“Shut up.” She grabbed him and then kissed him hard and dramatically, jolting her head and her veil from side to side. She tasted like cheap rum.
She pulled up her white dress and unzipped his trousers in what seemed like one swift movement. His back was against the long beige wall. Sure, he had already had her. But this. The veil. The virginal white. He was overtaken. She tilted her head back, and as she did, Wally noticed the elevator doors opening. Out walked the three men dressed in gray suits.
“Sabrina! What in the hell are you doing?” the middle man yelled.
“Daddy?”
“I never took my daughter for a tramp!” he said, yanking her from Wally.
The singer slid from the wall to the floor, trying to inch away. He thought of every bad thing he’d ever done. Every one night stand, every unreturned phone call, every cheat, every lie. False hope handed out, cigarettes stolen, rent money gambled away. He wanted to confess. He wanted to plead.
Brenda looked at him cowering on the ground and grinned. She flipped her veil, hitting her father in the face.
Johnny growled.
“And you! You sick son of a...” Johnny Rosetti didn’t finish his sentence and he didn’t care. He was a man who did not like his principles marred in any way. He leaned down, grabbed Wally by the collar, and pistol-whipped him in the side of the head.
Dazed, Wally edged down the hall, still trying to escape.
Slowly, Johnny walked over to the singer’s body. His wingtips squeaked, and Wally cringed as he heard each footstep, closer and closer. The mad father looked down upon him.
With one open eye, Wally could see Johnny’s angry face. Those big teeth grinding together. Possible punishments ran through Wally’s mind. His detached head rolling down the hallway like a bloody bowling ball. Eyes plucked out with the antenna of a rusty car. Meat cutter through his middle. Thrown from the hotel roof. Legs sawed off. Something worse?
For all the fantasy, all Johnny did was reach for his gun. The quickest way was a lead projectile. Johnny harrumphed at the cowardice he saw below, then he shot the singer point blank.
Wally bled into the carpet, making the red parts redder, staining the gold squares. The amber hallway lights grew softer, and as he lay there, he watched Johnny address the other two suited men: “Get this cleaned up.”
Then the man turned to his daughter, disgusted.
Johnny grabbed Brenda’s arm, squeezing her thick tricep and the white satin wrapped around it.
Disappear
by Jaq Greenspon
Sunset Park
The best place to watch the sun set in Las Vegas was at the east end of the airport, just underneath the landing jets. Staring west, as the sun slipped behind the Red Rock Mountains, the obsidian, angled shape of the Luxor fell into sharp relief against the stretched-out orange glow. Sundown in the desert beat out any other geography, hands down. On the water the sunset would linger, bouncing on the waves, but in the desert there was nothing for the light to hold on to, nothing to trap it, bribe it to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. It ran, fled after the day like a scared rabbit. It was my favorite time of day. I loved it out here, for however long it lasted. I thrived in the liminal time, the gray area between light and dark. Playing with shadows was how I made my living.
And it was a good living. Most nights, after watching the sun go down, I’d be getting ready to earn that living. I’d be filling my pockets with cards, setting coins, writing predictions which I knew would come true later in the evening. A few years ago I’d be doing all this in a tuxedo, but not anymore. Now the uniform of choice, what the casinos wanted, was the street look. Dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and loose-fitting coat, sporting a few days growth I wasn’t exactly comfortable with, I fit in well with the tourists at the Manhattan Resort and Casino. They didn’t suspect a thing until I walked up and asked them if they’d like to see something amazing. Then I’d amaze them for a few seconds with a magic trick I learned when I was still in high school — nothing any of them couldn’t do with the right book and three minutes of practice — then send them back to the casino floor. But not tonight. I was off tonight, asked for it special.
I lit a cigarette. I watched the glowing cherry at the tip of my Turkish Camel. If I timed it right, the light from the sun would vanish, leaving just the glowing ember to illuminate my face. I waited for it, slowing my inhalation. The dark overtook me, the red glow giving my face a Stanley Kubrick look. I sucked in, drawing down to the filter. Smiling, I flicked the butt out toward the landing lights of the next plane coming in. I turned left and started to walk toward the park. I had an appointment to keep and I didn’t want to be late.
In reality, I couldn’t be late. She wasn’t going anywhere until I got there. She was waiting for me. I knew it, even if she didn’t know I knew.
Her name was Raven, though she didn’t acquire the name at birth. She hadn’t been ushered into the waiting arms of loving parents who took one look at her and decided then and there what to call her. No, she was pushed out and virtually abandoned into the apathetic arms of grandparents who had no desire to raise another screaming, ungrateful child. But they did the right thing and took in Baby Girl Miller, which is what they called her for the first six months of her life. They had figured if they didn’t give her a name, they couldn’t get too attached, and then, if it all became too much, who would really miss a Baby Girl? But like it always happens, the prospect of another life to ruin became too much of a temptation to resist. Of course, that’s not how they see it, but then, who really ever sees the damage they cause? By six months they knew they would keep her, at least until she turned fourteen and left on her own accord, with their blessing, and, it must be noted, to their great relief. With this realization, though, came the following thought, that Baby Girl might be fine for now, but wouldn’t see her through her teenage years. Instead, they’d need a name that would sum up the unusually quiet little girl who had been born with a massive shock of dark hair and a preternatural fascination with shiny objects. A day trip to the Grand Canyon via helicopter to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary introduced them to Indian mythology, and by the time they’d gotten home and retrieved Baby Girl from the neighbor, they had decided to call her Raven.
I knew her as well as anyone, I guess. She’d jumped boxes for me back when I did that kind of thing. I’m sure if I ever went back to the big illusions, she’d be there for me. That’s probably how she knew where to find me. I had a warehouse nearby, a place for storage and rehearsal. I shared it with a couple of other guys, workers who had scored nice variety act spots when the big production shows started closing down. It was a good deal for all involved and it was walking distance from where I was now, albeit in the opposite direction.
This was my area of town. This was where I lived and created, where I prowled and hunted. She had come here looking for me. I determined I wasn’t going to be hard to find. As I sauntered into the park I saw her. Even in twilight that figure was hard to miss. She was looking in the other direction. I could easily have ducked behind a tree or jogged to the playground. Hell, I could have just sat down at a picnic table and she would have kept staring right through me. But no, I wanted to get this over with. I stopped short and just stood still, inhaling the ozone-filled desert air. It would rain soon, the clouds were making their way east even now. Tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to see the sun as it went down behind the gray, threatening sky. But then, depending on how this meeting went, it might not matter what the sky was like. There was a very good chance the sunset I had just enjoyed might be my last.