“Then I promise,” she said. And that promise and a piece of toilet paper and you can take a shit, Judith thought.
* * *
By the time she came outside, the sun had set, and the sky above the mountains was a brilliant red. The driver got out of the town car and opened the door for her as she approached. “We’re not done yet,” she lied. “I was hoping you would get us some dinner.”
“Of course is no problem,” he answered. She picked a restaurant on the other side of the city—watched him drive from the church and down the street. She wasn’t happy to trick him in this way—but she doubted he would have consented to leave her alone here. And she wanted to be left alone. Besides, wasn’t it the case that she could send him driving across town if she wanted? He was paid by the hour—so weren’t those the rules?
She pushed through the church’s gate, stepped out onto the sidewalk. A few cars drove by, but the streets were otherwise empty—more in a deserted than in a tranquil way. There simply wasn’t a lot here: an out-of-business gas station to her right, a single-story house with a low-slung roof and graffiti-covered boards in its windows to her left, directly before her a pawnshop surrounded by an imposing stone wall. And behind her was the foundering Greater Love Hath No Man Church. She had a vision of all of this gone—bulldozed, torn down, paved over—replaced by the Babylon Center. If the Colonel had his way, the stretch of street where she now stood would become the lobby of the concert hall. Yes, she worked with reprehensible people, but weren’t they going to accomplish something—grand?
The last time she had seen the Colonel was weeks earlier, in his office in the Olympus, his casino on the south end of the strip. Its tapering emerald green spire towered knifelike high above any of the surrounding buildings—this a great source of pride for him. Never a man for subtlety, the Colonel had his office on the top floor—the entire western wall composed of floor-to-ceiling windows. From that height, the city of Las Vegas below looked like a mere discoloration of the desert valley: an ink stain, disordered at its edges.
She had come that day directly from meeting the pastor for the first time—was nervous as she sat down across from the Colonel at his desk. The Colonel still showed an interest, when they met, in talking with her—or, more precisely, talking at her—but their face-to-face meetings had become increasingly sporadic. Most frequently now she heard from him only through his assistant, or through a Jerry Steadman.
Some of this was attributable to a need for secrecy now that she had been positioned with the Downtown Las Vegas Development Group—but not all of it, she recognized. He was mercurial, unpredictable in his dealings with all those who worked for him. The fact that they were having sex merely added another dimension to this capriciousness. Sometimes he elected to sleep with her; sometimes he behaved as if he never had. The sex never led to anything like intimacy, either (though it had its other satisfactions). And she’d come to realize that he slept with many of the women he hired, and always in this same inconstant manner.
Whether all this was pure calculated manipulation, or a reflection of some real inability in him to form relationships (he had no friends she knew of, spoke of his deceased parents only with disdain), Judith wasn’t sure. But she knew it didn’t matter, either, because the effect of the behavior was the same: It created a constant itching for new proofs of his favor, in her, and in all his acolytes—particularly, she observed sadly, in the women. But perhaps her job’s greatest appeal was that it fostered such urgency of devotion in her. And whether this devotion was to the work itself—to this grand project of creating a city—or to the person of Colonel Harold Ferguson: this was a distinction Judith didn’t bother to make.
The Colonel leaned back in his chair as he listened to her recount her meeting with the pastor—fixing her with his round, striated eyes, the inevitable American flag pin on his lapel. When she had finished, he wanted further specifics: how the conversation had begun (with a sincere welcome and an urging toward Christ); who had spoken first after she’d explained what she wanted (she had, which she was told had been an error); whether they’d gotten around to money (they hadn’t, which she was told was a good sign); what they’d both been wearing (this was when the Colonel had laughed about the dignity of the sweater vests); whether she’d followed his instructions and told the pastor about her parents (she hadn’t, though she repeated her promise that she would, when she found the opportunity).
When he was finally satisfied that he’d heard it all, he asked her, “So will he sign or not?”
She hesitated. Of course she wanted to say he would—but she judged it more important that she be accurate in her assessment. “I think he will,” she finally answered. “I think he realizes that he’s … fallen out of step with things.”
