The Fading Page 19

  ‘What do you—’

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road, and whatever you do, don’t panic.’

  Julie frowned in the glow of the 4-Runner’s instrument lights.

  ‘I’m back,’ Noel said.

  Julie looked at him. Julie saw him. The 4-Runner began to drift over the center line and she slumped, her body giving out. He had to help her steer onto the shoulder, where, after one more look – this one bearing a strong resemblance to a cat that’s just been thrown in a bathtub – she bolted from the car.

  He had guessed this would be her reaction. She had been lulled into the strangeness of the other version; the real thing was now the frightening thing. She hadn’t seen him in five years. The change was too fast, too complete, there was no way to adjust to it. Well, let her have a run, burn off the shock of it. He was too relieved to do much more than sigh and whisper thanks to the mercy of whatever cruel forces had held him captive for the past five days. He turned the hazard blinkers on, got out and stretched, admiring his limbs, his feet, his hands, the cool desert night air that was somehow more real and invigorating for his complete presence in it. He was even pleased to see the bandage on his arm, his own flesh renewed.

  He caught up to her in a wash-out of flat sand and brush a couple hundred feet from the highway. Julie was out of breath, bent over, hands on her knees.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?’

  She straightened and faced him. He smiled. She started to speak, then only covered her mouth and shook her head, crying but apologetically so. He walked toward her slowly. She took a few steps back.

  ‘I’m still me,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just a lot to—’

  ‘I know. No more talking. Just be still.’

  He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. She flinched, then became still. He cupped her chin and kissed her, kissed her in new ways, because everything was different now. After a minute of holding her and kissing her cheeks and lips, she responded. They sank to their knees in the sand, the soft desert floor that was not warm, and the air was cold, and it did not matter. Everywhere she touched him he became real and his excitement was quick, flooding in. She felt it, too, encouraged it along with her hands and mouth and breath. He shucked her from her jeans, raising her shirt to make sure there were no more layers between them and their warmth formed a seal against the night.

  She lay back and he looked into her eyes, watching her look into his own, as he pushed into her wet soft center. They were alone together in the middle of nowhere and though it happened fast and he was not her first, it was more than he had dreamed was possible. All through it she kept her eyes on him, knowing it was the most she could give him, and for this he loved her.

  They were less than twenty miles from millions of city lights and ten thousand hotel rooms and billions of dollars for the taking, but Las Vegas was going to have to wait just a little longer before giving itself up to Noel Shaker and his girl.

  24

  Four years, as it turned out. Love being the cure he had been searching for all along, and then a curse of a different kind. In between, the house took a cut of the action and that cut went deep.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Is that him? It’s Shaker, right? Well, wake his ass up.’

  Noel was dreaming of guns again when the voice, angry yet bemused, drove him from the heist fantasy playing in the movie theater of his napping brain. Sounded like it was coming from the end of a tunnel, and he knew before he opened his eyes this was not just a voice but the first of the really bad things to come.

  ‘Noel? Noel?’ This voice was softer, a woman’s, more nervous than angry. A hand wiggled his ankle. ‘Please wake up now, Meester Noel.’

  ‘Whossit, what?’ Noel sat up, blinking at the white light coming through the window, the desert blast furnace illuminating him on a bed in a room that was at once strange and just like all the others. He couldn’t see straight and his mouth was a dust pan. He guessed he’d been asleep for about four hours.

  Maria, a heavy but seemingly motorized middle-aged Hispanic woman with her hair pulled back tightly, cute red granny glasses, and a rose in the lapel of her uniform. She’d taught him how to clean a bathtub in under one minute. She was smiling hopefully but not happily.

  Beside her was a man Noel had never met but vaguely recalled seeing marching around the lobby and casino floor with a walkie-talkie. Maroon blazer, arms crossed, scratching his cratered nose. Salt and pepper hair sprouting from the ears. Blue tie with a gold clip. Buzzcut, all gray, a hardass. Gently he ushered Maria to the side.

  ‘Thank you, Maria. I’ll handle it from here.’

  Noel stood quickly and the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the pools and gardens with their winged lion gargoyles some twelve stories below gave his equilibrium a nasty shove. He lost his balance, and propped himself up again. ‘Oh shit,’ he said, forcing his eyes wide, as if to prove he had never been asleep.

