That’s when I remembered Finnegan’s press release.
I made my way to the street corner, where I’d left the Volvo parked in a fifteen–minute loading zone, and pulled one image of Chelsea from the manila envelope; I left the remaining documents in the glove box. I also grabbed Finnegan’s press release and gave it a read while I wandered back toward The Tokyo. Here was the gist: Stan Evers, the guy who ran The Tokyo, was evidently an amateur artist. There was a whole paragraph of pretentious museum–type writing about what themes he was tackling in his work, but it was a load of fancy bullshit—I almost couldn’t make sense of it. Evers was making a few paintings a week and planned to hang one in each of the hotel’s 450 rooms. He called it his “Masterpiece Project.” The caps were his. I folded the press release and slipped it into a pocket. I doubted Evers was any good—I’d seen gimmicks like this. It was a play for a younger crowd, a way to try drawing the young artist types for gameplay and the late night scene. The Tokyo, it seemed, wanted to be the trendy new locals place. At the crosswalk, I slammed my fist against the button and told myself to kill the cynicism. Whatever the reason for Evers and his ambitious art project, I could use it as a way to ask about Chelsea.
At least, that was my plan.
***
You can justify it all you want, but the only way to describe a casino is like this: It’s a place where human beings go to give away money while listening to bells and watching bright lights, a place where real people with brains gamble on odds that tell them not to, a place where the dollar conquers all and lives only for itself.
A casino is, by its very definition, a place for crazy people.
That doesn’t mean a casino can’t have a certain elegance to it; The Tokyo, like other trendy hotels and casinos, offered more by its appearance than it could ever repay. Walking through the high glass doors, I was hit with the faint scent of oleander. A cocktail waitress in a clingy purple kimono flashed me a smile and sauntered toward the gaming floor. To my left, surrounded by contemporary style lounge chairs—clean lines and sharp edges which melted into the walls—was the front desk. There was a short line of guests waiting to check in or out, and they stood beneath a large painting reminiscent of Pollock—all dripped colors and intertwined lines. No way that’s Pollock, I thought, but it might be a rough imitation done by Evers. I descended three marble steps and was swept from the calming presence of Far East Feng Shui into the American chaos of a modern gaming floor.
The blackjack tables made a circle before me and, to my right, two craps tables were surrounded by players; the ladies wore short skirts with high heels and the men had wet–looking hair styles and jeans with creases pressed into them. If The Tokyo was intent on a trendy crowd, it looked like they were having success—I doubted it would last. Soon, like everywhere else, The Tokyo would be overrun with overweight smokers and other tropes of the Vegas crowd; the down–and–out father to four with his comb–over and beer belly, the well–dressed white man with creepy eyes behind dark sunglasses, the uniformed local with a paycheck in one hand and despair in the other. Again, I forced my cynic self to sink beneath the din of my thoughts. I spotted a lounge to my left and decided a drink sounded refreshing. I walked in and found a spot at the bar.
Behind the bar, above the long row of liquor bottles, a woman’s dancing silhouette beckoned from beyond a lighted window.
The bartender’s back was turned, and I watched her kimono—this one tighter than the last—wrinkle along her spine. A long, dark braid swung above her ass like a pendulum. When she turned around to take my order, I slid Chelsea’s picture across the bar.
I watched her nose wrinkle when she saw the picture, but she wanted nothing to do with it. “Don’t know her,” she said. “Are you ordering a drink?”
“Can you look before you say no? That might help me.”
“Look, are you a cop? Because if you are, then you should have security with you. I’m not allowed to talk for the casino or the hotel.”
“I’m not a cop,” I said and lowered my chin; I tried my best smile. “Tell me, please, that I don’t look like a cop.”
One corner of her mouth twitched upward, and I couldn’t help noticing she was beautiful; her sharp–angled face was flushed and her blue eyes, to me, seemed alien somehow, like eyes from a sacred sea creature. I wanted to know her name.
