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DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
J. Carson Black
Because of the mineral show, which he had not expected, Bobby Burdette had to stay in a little hole-in-the-wall called the Mercury Motel. The Mercury Motel had a pool full of screaming kids and a plate glass office that arrowed out toward the street in a triangle—the kind of space-age dump the Jetsons would have stayed in. The motel sign, a thermometer, lit up at night: red neon mercury climbing up to the boiling point over and over again.
At least that wasn’t a lie; even in September, it was ninety degrees after the sun went down.
The Mercury Motel was situated between a defunct filling station and a date palm orchard. The dates fell over the fence into the parking lot and onto the wax finish of his classic Dodge Challenger—The Mean Green—and got picked up by people’s shoes. At any given moment, there were a half dozen of them littering the walkway in front of the motel rooms like squashed cockroaches.
Bobby told himself he didn’t have to put up with the poor accommodations and the sickening smell of dates much longer. If things worked out the way he expected, he’d never have to stay in a shithole like this again.
There was a good side to Pahrump, though, one he hadn’t considered when he blew into town earlier today. For one thing, the plate glass office had nickel slots.
And the town had a whorehouse.
And it was legal. It was called The Bambi Ranch.
Bobby planned to bag one of those bambies.
He’d seen it on a cable show once, how the girls would parade into the parlor and line up—blondes, brunettes, redheads, wearing different outfits—and you could pick the one you wanted just like at Red Lobster. There was something about it that just got to him, somewhere deep. Like that feeling you get in your gut when you ride a rollercoaster.
The sun was going down below the far mountains when he drove The Mean Green out of the Mercury Motel parking lot, the sun flashbulbing him in the eyeballs. For such a little town, the traffic in Pahrump was hellish— mostly crawling RVs with satellite dishes on their roofs, the street lined with booths and a herd of people on the sidewalks, sometimes walking right out in front of him.
For a minute he wondered if The Mean Green was the right car to be seen in. The lime green paint and chrome wheels weren’t exactly camouflage. But everyone was so busy looking at cases full of minerals or watching their own feet, they probably wouldn’t notice a circus driving through.
Besides, he liked how ballsy it was—hiding in plain sight.
The Bambi Ranch was out of town; he knew that was a requirement of all legal brothels in Nevada. He was surprised at the size of the layout—there were five narrow buildings, like temporary offices they had at schools, only this was no school. All of them were painted lavender. As he drove over the cattle guard into the parking area, he noticed an airstrip to his right, the windsock sticking straight out like a condom. There was also a satellite dish on a balding Bermuda lawn surrounded by a white picket fence.
The place was lit up like a Christmas tree. Tiny white bulbs strung up in the Aleppo pines, colored lights all over the front office, and not the kind you got at Kmart either—these were professional quality, the kind you’d find on the front of the casinos in Vegas. All that light power on these little sorry buildings. Like the crown jewels on a ten-dollar hooker.
He’d wanted to savor the event, but it didn’t turn out that way. The women outnumbered the men, and they sure didn’t line up like he’d expected. More like they converged on him like sharks on chum.
“You want me, don’t ya sweetness?” a handsome woman in her thirties said, practically getting him in a half nelson. She smelled of heavy perfume, breath mints and gin, but her skin was smooth and her boobs were huge.
Another one said, “With me, you buy one, you get one free. Redeemable any time.” This chick was younger, with black hair and purple lips. Pale as a fish’s belly.
Then there was the brooding Russian woman who tried to smile. At least he thought she was Russian. Pale, washed out, sad. Most of them, though, they flounced and strutted and ran their fingers through his hair. When the door opened and another man came in, three of them made a beeline for him. They reminded him of the catfish he used to feed as a kid at Lake Mead: boiling up the water, their mouths avid.
The one who remained was the young chick. She had a stud in her eyebrow and looked kind of skeletal, but her skin was like cream. And she didn’t reek of booze like the older ones. She caught his look and nodded to the menu on an easel near the counter—a list of services and their prices, all nicely written up in fancy calligraphy on white poster board. He opted for basic cable, so to speak, and paid the bored little man behind the counter in cash.
The Goth girl motioned him to follow her. She led him outside into the warm night, across the cracked walkway to the first trailer, down a hallway to a small dark room, paneled with walnut veneer.
The minute they got through the door, she removed her clothes. If you blinked, you missed it. She had on boots that zipped up the insides and a flimsy skirt with an elastic waist band. Zip, zip, and the boots were off, and then she shimmied out of the skirt and her bottom half was naked as a jaybird. She clasped her arms around his neck and pulled him down on the bed without a word.
It wasn’t as fun as he thought it would be. In fact, he found his mind drifting, thinking about tomorrow and all the days after that. Playing it out in his head. He seemed to hear her from a distance, moaning and groaning, doing her level best to get him to finish up.
But he wasn’t into it. It wasn’t anywhere near as exciting—as dirty—as he had expected it to be. The whole idea had been huge in his mind, but this—this was paltry. And so his mind wandered to something he saw on the road on the way up here today: an abandoned airplane hangar baking in the desert sun. The Goth woman whimpered about how good he was—he noticed she worked herself into more of a lather the longer it took, like jockeys waling on their horses as they neared the wire—but his mind was on the checkpoint trailer at the California border, the two Homeland Security agents in their protective vests and their dark clothing, the sun bouncing off their sunglasses, the big German shepherd between them.
He liked their look. Easy enough to approximate. All he needed was a haircut and the right kind of sunglasses.
“Oh—my—God!”
Bobby wondered if he should fake it like his girlfriend did, or just quit. But he was stubborn; he wanted his money’s worth. So he decided to put his mind to it, and with intense concentration, managed to put it over the top, just as the egg timer by the side of the bed rang.
It was the hardest work he’d done all day.
Feeling good about getting it done, he said, “How was that, sweetness?”
“Oh, it was great.”
The way she said it made him want to slap her. That tone in her voice. He’d heard that tone all his life, and every time, it said he wasn’t worth talking to or listening to or even lying to. The way women could put you down just by the inflection.
Just once, he’d like to see something on a woman’s face besides contempt, disappointment, greed, or want.
“The tip jar’s over there,” Goth said.
For a moment he saw himself picking up the jar and tossing it into the mirrored closet doors, but then he remembered that he shouldn’t do anything memorable. He had to think about the big picture. He wanted to be like those two agents—anonymous in their dark glasses and their clipped haircuts.