“That doesn’t even rhyme,” observed Junior.
The marchers passed the former church and continued off into the residential neighborhood, clanging, blowing and shouting all the way. “Why are they protesting here? Why not out on the Strip? That’s where the people who run things probably are. They sure aren’t here.”
“They’d never get close to the Strip. Security’s too tight. This used to be a nice, middle class neighborhood. What do they call it – bourgeois? That’s who they’re protesting. Not the people in charge.”
“Didn’t most of the bourgeois people leave the blues after the Split?”
“I guess these dipshits can’t stop themselves from beating up on the ones who are left since they aren’t allowed to mess with the people who really run things. Now let’s get our stuff and get going.”
They left their packs in the room; Turnbull used a padlock to secure it from the outside. They took their Glocks and Turnbull also took the silenced .22 – just in case.
It was hot on the street, and angry. Most of the people out were young and a bit feral; others were clearly between homes. The normal people, assuming there were any, must have been off the streets and behind their barred windows. Many of the windows in the houses they passed flickered with the soft light of television sets.
They were headed toward the Strip, the lights on the horizon their beacon. The residential neighborhood gave way to a zone made up primarily of small businesses. About half the storefronts were boarded up. There were lots of do-it-yourself laundries; they were packed mostly with women and a few kids. As the appliances from before the Split wore out, more and more people found themselves using the pay washes when they found they were unable to replace their old washers and dryers.
“Can we get something to drink, like a Coke?” asked Junior as they passed what appeared to be a liquor store. Turnbull nodded and they both went in. The greasy clerk barely looked up from his television; it was some sort of reality show that seemed to consist of women screaming “Bitch” at each other. He found it endlessly amusing.
The store was cramped and dingy, and the shelves were intermittently stocked. There were some chips for sale, and some unappetizing snack cakes, and quite a lot of soda pop. The reason was pretty obvious – cans of Coke were $112 each, including the “health tax” on sugared food.
There was plenty of liquor, but only one or two brands of each kind. Junior didn’t recognize any of them. And pot – there was a wall of marijuana. Junior took a can of Coke and a small bag of chips and went to the counter. The TV was now showing an ad; the announcer was telling the audience, “Only you can prevent racism, denialism, and homophobia. Report social criminals to the PBI. Free speech does not include hate.” Some sort of male cartoon mouse was on the screen hugging another male cartoon mouse. The clerk looked up, bored.
“Series C.”
“What?”
“Your rat card. Series C, for the chips. Your ration card?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Junior dug into his pocket, remembering what Turnbull had taught him about how to buy food in the Blue.
“Extra ten, we can forget the rat card. I’ll write it off as lifted.”
“No, I got it.” Junior handed over one of the burnt orange stamps and the clerk seemed disappointed. The cartoon mice finished hugging and the next ad came on, this one explaining why brownouts were necessary to save the Earth from global warming.
Outside, Junior popped the top on the Coke and tasted it. It was warm, and it was like no other Coca-Cola he had ever tasted. Whoever made it had stinted on both the sugar and the cola. He left the rest of the most expensive soda pop he had ever purchased sitting on the sidewalk.
They walked on, Turnbull’s eyes darting about as he walked while his face was usually angled downward, or sunk inside his jacket.
“Why do you walk like that?”
“Habit. I don’t like cameras, though I doubt the PBI bothers with any out here. I like making it difficult for them.”
“Hmm,” Junior grunted, then he angled his own face downward.
Finally approaching the Strip, until they came to the security fence that surrounded it. Above the wall, the casino lights flashed and danced; one sign announced the 20th anniversary of Britney Spears’s residence in its theater. A group of bored guards protected the entrance gate, and a surly line of people waited for them to check their employee IDs and allow them through to cook, clean, and generally serve their elite masters.
Just outside the gate were a collection of seedy bars and manifestly déclassé small time casinos. This was where the locals came to drink and gamble, and where the out-of-towners who wanted to slum came to play beyond the lights and surveillance cameras of the Strip. And there were women – lots of them, mostly older, mostly trying too hard – the women the Strip had used up. This is where they plied their trade now.
“Wanna get blown?” offered one middle aged crone in a tight white dress that hid nothing, including what should have been hidden.
“Uh, no thanks,” Junior replied. The woman hissed, and then her attention shifted.
“Those assholes,” she said, looking past Junior.
Across the street, four People’s Security Force were none too gently throwing a drunk against the wall. Their cruiser idled at the curb. A small crowd gathered, cursing and yelling insults and threats.
“Get the fuck back, get the fuck back!” shouted one of the blues, hand on his piece. More people started converging on the incident. He looked panicked, and said something over his shoulder Turnbull couldn’t make out. His buddies threw the man to the ground and one gave him a vicious kick in the gut, but they did not try to take him with them. The quartet piled into the cruiser and drove off. A beer can flew from the crowd and splashed foam over the trunk. The cruiser didn’t stop; it just went on down the road.
“Do they always back off, Kelly?”
“No, when people get uppity they usually call their buddies and set an example. They were scared.” The crowd was still growing, and the obscenities were not decreasing even as the police car’s lights faded away down the street.
“Let’s make this fast.”
After another minute of walking, Turnbull turned into a bar called Clancy’s. There were no windows, only a metal door that was propped open. You could not see much inside, but there was loud K-pop spilling out. The doorman, who looked like he should either be riding a motorcycle or bench pressing one, barred their way, then motioned to Turnbull to halt and be patted down. Turnbull stopped, but held up his palm.
“Nope. I need to see Ricky. He here tonight?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the guy who’s here to see Ricky. Go get him.”
“He’s busy.”
“Not too busy to see me. You tell him his pal from Oregon is here. You need to do it now.”
The bouncer looked them over, the cogs in his brain rotating slowly. They came to the correct answer. “Stay here.” He disappeared inside.
“You’re from Oregon, Kelly?”
“Hell no. What am I going to say? Hey, I’m from Dallas? He’s helped me before. He’ll know who I am.”
The bouncer returned to his position and yanked his right thumb back over his shoulder. They went inside, unsearched, and were greeted with a large “NO SMOKING” sign right inside the doorway. It was stained with years of vile tobacco and pungent pot smoke. The place was much bigger than it looked from the street; there were at least 100 people inside, mostly lowlifes with the occasional cluster of rich punks making memories about that time they visited a seedy dive bar. They didn’t realize they were safer there than anywhere in Vegas – there was exactly zero chance Ricky would invite the scrutiny that would come with some assemblyperson’s son catching a knife between the ribs. That was for locals only; no one really cared, and if some cop pretended to care, a few bucks or a tryst in the back room with one of his girls would end that inquiry real quick.