Las Vegas Noir (29 page)

We lived five minutes from the Strip in a trailer park, before we finally got a house, before my little sister was born. The trailer park was the last thing between the town and open desert. Dad loved it because we just had to walk to the end of the property to shoot our guns. “I couldn’t do this back in Brooklyn,” he’d always say, his accent flaring for a moment in the dry wind. In the summertime, I’d trail behind him, my bare feet crunching the parched dirt, the rocks biting them like piranhas, the stickers hooking themselves between my toes. By fall, my feet would get so tough that I could walk across glass. The sun would scorch my neck well into October. At night, my mom would lay cold towels across it so I could sleep.

My parents traded shifts so someone could always be with me when I was young. Mom doing cocktails days and Dad dealing nights. We were lucky. Dad and I spent a lot of time watching reruns and cleaning his guns, talking and making snacks. Once, when the July heat kept us from venturing too far, Dad had given up for the couch. I stuck outside to play with some neighborhood kids. I was ten or eleven. A teenaged boy I vaguely knew coaxed me behind the dumpsters.

“Show me your panties,” he said. He was wearing blue jeans and no shirt.

“No,” I said. I dug my bare toes into the powdery dirt.

“C’mon, just show me.” He pinched me hard on the arm.

“No. Leave me alone.” I turned to go.

“If you leave, I’ll chase after you and hit you in the face.”

“You’d have to catch me,” I sneered.

“I’d catch you easy. I’m bigger. Show me your panties and I’ll let you leave.”

I turned around and took off running as fast as I could. I heard my heart beating loud in my ears, but it didn’t cover up the stomping of his sneakers inches behind me. Get to the steps, I thought. I ran as fast as I could through the parking lot and the patch of desert between the dumpsters and our trailer. Inside, my stomach flipped with the idea that I had provoked this. I’d given the boy reason to think he could look at my panties. I wanted to stop and stand up for myself, but I was too scared. He was bigger than me. Then my stomach flipped again, thinking about Dad. I wouldn’t tell him if I could just make it home. I would be in trouble for going behind the dumpster with this boy who Dad had never liked and had specifically told me to stay away from. As soon as I hit the grass at the base of our slot, the boy’s slapping footsteps died away. I kept running, hopping over the tomato plants and hitting the aluminum door with all my weight. I’m sure I shook the entire trailer.

“What happened?” Dad asked. He was still lying on the couch, smoking a cigarette. His pink bowl was on the floor filled with potato chips and pretzels.
M*A*S*H
played on TV. I panted against the door. It didn’t matter what I said, I realized. There was no use lying. Dad could always read my mind.

“What happened?” he repeated. He sat up, already angry. I caught a sob in my throat thinking I was in trouble.

“You were playing with that boy, weren’t you?”

My face got hot. I gulped a nod.

“What did he do?”

“He, he …” I stammered and coughed. “He told me to show him my panties!”

Dad’s eyes clouded red. His fists clenched. He grew as big as the room. The walls rippled. I closed my eyes anticipating his roar. Even the TV laughter shrank away.

“But Daddy, I didn’t show him. I told him no, and he said he’d punch me!”

“
Motherfucker
!” he growled. He was outside before I could control my sobs. I followed, squatting to watch from behind the slats of our picket fence.

Kids dotted the street. Dad moved so determinedly that summer seemed to freeze. He walked like a soldier into combat across the pavement, barefoot in his dusty jeans. The boy was sitting on the steps of his trailer. He turned to go inside when he saw Dad coming for him.

“You stay right there, you little cocksucker,” Dad said.

The boy froze. Dad stomped up to him and wrapped an enormous hand around his skinny shoulder. He dragged him off the steps. The boy moaned like a dying cat.

“You listen to me,” Dad snarled, inches from the boy’s pained face. I could barely hear him, but I knew what he said. “If you ever come near my daughter again, I will rip your fucking balls off and shove them down your throat.”

The boy’s mother ran down the steps, screaming, “Let him go! He didn’t do anything! Let him go!” She cried into her hands, unable to release her son from Dad’s grip. “Let him go!” she wailed.

“You understand me, you little prick?” Dad said, shaking the boy back and forth.

