Leaving Las Vegas (7 page)

He has a plan. There is money left. There will be no mistakes, and Sera, as always, will do as she is told. After all this time she will suddenly see him: a surprise. He still has his eyes, the eyes
that she could not share a city with, and they will burn their way back into her soul where they belong, where they have always belonged. One command—best if it is a trick on the street or at a bar—one task, one little fuck on his behalf, and she will be his, and he will be him. As it was.

But there is not all that much money, and the fuel tank is not all that full. Gamal Fathi, in his peripheral vision, thinks he sees the second hand of the dashboard clock move, but a direct look leaves this unconfirmed.

Days—one? two? black plus blue—later, looking in the mirror, she is dismayed at what she expected to be an improvement in the condition of her face. The healing process, in its imperfection, is apparently working on an irregular curve. A new, unnatural spectrum seems to be developing under her skin. Slowly becoming discernible, it looks like it will get worse before it gets better. Her face has become a life-size, organic Polaroid photograph. Exposed then hand manipulated, it is trying out various hues before returning to its original, very perfect flesh tone. A new world of greens, blues and yellows covers the vast, swollen areas of her eye and cheek. She sort of purses her lips, then tries to frown at herself. This is definitely the worst number she’s ever had done to her face.

(“…but please, my friends, call me Al. It is my American name! I picked it myself!” The men at the table joined him in a hearty laugh, but without exception they were eyeing the pretty brunette who stood in the corner.

“Gamal… I mean Al, who’s your friend? Is this the one you told me about?” Shrimp dip clinging to his moustache, and even to one of his diamond cuff links, this man secretly had his hand
on his own erection as he nudged the man next to him, who failed to notice the contact through his own expansive middle. The other four men at the table—excluding Al, who stood—continued to stare at Sera.

“Ah, yes,” said Al, his own eyes constantly darting to the fat buff-colored envelope on the table, “this is Sera. She is my gift to you, my new American friends from New York City. You may do with her as you wish in this beautiful penthouse suite, which is also my gift for the weekend to my new New York City friends. You will find her a very willing girl for all of you…” His skin a taut, healthy leather; his smile well-practiced and full, Gamal Fathi’s eyes flared with meaning, and the natural magnet in him seized the table to a man as he said pointedly, “…just like we arranged.”

Troubled, though too distracted by the coming evening to say why, the man with the misplaced shrimp dip looked up at Gamal. Now he smiled more because he felt he should than because he felt the smile. He said, “Of course, Al. I think you’ll find this just as we discussed.” He handed the envelope to the Arab.

“Where are you from, Al?” this from across the table, a well-built man, foolish and proud of the country he had been born into. “I mean, you sure don’t talk like you’re from this neck of the woods.” A hint of contempt lingered in the comment, and the room tensed.

“No, you are right, my new friend.”—Al was doing remarkable things with his smile—“How very observant you are.” Then to the whole table as if in introduction: “I am from Oman.”

“Tough place,” said the well-built man.

Al smiled, now more broadly than ever, and said, “Yes, I hear this too. But I am not a tough man. I am a simple man who is here to learn from my new American friends.” There was an awkward moment. Gamal Fathi made as if to embrace the entire table with
his outstretched arms. “I must leave. The hotel service will bring you whatever you like. Enjoy these gifts.” He turned and headed towards Sera and the door.

“I don’t want this. Al, please, I really don’t want this,” whispered Sera, clutching his lapel as he passed.

“I want this, Sera. I need this!”

The voice was not that of a con man; it was real. It was the most real voice that Sera had ever known, and she once again, as with so many times in the past, pushed her needs into a little bubble, into a subset of the greater needs, the needs of Gamal Fathi. He was the man who had won her. He was the man whom she loved.

Al turned and addressed the six men. “Sera has asked me if she might undress at once for you gentlemen. She has a very beautiful undergarment which she would like you all to see.”

The men all clamored as one in enthusiastic approval. Not one of the eight people in the suite doubted that Sera would now remove her clothing.)

Reflected in the corner of the mirror is her bedroom window. The translucent shade reveals that it’s dark outside. Enough is enough, she thinks. She has done all the healing that she is prepared to do; any more time spent stagnant would do more harm than good. Opening her makeup drawer, she arms herself with an assortment of brushes, pencils, tubes, plastic boxes, mysterious disks, minuscule magic wands, wads of cotton, and so on. A skilled craftsman, she works for over an hour on what she knows all along is a futile attempt at making herself presentable. Outside of some brushed on, optically-illusory shadows, there is not much she can do to hide the swelling of her features. Also, since she is reluctant to overdo it to the point of looking ridiculous, the painting over of her discoloration has only a minimal effect. Her injuries are still too profound. She looks like a girl who got hit in the face and is trying to cover it up with makeup. She
wraps up the effort as best she can.

But now the ball is rolling and she already feels better, almost elated. A cloud is lifting—visibly—each moment clearer than the last, each decision more perspicuous. Another glance in the mirror reveals that she is smiling, smiling to herself, as though considering herself newly recovered; as these things go, she can’t remember ever before feeling so un-sick, or so anxious to again embrace her hard-won normalcy.

She selects from her closet one of what she likes to call her
fuck-me
dresses. Light blue, light weight, it is backless and slips easily over her head, calling for no bra. She rolls up her stockings and clips them to her garter belt, thus completing her synopsis of the potential architectonics of female undergarments. Already on, her panties are nothing more than two small triangles, black arrows pointing to each other: you are here.