She glanced at the picture without moving her head and said, “I haven’t seen her. Can you put it away now?”
I slid the picture into my coat. “Alright, thanks.”
“You want a drink now?”
“I would,” I said, “but first I want to tell you; I think you are a beautiful woman.”
“And you’ve said that how many times—”
“Not once.”
“You have no idea how long—”
“Not,” I paused, “once.”
She looked at me carefully. I could see a question rising in her throat, but she let me down when it finally came: “What are you drinking tonight, sir?”
“Whiskey.”
“You are a cop then.”
“No. I’m a reporter.”
She pointed at me like a witness on the stand. “Just as bad, I say. Just as bad.” She swirled and moved toward some customers at the end of the bar. The braid swung back and forth with the revolution of her hips.
Like a tail, I thought and shook my head.
***
Back on the casino floor, I drifted through the slot machines. The scene sickened me. Something about the loud dinging noises and flashing lights—I found it disconcerting how a grown man or woman could feed money into a machine with celebrity faces gleaming like robotic masks. A woman with thick glasses cursed at a Gilligan’s Island machine and yelled, “Fuck!” Then again, I was no better. I pecked at my keyboard day after day and the return was minimal… No, the return was diminishing.
I moved back to the center of the casino and drifted toward a blackjack table. It was taboo, but I thought flashing Chelsea’s picture might get a reaction from a dealer. People want to talk. They love to talk. Everywhere you go, somebody is just waiting for a chance to spill a nasty little truth—that’s how the truth works. It’s a big fat story waiting to be told. But before I could sit, three men in tailored suits surrounded me; all had sculpted jawlines and earpieces, expensive cologne booming from their pores. They were real pros. “Sir,” one said. “Would you come with us?” They didn’t say please. I adjusted my tie, cleared my throat, and moved with them toward the elevators.
Chapter Five
Three minutes later, after an awkward elevator ride and three confusing turns down a lighted hallway with plush carpet, I found myself sitting in a leather chair; this was the casino boss’s combination office and suite. There was a solid oak desk with a closed laptop computer on top, a bookshelf behind the desk that seemed, to me, for show. A bank of couches faced the floor to ceiling window with its skyline view of Las Vegas Boulevard. Off to my right, there was a door that led to the suite. I couldn’t see anything else that way, but behind me, in the corner opposite the desk, an easel was arranged with a blank canvas. Next to it, a folding table was sprinkled with a mess of acrylic paint tubes and filthy horsehair brushes. Not bad, I thought, a studio–office–suite. Stan Evers was living the good life. I tapped my finger against the leather armrest and waited.
After a short time, an overweight and balding man with red cheeks shuffled into the room. I stood and we shook hands. “Mr. Evers? How do you do? Thanks for inviting me up.”
Evers was shorter than me, and I swore his dress shoes were designed to add an extra few inches. He played with his collar—he wore a blue button–down with a silk floral tie and pleated slacks—and wiped sweat from his forehead with a nubby hand. I watched him move behind the desk and fall into his chair. I sat myself and tried to keep my eyes from the skyline view. Evers’ handshake was firm, but everything about the man said he was soft. I wondered if I could be wrong about first impressions—it was likely
.
His mouth pinched into an uncomfortable grimace and he said, “So, Palmer—is that right? You’re Sim Palmer?”
I nodded. “That’s right. From the Caller.”
“The alt–weekly. Love it. Got a copy right here.” He tapped the top of the laptop and smiled. “I’m online like all the kids, you understand?”
“Things change,” I said. “That’s life. One day you look up and it’s all different.” I shifted in the leather chair and decided there was more to Evers than what I could see. You don’t get to run a casino if you’re soft.
“Well, what can I do for you, Palmer?”
“I’m working on a piece for the Caller,” I said. “I thought I’d swing in and ask around about some things.”
“You do realize we have a department that handles these things here at the casino, don’t you Palmer?” Evers rolled up his left sleeve. He loosened his tie and rolled up the other sleeve.