The Colonel nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s very smart.” She had managed to stop blushing at the praise, the criticism, though she still felt them as powerfully as ever. “It makes sense you two would understand each other,” he added. “After all, you’re both Indians.”
He took visible pleasure in her confusion at this comment. And she knew he was baiting her—but why bother pretending she had it in her to resist? Wasn’t the fact that she was sitting there proof enough of her subjugation? “What do you mean?” she asked.
He acknowledged this latest concession by smirking at her for several moments before answering. “There are two kinds of people in the world,” he began. “Cowboys and Indians. The cowboys want all the land they can get. The Indians don’t want them to have it. It’s not that the Indians want the land for themselves. That’s not how Indians think. They just don’t believe the cowboys should get it, because the world is all ghost shirts and ancestors and the Great Spirit and shit. Cowboys—they don’t give a fuck about the Great Spirit. They just want the land for their cows. Cows and oil wells and casinos.
“Now, my family history isn’t distinguished in most ways,” he went on, running his palm from the crown of his head down the back of his shaved scalp. “But we’ve been killing Indians for generations. I had a great-granduncle who was a private at the Battle of Wounded Knee. One of my grandfathers was a Pinkerton who broke the railroad strikes. Even my father shot at a few commies in Korea. And I like to think I’ve done my part, too, helping out in the fight against the Islamists in the Middle East and the dirt-worshippers in the EPA.
“Fact is, though, there aren’t many Indians left. Nowadays, most people want to be cowboys. Fortunately for me, they usually don’t have the stones for it, in the end. But it’s hard to find a true Indian anymore. Especially in this city. A community organizer here. A pastor clinging to his church there. Sometimes the culinary workers’ union sneaks someone into my casino. The last throes of a dying breed. In another generation, there’ll be nothing but cowboys.
“Which brings us back to you,” he went on, his eyes making a brief tour of her face—a face he had refashioned in so many ways. “You were raised by Indians. Reading poems, praying to invisible spirits. But you’ve always had the heart of a cowboy. That’s why you’re sitting here right now. That’s why you took that white-man name I gave you. You may think like an Indian, but that’ll never be enough for you. You’ll always want more.
“And so, Judy,” he concluded, pronouncing the name with relish, “that’s why it’s no surprise that you and Pastor Keith enjoyed your little powwow. You’re a nice Jewish girl from the Northeast, he’s a black man from the South, but you were born of the same race. Judith of the Mojave,” he said—and he curled his mouth in an O and patted it with his hand. “Wah-wah-wah-wah.”
The power of these homilies he produced was not in their logic, and certainly not in their consistency, one to the next. Today everyone was cowboys and Indians; tomorrow it could be hunters and gatherers, wolves and sheep. No, what made his words compelling—and she still found them compelling, even after all these months, after everything she’d learned about him—was the force of the ideas themselves, their violence: how
they shoved together, tore apart—reimagined and restructured the world around him without regard for nuance or detail. All this was inseparable in its power, too, from the persona of the man saying it, a persona he so carefully cultivated: the tycoon, in his high tower. As he often pointed out, he was his own best argument for the truth of what he said.
He now turned his attention to a pile of blueprints on his desk. “We’ll speak again once you’ve taken care of the church,” he said to her. “I’ve always thought you had a lot to offer. Now we’ll find out if I was right.”
She waited for him to continue, but of course there would be nothing more. Finally she stood, and walked toward the door. But as she was about to go out, he said, “You just need to make old Pastor Keith understand he’s on the wrong side of history. And if he doesn’t believe you, ask him who this whole country belonged to before cowboys like me showed up.”
Now, standing outside the Greater Love Hath No Man Church, Judith considered again these things he’d said: the sweep of history he’d alluded to, the “white man” name he’d given her—Judy Brooks. He hadn’t offered much rationale when he’d told her to change it—said something about it being easier for “ethnic types” to pronounce. But she realized it had more to do with his compulsion to remake things: sever them from their pasts, re-create them in his own image. He’d done it with her, he would do it with the street on which she now stood. That was the way of cowboys. And that was the heart he’d said she had.
