshole to the very dangerous, violent kind. Hookers learn very quickly how to obscure the true face of the monster in the mirror. It can never be fully obfuscated, but it can be mitigated, the john brought back from the edge before it is too late.

  The other type of john wants to be kind. He wants to lavish attention on you, gifts even. He will pay you more to let him kiss your lips, your breasts, and your vagina, to trace his breath on your neck in tender arousal, to bury his nose in your hair and nuzzle you. He will try hard to make you come. He will ask you your name, your real name, and he will whisper it as he enters you. He will always be clean when he comes to you. Will always smell good, will never disrespect you, and will always act like he is on a real date with a woman he loves, or can love. But he cannot, and that is why he has chosen you. Because you will let him love you, but only in the ways he wants to, the ways he thinks you should like, the ways in which he is capable, the ways that make him feel good. For him you reflect how gentle he is, how special, how unlike other men he can be. How he is the man all women dream of. How he is misunderstood, hurt by his own deep tenderness. He is a deeply wounded soul yearning to be beautiful, and there is the danger. Some girls become entranced by him and fall in love: yes, we fall in love.