“I was in the neighborhood and came here on a whim. Just thought I’d ask around, that’s all. I can get in touch with the PR people tomorrow.”
“What’s your story about Palmer? Do you mind? I’m curious.”
“You, sir. It’s about you.” I tilted my head toward the blank canvas in the corner. “We got a press release about your project—a painting in each room. Seemed pretty interesting. Unique.”
“No kidding?” His grimace vanished and a half–smile shaded one end of his face. “I wondered if anybody would bite on that one. Not my idea, the press release that is. The paintings, sure, that’s my bag. Truth is, I want this hotel to be alone in its class. We’re not five–star, mind you. No, but we want to draw sophisticated people. Young people—people like you, Palmer. You understand music and art and culture. And you like a good time. Am I right?”
“You’re almost right,” I said. “Except about my age.”
Evers loosed a cryptic laugh. “Shoot, you’re still a young man. Take it from an old guy.” He scratched one bare forearm and cleared his throat. “So, you have questions? Let’s get to it.”
“Actually, I like to do a little background work before I ask formal questions. That’s why I wandered in… Just wanted a feel for the place. I hope that’s alright with you—I didn’t want to overstep.”
Evers waved a hand at me. “Ah, it’s fine with me, Palmer.” He stood and ambled toward the expansive window. “Take a look at this.”
I stood and joined him. Close by, the Las Vegas skyline gleamed and flashed. I could see all the big name hotels and a few scattered beyond that. In the distance, the flat suburbs spread like a blanket and, beyond, the foothills lay in darkness. It was a nice view, I had to admit that. “It’s a funny city,” I said.
“How’s that?”
I hesitated for a long few seconds and then said, “I just mean how it survives. You know, all the way out here in the desert.”
“People are drawn to the promise of luck, Palmer. They tell themselves, ‘there’s a chance.’ And that, for most of us, is enough.”
“I suppose so.”
“It’s true. I’m a keen study of human nature.”
“Is that why you paint?”
Evers laughed again, but this time he grunted afterwards. “I started doing nudes—I mean, like porn. Not tasteful at all. I wanted to draw the human body. I wanted to see it for what it was… Try to capture the truth of form. I know that’s odd, that it doesn’t make much sense.”
“It’s an interesting hook.”
“Right? You can put it in if you want, maybe just tone it down a bit. I can show you some of my early stuff. Now, though, I’m into faces… Expressions. I like to paint multiple faces in different expressions. Ecstasy. Pain. Joy. Surprise. You know, it’s a way to capture some moment of truth—an instant that can’t be mimicked.”
“Like documentary,” I said.
“Right—just like a documentary. The thing is, a documentary is all about the truth of the moment. And, yes, that’s like what I try to capture in my drawing, now in my paintings. I want the truth of the moment. And it can’t just be any moment, Palmer. It has to be a special moment, a moment unlike any other. Do you understand that?” He turned his head and studied me in profile.
I shifted uncomfortably and tried to think of a response. The statements seemed odd. It was artist talk, but there was some kind of weird undertone to it, like a queer perversity I couldn’t understand at the time. I shrugged and said, “I think I do. But what kind of moments? You have an example?” I turned my head as Evers turned back to the view.
“You know what this is, Palmer, where you are?”
“The top of The Tokyo, in Las Vegas.”
“Not just The Tokyo… The world.”
I squinted at this red–cheeked fat man and kind of screwed my lips against my ear. The queerness came at me right then, like a bad cloud of body odor. Still, even now, I have trouble describing it. It was a stench, like what you’d smell in a house where a body rotted. “You mean the top of your world?”
“No. The top of the world, Palmer,” Evers said. “That’s where you are. The apex. The pinpoint. You’re at the top of the goddamned world.” Evers paused while I stood there feeling confused and lost. Then, he added, “The other day, I watched a man slaughter a goat—this was out in the desert, a few long miles from here. I watched him do it and I painted the whole thing. It happened fast, and I had to paint fast, but it was an adrenaline rush—a death I saw in the moment and painted in the moment. It was truth, Palmer. And that’s what I want to capture with my painting. Always. The truth.”