The boy groaned, but managed to nod his head. His face burned bright pink.

Dad let go. The boy stumbled back. His mother engulfed him. She cried into his shoulder. Dad walked back toward our trailer as quickly as he had left. I felt a mingled sensation of pity for the boy and personal triumph. Dad picked me up when he returned. He asked me if I was okay.

“Yes,” I mumbled, still in shock.

“You know, boys do stupid things,” he said carrying me into the living room. “You’re getting older now and you’ll have to watch out for them.” As quickly as he had gone into the rage, he was back, Dad again. Even his thick mane had settled down to his normal messy hair. He set me on the couch. “But the lucky thing is, you are too smart for them and you’ll never let someone tell you what to do. You’re tough.” He brushed some sticky hair away from my face. “I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself.”

I felt like crying all over again, but I wasn’t sure why. I often felt like that when Dad told me something important. I wanted his trust and his approval more than anything. I’d seen him angry, and I’d seen him rip guys apart. I loved that he was on my side, always.

I never respected a man so much until Casey came along, completely the opposite, but still a man in his own way. Casey was kind of a big deal in town, doing energy consultations with the casinos, helping the buildings to follow FCC guidelines and save money on energy at the same time. It was the kind of job that wasn’t around ten years earlier. The days of covering its troubles with lightbulbs and neon were over. Vegas had to grow up, and the town struggled just like I did to fit into mainstream society. Casey was helping us both.

The next morning, Casey pulled back into the driveway after dropping James off at school. He didn’t have any appointments until later that afternoon. I’d been pacing the kitchen, wanting to talk to him before I left for work. I was standing at the door when he opened it.

“Jesus!” he said, startled.

“We haven’t prepared James for the real world,” I said. “We’ve made everything too safe.”

“Honey. This is what boys do.” He set down his keys. He grabbed an apple from the fridge. He kissed me on the cheek, then stuck the fruit in his mouth.

I followed him. “Think about it. We live in this house with an alarm system. We have air bags in the car.” I folded my arms tight in front of me.

“You didn’t want the Lexus because of the airbags.” He smiled and winked at me. He walked toward his office.

I rolled my eyes. “We’re not
prepared
for anything,” I said. I was at his heels.

“We have every kind of insurance you can imagine.” He pulled up the blinds.

“But look at James. The shit has hit and he has no idea how to handle himself. He’s too insecure to stick up for himself. He’s terrified.” I sat on the edge of the couch.

“He should be terrified,” Casey replied, sitting behind his desk. “Have you seen that boy yet? He’s a moose.”

“James should feel invincible.” I paused. “He should be feeling out his …” I grappled with my hands, trying to pull the words out of the air. “… his machismo. I don’t know.” I threw my hands up.

“We didn’t raise him like that.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What do you want to do, Teresa?” He dropped his hands on the desk. “You can’t follow him to school. You can’t spank the other kid.” He picked up a stack of papers and straightened them. “The boy doesn’t like James for whatever reason. James can’t help that. He needs to stay out of the kid’s way.”

I crossed my legs and stared at Casey. “I want to take James shooting.”

“What? No way.”

“It will give him self-confidence. So he isn’t so scared.”

“You’re being incredibly impractical.” He turned toward the computer and punched in some data. “I think it’s a terrible idea. It won’t solve anything. There’s nothing good that can come from it.” He was done talking. It infuriated me.

“You know, Casey, sometimes it’s nice to be the toughest guy in the room.”

“Yeah,
honey
,” he said derisively, “but it’s better to be the smartest.”

I slammed the door as I walked out. Then I slammed the garage door and the door to my car. There was a part of me that knew Casey was right. A little nagging, weak part that I wanted to hit with a brick. I took a deep breath, a trick he’d taught me. I stretched against the leather of the car seat. I put my keys in the ignition and started the engine. I did love the Lexus, but I still questioned my decisions when Casey let someone cut in line at the grocery store or talk too loudly during a movie. He may have the power of debate and banter, but his presence never kept anyone from getting in our way.