  ‘Oh shit,’ the maroon blazer agreed. ‘Noel Shaker. That’s you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And how long have you been with us?’

  Noel thought back, wanted to answer with specificity, but it wasn’t coming.

  ‘Actually, it’s not important.’ The man tiredly snatched the badge from Noel’s belt fob. ‘You’re no longer an employee of Caesars Entertainment Corporation. I hope this is not surprise. It shouldn’t be.’

  Noel nodded.

  ‘Your keys.’

  Noel handed over the master that opened the rooms on this floor, as well as the key to his locker.

  ‘Your check will be mailed within fourteen days. I’m sorry we couldn’t keep you awake, Mr Shaker. Do you want to give me a rash of shit so I can bill you for your little stay in this here Palace Tower suite, or would you like to go without a fuss?’

  ‘No fuss. I’m sorry, Mr, ah … have we met?’

  ‘What’s your cute malfunction, anyway? Not that it matters, but I’m always curious. A man comes to us, wants a job, is given a job, doesn’t do the job he asked for. What’s the slide here? Drugs? Booze? Pussy? You’re a young guy, decent looking. Don’t look like a chicken. You busy screwing your stripper girlfriend’s lights out all night, that it?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m just … I’m very tired.’

  ‘Right. Okay, sport. Go home and get some rest. I’ve got to have this bed changed, again, and find someone else to turn the room, again.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Noel said. ‘If I were in your position, well, yes.’

  ‘Oh, for chrissakes.’ Taking pity, the maroon blazer handed Noel a coupon. Beneath the Caesars Palace logo it said ONE FREE BUFFET PASS.

  Noel stared at the card and felt like crying. ‘Why?’

  ‘I sleep better knowing I gave a man a meal before booting him,’ maroon blazer said. ‘Knock yourself out. The roast beef’s really something.’

  ‘I appreciate the chance to contribute to the …’ but he didn’t know what he had contributed to.

  ‘Yep.’ Maroon blazer ushered Noel toward the door.

  ‘Do you need the, ah, the attire back?’

  ‘Turn in the shirt, cleaned, within three days or we’ll have to dock you forty-two dollars. Up to you.’

  Noel moved into the hallway, paused. The blazer raised its eyebrows.

  ‘If you need me to leave or if I’m banned,’ Noel said. ‘Okay. But do you mind – am I allowed to gamble here still?’

  Maroon blazer stared at Noel for an extra beat, then sighed with resignation bordering on, then actually crossing over into, disgust.

  ‘By all means, Mr Shaker. Caesars Palace would be delighted to serve your gaming needs.’ He smiled icily. ‘So long as you don’t fall asleep at any of the tables.’

  ‘Thank y—’

  But the maroon blazer was already bobbing down the hallway, onto other matters, to things that mattered.

  Royally shit-canned and soon to be drunker than a R
oman emperor, Noel took up residence at one of the casino floor watering holes, a dark affair whose bar featured built-in ashtrays and a bank of video poker screens. The flashing faces of jacks and kings and queens minded not at all if he spilled his Cuba Libres on them. He fed another roll of quarters into the slot, ratcheting his credits up to forty. He punched the DEAL/DRAW button, got two tens, the rest low clubs and hearts. Pressed HOLD under both, punched DEAL/DRAW. Got two more tens for four-of-a-kind. Ran up another ten credits.

  ‘There’s my little Technotronic bitch,’ Noel said to the machine. ‘You like that? You like that?’

  The machine did not answer.

  Tilly, a waitress with amazingly permed crazy high hair the color of macaroni and cheese, sun-freckled Dow-Corning titties, muscle-builder thighs and green eyeliner almost concealed behind the tarantula lashes, set a new Cuba Libre beside his existing half-full Cuba Libre.

  ‘Sorry to hear about your job, Noel,’ Tilly said. ‘Lou can be a real a dickprick, ya know?’

  ‘No, no, he was really nice. I deserved it.’ Noel tinkled a palmful of quarters into Tilly’s tray. ‘He’s letting me stay. To gamble.’

  Tilly frowned. ‘You poor boy. Want me to bring you a sammich?’