She took a few steps down the sidewalk—stopped. It had obviously been unwise to send the driver away. The light in the sky was already fading, and her whole job was based on the premise that this neighborhood was blighted, dangerous—undesirable. She reached into her purse for her phone—instead took out the piece of paper. She read, “of Daniel’s strength in the lion’s den. How many of us walk daily with lions? They don’t look like lions, brothers and sisters. They wear the clothing of men and women and they have the faces of men and women. But brothers and sisters, they are lions. Pushers and pimps. Gangbangers and thugs. Those who call themselfs our friends, who say they are our brothers, who claim to be our sisters, tho they lead us into sin. These are the lions who smile at us even as they tempt us from the path of Jesus. And praise God, there are those among us who see a lion when they look in the mirror each day. Yes we walk daily in the lion’s den. But what does Daniel say in his righteous strength? He says, They have not harmed me! They have not harmed me, because I”
That was all. She turned the page over: the name, the email, the address. Lions, she thought. It was childlike in its naïveté—had no more intellectual sophistication than something the Colonel would have said. Though he would have said that there were only lions—that all of them were lions.
“Jonah Jacobstein,” she read, in sloppy print. She had no intention. She had no intention. What did he think he was doing here? He didn’t know her—and had gotten to know her only well enough to hurt her. It was like he had tricked her into a certain form of trust, just so he could betray it. She was lucky she hadn’t missed her plane!—though she could hardly pretend this represented even the smallest part of the betrayal she’d felt. The truth was, she hadn’t offered the hope of that particular trust—in a very long time. And when she’d broken down over that fucking Polaroid—he’d disappeared. And now he was back. It wasn’t fair. It didn’t make sense.
She pulled one corner of the paper toward her with one hand, the other corner away with the opposite, poised to rip it apart. She didn’t care about her promise. She’d made it with every intention of breaking it—even with an enthusiasm for breaking it. If nothing else, it would feed her omnidirectional revenge. But she was aware she was struggling against a sort of wonder—a curiosity: How had he found her? He couldn’t have known her last name; she barely knew her last name. And how had he known this was the church? No one knew this was the church. “Jonah Jacobstein,” she read again. It was all very—strange.
She was standing in the middle of the empty sidewalk, a few feet along the fence around the church, staring over at the fortresslike pawnshop. She knew she could tear up this paper, and all the scraps of letters and numbers would be scattered in a hundred different directions—and in a year every place they scattered to would no longer exist as it did now. In a year she would be doing—what? Whatever the Colonel told her to, presumably. She could leave whenever she wanted, of course: It wasn’t as if he’d stoop to stop her, if he’d care at all. And she still had the $876,000 she’d inherited from her parents, in the same Citibank checking account, had never allowed him to touch it. But what good had money ever done her? No, she would probably stay. There would be other churches—other ways to win. He knew her well enough to give her that, if only that. And after everything, she still liked the feeling of winning, of achievement. Everyone ended up somewhere, as she’d said to Jonah that afternoon in Amsterdam. She would end up here.
But if she tore up this paper, she would never know anything more about him, and what had brought him here, and how he had found her, and why. And she wanted to know more.
So, she thought, what was it, finally: Judy or Judith?
4. WHO CAN TELL IF GOD WILL TURN AND REPENT?
The Aces High Apartment Complex had the virtue of being only a ten-minute bus ride from the strip. A resident of the Aces High could, if so inclined, stand in the empty lot behind the building among the weeds poking through the spider’s web of cracks, the dappled accumulation of broken glass, and see the sprawl of outbuildings backing the casinos on the western side of the street—the offices, the kitchens, the laundry rooms, the garages—and, past these, the casinos themselves: the silhouette of the roofed coliseum of Caesars Palace, the obsidian-colored pyramid of the Luxor, the jagged green spike of the Olympus, the squat approximation of the New York skyline.