En route to work, I stopped my car in front of Kevin’s house, the engine running. It was nice house, like ours. Little assholes like him didn’t belong in these neighborhoods. Centennial Hills was designed to give a sense of community. Parks in the center of the developments with benches and swings, where boys should be able to run around safely. Homeowner associations to prod us about maintaining our yards and replacing the bulbs in our porch lights, to keep everything uniform and clean. But it was bullshit. There couldn’t be community without someone to protect the streets, to weed out the jerk-offs like we did the dandelions. I wanted to walk into Kevin’s house and strangle him, maybe his mom and dad too. I knew my small frame wouldn’t make the impact. No, I would have to do more; I would have to make a much larger statement to get the kid to back off. I revved my engine. I pulled off our street.

I was a complete waste at work that day. I kept checking my watch, wondering if James was in class or at his locker. If maybe we got lucky and Kevin stayed home. I owed Janet, my boss, a short script for a commercial that would be shot soon, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sat in front of my computer, slumped over. I drew a sketch of the .44. Casey would never let me take James shooting. He’d make me listen to statistics about gun violence. He’d quote studies on children raised with guns in the home. I’d hear about it for days. By the end of it, he’d have me thinking it was time to buy James a tutu. Guns never did me any harm. I etched in the front sights on my picture and wrote
BANG!
down the side of the paper.

I remembered when Dad gave the .44 to Casey at dinner a few months after we were married. Dad was streamlining his collection and couldn’t imagine another man wouldn’t want a shiny .44 like Dirty Harry owned. I’d shot the gun a few times growing up, always with my back to Dad’s brick-wall chest to absorb the shock. I knew the gesture was something special—his way of welcoming Casey into the family, man to man. I could tell Casey had no clue what the act meant. He told me later he thought it was some kind of
omertà
, as though my dad had handed him a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper.
You take-a my daughter, I take-a you life.

“Wow,” Casey said. A plate of spaghetti sat on the table in front of him. “Thanks.”

“I like knowing you can protect my daughter. And that gun can kill a wild boar.”

“Boar attacks are up this year,” Casey said, turning the guns in his hands. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll keep it in a safe place.”

Dad grinned and grabbed Casey’s free hand. Then he became serious, staring into my husband’s eyes and gripping his shoulder. “If it ever comes down to you and someone else,” he said, “it has to be you who stays standing. You’re in charge of her now.” After a long moment, in which Casey and I both shifted with unease, Dad smiled again. He smacked Casey on the back of the neck. “You may not be an Italian, but you’re a good kid anyway.”

Later that night, Casey laughed about the absurdity of needing a gun. He put it in the closet. Then he tried to pull off my panties.

“Why don’t you want it in the nightstand?” I gripped my underwear.

“It’s too big.” He worked on my bra.

“It makes me feel safe,” I said. “My dad told you to protect me.”

“Stop worrying.” He kissed my neck and worked his fingers up my leg. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

In the end, I trusted him and let him lock the gun away. Casey did what he said. He provided, protected. He worked long hours and gave us a stable home. I was safe by his side; I was safe in his arms. There was comfort in lying next to him at night, while the wind tossed the curtains around, knowing that I was important enough for him to love. I’d feel the muscles in his chest flex against my back as he moved into sleep. I’d smile. He gave me more security than I ever expected.

Casey was just so damn smart. Everything he did was gilded with wisdom and success. Even our neighborhood; he moved us out here right before the boom. There was nothing for miles then, but we paid so little for our home. If we tried to buy it now, we couldn’t afford it. I’d be an idiot not to do what he said.

But new Vegas suited Casey. He had almost no connection to what it used to be, where I had come from. There was no grit to him and no way to adapt. Instead, he was making the town adapt to him, taking apart one casino at a time. Stripping their primitive wires and bringing them up to speed. There was something nice about the old ways, the plumes of smoke that hung over the slots, the burnt-out haze of electric lights on Las Vegas Boulevard. The fact that I could walk barefoot down the Strip. The fact that my dad could bust a guy in the head and still find another job. I always wished a little that some old-time aggression would find Casey. That he’d go blind with emotion, let something muss his hair, even if it meant we’d have some hard times. With Kevin harassing James, I wanted something to snap in Casey worse than ever. But when that bug of insanity hit, it wasn’t Casey it got, like I’d vaguely hoped. It was James.