  ‘A sammich? Tilly, baby, in a few days I’m going to own this place. Caesars’s got nothing on me. I am a fucking Caesar! Will you be my queen? I want to marry you. Will you marry me, Tilly? Tonight? Now?’

  Tilly gave her drink order to the bartender, along with a look that might have said, give this guy a break, he’s one of ours, or was. The bartender shook his head.

  ‘Tilly-tilly-bo-billy-banana-nana-fo-filly,’ Noel said.

  Tilly laughed despite herself. ‘Jesus, you remind me of my son.’

  Noel frowned. ‘Wanna know a secret, Tilly?’

  Tilly cocked her head.

  ‘I’m going to rob this place,’ Noel said. ‘For millions.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ Tilly said. ‘Not in here.’

  ‘Soon as I change back, it’s game on.’

  ‘Change back? Into what?’

  Noel grinned. ‘A ghost.’

  Tilly loaded her drink tray. ‘How’s Julie doin’, hon? Maybe you should go home and spoil her a little bit?’

  ‘Aw, no.’ Noel felt wounded by an arrow. ‘Nah goin’ home to Julie tonight. She can take care of herself.’

  ‘Yeah, I gotta run. Behave, Noel. I’m serious, okay? You don’t belong here, sweetie. You never did.’

  For some reason known to no one, this was hilarious. Noel brayed and punched DEAL/DRAW. He got shit. Tossed all the digital cards, drew again. One ace and another pile of shit. He drew again. Got two kings, but tossed them before he realized they were kings. The faces and numbers and suits blurred. His credits, not so high to begin with, dwindled. He tore the paper wrapping from his roll of quarters and they spilled across the bar like orphans running away from a sadistic nun.

  Noel surveyed the crowd, the faces like bobbing balloons, until his eyes caught on an ancient Native American man staring at him from the other side of the bar. A figure out of place, in crystal clarity. With his flowing gray hair, deep creases that had aged beyond mere wrinkles into a mosaic of broken shale, and coruscated black eyes, the shaman seemed almost reptilian, a shape-shifting gila monster that had wandered into the casino, and Noel half expected a forked tongue to wag at him as he stared back. His black suit, white shirt and bolo string tie were not the accoutrements of a medicine man; nevertheless he radiated a dark holiness. His solemn gaze cut across the bar and passed through Noel with cliché but no less worrisome omniscience.

  As if he were able to communicate with the seer by telepathy, Noel gave himself over, opening his mind to the shaman: Go ahead. Look inside me, old man, and tell me what’s to come of my future. Do you know how I got here? Do you know what my purpose is? If you know what I’m waiting for, can you tell me when it will return?

  The shaman kept perfectly still, the intense connection drowning out the casino’s cacophony until they were the last two men in the bar, until the palace was gone and the world was night and Julie lay on the desert floor between them, under the star dome. Noel was certain that the ancient tribesman knew what he was, what horrible secret he carried, and what dark actions he intended to take once the curse returned. More, the shaman peering into his soul knew all that had happened since he and Julie hatched their plans, of the sorrow that had grown like a cancer in their lives since.

  This is what you have chosen, the ancient said in Noel’s mind, his voice a low rumble, and for the first time since meeting the shaman’s eyes Noel wondered if he were being dissected by a dead man. We are both spirits fated to walk between worlds, among the living and the dead. But instead of abiding the will of your ancestors and seeking your true purpose among your people, you have surrendered to devils.

  If you do not give up this quest for false idols, you will lose the only thing that matters to you and you will be condemned to walk between worlds forever, alone.

  Noel blinked, and the shaman was gone. He looked around the surrounding gaming pits and aisles of slot machines, but the ancient was nowhere to be found.

  Noel staggered for the exits and entered the cab queue. During the $17-ride home, he watched the hotels and cascading canyons of light stream past, drowning him in the sorrow of wasted time and withering love.