Conveniently, the Aces High was also located along several other bus routes: to north Las Vegas, to Henderson to the southeast, to Summerlin, to McCarran International, where a few Aces High residents worked in food service and baggage handling. There were churches all across the city, Jonah had learned quickly—so he had sought out a place that made it relatively easy to get wherever he needed to go on a given day.
In addition to the advantageous location, the Aces High featured (ostensibly) FREE CABLE & INTERNET!, CLEAN & SAFE ROOMS!, WEEKLY OR MONTHLY RATES!—these attributes listed on the sign at the entrance to the complex’s parking lot. In fact, Jonah had found that only the super’s cable worked, the Internet was spotty at best, the rooms were not reliably safe, and they were clean only in the most superficial sense of the word. Still, it was one of the nicer short-term apartment complexes he’d found in central Las Vegas. It was not overrun with meth addicts, as was a motel a few blocks down the street; the super, Francisco, did make an effort to keep the facilities at least minimally functional. Sometimes when Jonah returned to the parking lot, the two stories of apartments—in horseshoe configuration, mint-colored doors facing into an outdoor corridor with aquamarine railings—looked even somewhat inviting: the paint still relatively bright, the palm trees at the elbows of the complex more green than yellow. As he arrived today, however, he thought the Aces High looked exactly as inviting as would any other low-cost, short-term residence on the juncture of several Las Vegas bus routes.
It was by then approaching dusk. He had ended up going to a second church, more or less for the sake of doing so. But he hadn’t called ahead, and the priest wasn’t there, and the custodian he spoke to seemed increasingly suspicious as they talked that he was some sort of undercover cop. It was actually a more plausible explanation for what he was doing there than the real one, Jonah had to concede, as he trudged inside the Aces High.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, walked down the outdoor corridor to his room. Simon, his neighbor, was sweeping the concrete in front or his door—clearing it of dried palm leaves and cigarette butts. He did this every morning, every evening. “My friend!” Simon greeted Jonah.
“Hey,” Jonah replied.
Simon was a slender young black man, originally from Mozambique. He lived in his apartment with four other young southern African men, which was the only way they could afford the monthly rent. One of the (many) ironies Jonah had noted about the Aces High was that, for most of its residents, it was actually rather expensive. Simon, dressed in a plain blue painter’s cap, an oversize pink polo shirt that sagged at the collar, and the dusty blue jeans he wore every day, took Jonah’s hand in a handshake, and as usual, it continued into a more amorphous hand grip. Simon did not seem to recognize that Western handshakes typically terminated after a second or two. “Did you find your woman today?” Simon asked him as he held Jonah’s hand.
“No, I didn’t find the woman…” Jonah answered.
“You will find her,” Simon told him. “Tomorrow.” Simon gave him this assurance daily, his faith in Jonah’s half-explained project never wavering; Jonah could only wish he had the same confidence. “I sweep for you, my friend,” Simon offered, finally releasing his hand. To say that Jonah was entirely indifferent to the cleanliness of the patch of concrete outside his door at the Aces High would have been an understatement—but he’d given up denying Simon this chance to help him.
During the first days of their acquaintance, Simon had advised Jonah that he shouldn’t get his checks cashed at the check-cashing store on the corner, because they charged a higher percentage than the one a bus stop south. Jonah had asked Simon why he didn’t simply deposit his checks into a bank account, as there they wouldn’t charge him any percentage at all—and Simon had stared at him, flabbergasted. This led to a long and somewhat tedious discussion (Simon required facts to be repeated several times before he would believe them) about the American banking system, and interest rates, and the rights conferred by green cards, and the relative risks of bank robbery, and so on. It all culminated in Jonah going with Simon to a bank branch a few blocks away, walking him through the steps of opening a checking account, and standing there as Simon deposited for the first time his paycheck from his job in the laundry room at Caesars Palace. For this, Jonah had earned Simon’s undying gratitude and, evidently, a lifetime of doorway cleanings.
The Book of Jonah: A Novel Page 36