I committed this statement to memory. I found myself repeating it again and again so I didn’t forget. I wanted to yank out my notebook, but I was sure I’d caught Evers in an off–kilter moment, some kind of queer mood in which he revealed an ugly fact. The man, right then, from the start, appeared mad to me.
I was snapped out of my inner chant when Evers turned and clapped me on the shoulder. He grinned and said, “Let’s set up a meeting tomorrow, what do you say, Palmer? Does tomorrow work for an official interview?”
“Sure, that’ll work,” I said. “One other thing.” I reached into my pocket and revealed Chelsea’s picture. “Have you seen this girl? I’m looking for her. It’s related to something else, another story, but I thought I’d ask.”
His eyes flitted over the picture and—I was quite sure—flitted away too fast. “Never in my life,” he said. “I don’t spend much time with our guests, I’m afraid. It’s a fault of mine. I need to improve in that regard.”
I nodded slowly and kept mouthing his queer words: ‘A death I saw in the moment and painted in the moment. It was truth… That’s what I want to capture with my painting. The truth.’
Chapter Six
Back at my apartment, I spent some time online. Chelsea had a unique name, but there wasn’t much to find. No social media accounts. No listed address. No odd search results promising to connect me with her for $49.99 per month. Chelsea was a digital ghost, too. It was likely an assumed name, one she’d invented. I dialed Spinks—a local cop with a terrible jump shot—on his cell. “Spinks, it’s Palmer from the Caller.”
“Palmer. When you planning to get out to the park? We could use a pure shooter out there,” he said. “Otherwise we just run around and bang for rebounds all night.”
“You know me—always working.”
“Right. So, what’s up?”
“You ever run into a guy who calls himself Mathis? He’d probably have a record from years back, but he’d likely be pretty clean now. I’m betting he’s in management, moved up and stays clear of small–timers. It’s not his real name.”
Spinks clicked his teeth. “I don’t know a Mathis,” he said. “I could take a run through the database tomorrow and look for an alias.”
“If you do that I’ll buy you a drink when I can. There’s another name too. Chelsea Losse. Probably mid–twenties. Could be a missing persons report on her.”
“Will do,” Spinks said
. “I’ll get back to you around noon tomorrow. Spell the girl’s name for me.”
“Losse, Chelsea. L–O–S–S–E.”
He clicked off and I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.
Losse, I thought, unfortunate name in this instance. I sipped my beer and let the red light from the pawn shop wash over my face. It was almost midnight; Friday the thirteenth was over—I’d made it through without too much bad luck.
Saturday
Chapter Seven
When I couldn’t sleep, it was often because of my dream; it was the only dream I ever remembered, and I never understood it. I knew that I was a child in the dream. That told me the voices I heard were adults, and one voice, I was almost certain, was my father.
Once, I tried to write all this down to make sense of it. I got most of it on paper, but I couldn’t understand what was happening, why I remembered this particular instance or, to be honest, whether it was real at all.
Back then, this is what I wrote:
I rest my head against a vinyl seat and stare at the Cadillac’s fabric roof. No telling how I know it’s a Cadillac, but it is. Sunlight blasts through the tinted rear window onto my neck and sweat runs down the center of my shoulder blades. I can see vague silhouettes out the windshield, but little is definite beyond the dashboard. There’s a hat on the dashboard—it’s a gray fedora and there’s a shiny spot on the dash where the hat rubbed away some dust.
A man’s voice says, “No way that grave is gonna fit two damn people. No goddamn way. It isn’t going to work.”
“Trust me,” another voice says. It’s this voice—the smooth, kind voice—that I believe is my father. “I make this work all the time.”
Bad Luck City - Matt Phillips Page 3