  The young, dumb and in love trajectory. Also known as, How we aimed for the stars and wound up one untied shoelace from the gutter:

  Those first few months had been a honeymoon of sorts, the thrill of playing adult. New digs, new clothes, new weather, a new buzz. Staying up all night talking, discussing their private fears and longings, discussing the future. Sleeping late, walking the Strip in search of the charming value buffet. Hugs in the booth, feeding each other pancakes at brunch, sex and a nap and more sex after. Won her a stuffed Pink Panther at Circus Circus. Went to the chapel just to watch the other couples take a vow in an Elvis suit, a dare, testing the water, giggling all the way home, sex in the elevator, going down on her riding up the tower. Better days to come, coming soon, any day now.

  The promising start, now a faded memory you wish had happened to someone else. Nightlife, fun Noel, sexy Julie, party down at the romantically seedy spots, the overpriced clubs, $12 cocktails, celeb-spotting, sneaking into the VIP booth, the delusional charm of being young and feeling the world in your palm. Five grand on the Super Bowl at two-to-one. Boom, it was happening, it was on.

  Using the original stake and the Super Bowl haul to run up a lucky streak of twenty-eight thousand. Roulette boogie, forty-two thousand. Feeling blessed, feeling chosen, feeling it would never end. We could make a run at this, make a life here. Julie hitting blackjack, fifty-one thousand. They couldn’t walk into a casino without someone handing them money. The Riviera sad sack regulars drooling with envy, Noel buying drinks for all. Wayne Newton. A boxing match. A $1200 handbag for Julie, Armani jeans and sweaters for Noel. A helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon. A white Ford Mustang convert for Julie. New identities, fresh papers from a guy who knew a guy down the street, so they could bounce with impunity once he blinked and the shit went down. We are untouchable. Who needs the bubble, we are our own bubble. Look at the big man, Noel Shaker. He struts. She swoons. They were on their way.

  Bright idea number fourteen – kill time learning to become a player, buying the books, watching the videos, mastering the art of when to hit and when to stand. Studying the tells. Counting cards. We’re sitting on fifty Gs. Let’s put it to work.

  They lost it all in nine days. Noel decided to play poker, against men who did this for a living. Lunacy. Idiocy. Tried to stare down a sphinx from New Jersey wearing a sideways Knicks lid. Hey, it happens. Julie cried all night. Noel promised he’d get it back. He said he’d get a job, never believing he’d have to do just that. Swore he wouldn’t let her work, never believing he’d have to do just that.

  But they were still happy, for a little whi
le. After pawning the 4-Runner they had twenty-two hundred left in the bank, even though the bank was the hotel room safe, then the ceiling tile in the motel room, then Noel’s sock, then Julie’s coin purse. It will come back, he promised her. Everything’s going to come back. We just have to wait it out, be patient. When I ghost back out of this world, we’ll own this town. Walk into any casino on Las Vegas Drive and take what’s ours. It’s not even stealing. It’s gamblers’ money. We deserve it as much as these crooks, these corporations sucking the life out of working people. We’ll plot, plan, execute. Give half to charity, keep karma on our side. We’ll find a vault, a count room, a safe. We’ll follow an armored truck on its rounds and pounce at the last stop. We’ll get what we can take and then we’ll get out of Dodge.

  He got on with the cleaning crew, the better to case the place while waiting for the bubble to descend. Working the night shift, six nights per week, in a haze of cigarette smoke and dirty floors and blinking musical neon, a nobody in pleated black slacks, a Caesars smock with gold piping, filthy men’s nurse’s shoes, a drone sponge in one of a dozen cleaning crews at the Palace. Two bucks over minimum wage while long green cash money swam around him, slippery as fish, always out of reach. He longed to risk it all, roll the dice again, but his bank account wouldn’t let him, Julie wouldn’t let him, his veil wouldn’t let him.

  Every day a vacation for someone else, everyone else but him, the work never-ending. Popping mini-thins to stay awake, popping Tylenol PM to fall asleep, popping his knees every time he crouched to pluck another condom crepe from under the bed, swab dried cum from another marble floor, plunge another tampon from another toilet overflowing with human desire and waste and this waste of a life.

  His plans and schemes and names and protocols forgotten in the mirage of time and dreams of the quick hit, easy money, the big score. His world was dawn and sand glare and air-conditioning bronchial infections. A sore back. Swollen toes. Red eyes. Hot face, smoked out clothes, dirty nails. Metabolized alcohol sweat. General hatred for his fellow man.