Once again at the mirror, her eyes look at her eyes. She watches herself. Subtly transformed during the inspection, her face wears the partly impartial expression of assessment that is universally found in the gaze of any woman looking at her own reflection. She sees things here that no one else will ever see. Her scrutiny is infinite. Myriad computations, speculations, and judgments take place in this moment. Ultimately, with great magnanimity the face in the mirror is temporarily exonerated, until the next time it catches itself looking.

She finds her work purse and stocks it with lipstick and condoms, a few twenty dollar bills. With no intention of walking the Strip tonight, she has a cab take her to the Hilton. Set off the Strip and next to the Convention Center, it’s usually pretty easy pickin’s there. She’ll be able to find a trick who’s been in town before, attending conventions and tagging hookers. Some guy who’s done enough to keep him from being too excitable, but not so impressed with his own savvy that he gets cocky. A local boy,
but not local here. She needs some straight, simple business. She tries not to worry about her face. These guys aren’t that superficial. More smiles.

The main bar at the Hilton has a fair crowd. She can do this by rote. Seating herself in view of the room, making sure that there are empty chairs on both sides of her, she orders a margarita. This she drinks down halfway in short order, the balance to be slowly and conspicuously nursed. From the stage a cover of a Tony Orlando song blares out and fills the corner. She likes these gutsy, hard-working lounge singers and thinks that they take too much abuse. Of course she has to admit that anyone genuinely enjoying this music comes off looking foolish. At times it can sound good to her. She always wonders what the acts think of themselves; she can never tell. Across the bar is a young girl about to turn a trick. She avoids looking at Sera, though she is clearly aware of her presence. Talking to the girl is a lupine man with too much facial hair. He’s very proud of it, wears it like jewelry. The men at the bar have scented Sera. The young girl resents the uninvited competition and shoots an icy glance at Sera, who smiles back at her compatriot. Sera has never understood why so many people choose contempt as the first option. She can’t remember ever feeling that way.

“About ready for another drink?” asks an even looking conventioneer, materializing on her left.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you,” says Sera, still wearing a smile. “Are you here for the convention?” She has no idea what conventions are in town.

“Do I look that obvious?” he says. “My name’s Paul.” Extending his hand he shows exactly the same enthusiasm that he has offered to hundreds of business associates during the last few days. Sera guesses this and wonders if he would like to sleep with them, as well.

“No, of course not. Just a wild guess. I’m Sera, and that’s a margarita.” She takes his hand and nods at her glass.

The bartender is an older man who has spent most of his life at his profession. He has the drink ready almost before it is ordered. Likewise, Paul pays for it almost before it is served. A five dollar bill folded lengthwise and held between his two middle fingers has been moving metronomically, pointing alternately to Sera and the bartender. Paul is unaware that he habitually does this. It annoys his wife, who is at this moment giving herself a pedicure back in Pennsylvania, to no end.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” he starts, “that you have a few bruises on your face. What happened?”

“Car crash,” she says. “Nothing serious.”

“Oh.… Good.” He seems to believe her. He’s seen car crashes in Pennsylvania.

The girl across the bar gets up and, pausing to give Sera a nasty little smile, follows the wolfman out of view. That guy looks wrong. Sera hopes that she’s careful.

“So,” she tries, “are you alone, or are you just using me to make somebody jealous?”

“Alone. Alone. I’m here alone,” he says quickly. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“You just did. Where are you staying?” she asks.

“Right here in the hotel. Why?”

Why. He said why. This catches her off guard. “Well, I thought that you might be looking for a date,” she says, testing the water.

“A date! What, are you a hooker? What do you mean, a date? I just came over here to talk for a few minutes. A date? Have you seen your face lately? I’ve got a wife back home. And I’ll tell you something else: The hookers in Pennsylvania don’t run around trying to do—what do you girls call it? tricks?—tricks right after being in an accident!”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I guess I misunderstood. Please don’t raise your voice. I won’t bother you about it again.”

“Sorry,” he says, modulating. “Look, you seem like a nice girl and I was curious about your face. I’m just sick to death of everyone in this city trying to get my money. Have another drink. I gotta go.” He leaves his change on the bar and walks away.

That, she thinks, is not exactly what I needed to happen here. She has a nasty feeling, an old feeling. It has been quite awhile since she’s felt such a lack of control. Something is out of synch, and it is disrupting the ease with which she handily guides her nights.

(Safely on the bus to Las Vegas and thinking back for the first time, Sera was amazed at the timeliness of the elevator’s arrival. Ten, five more seconds might have changed everything. She could still be there, maybe giving another sponge bath to that smelly accountant whom Al had sent her to the night before.

But it went her way. Things took over, or maybe things let go and she took over. Either way, when Al kicked her in the stomach, shouting
Leave!,
and turned back to his newest girl, Sera did just that. For the first time she really did leave, not just the room, but the apartment, and ultimately the city.

And he knew. He knew he had gone too far. He sensed a flaw in the glass. Waiting by the elevator, she heard him scream her name—a new and odd fright in the command. There was time to go back, and there was the distant whir of the elevator’s ascent. There were these two intangible things with her in the hall, both playing out their purposes. Joining them, she held her ground; indoor-outdoor carpeting, and hard won, it was to be.

Waiting
was something she was
doing.
Just like taking a shower or giving head, this was an executed action. Her part. She might have peed her pants—later they were damp—but she felt wonderful to have
done
this one thing.

Unraveling then, she saw the spool of her design, freely giving
her slack as the elevator door opened and she stepped in, still not having heard Al’s approach. The steel doors pressed themselves together to the faint sound of glass breaking. All the way down a voice in her head, or what she took to be the meaning of that expression, told her to continue
doing
things…