The Fading (25 page)

‘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 while. 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.

Players
. A species of which you, Noel Shaker, are not. Texas rodeo boys, riding their own bull market at the hold ’em no-limit stables.
There goes another whale from Hong Kong, two hookers and a comped suite, now pick up that lollipop stuck to the carpet, you
goon. Noeller Coaster, the Invisible Man himself: invisible to the high-rollers, party girls, cha-chas, flannel club dykes,
biker gangs, East Hampton trust-fund ramrods, pop stars, Jack Daniels-swigging frontmen in LA leather, hair
metal chicks in paisley bandanas, hip-hop posses, rising white MCs, anorexic models in crusted sunglasses, clean-cut frat
boys, Young Life teens handing out brochures for Jesus, sheikhs in flowing robes, porterhouse steak men from the Midwest,
rubber sandals and plaid shorts – none see him, now that he is normal. The people look through him, away from him as they
check in, drop their Samsonites, chintz on another room service tab, fiz to pay-per-view porn, toss back another Seven-and-7
in the sportsbook, scratch another ticket in the keno parlor, gnaw another Cuban at the Baccarat table.

Walking between resorts at night, feeling the hair on the back of his neck prickling with odd bursts of unwelcome intuition.
Sometimes he would turn to find a non-descript sedan trailing behind him, moving too slow even for the choked traffic on the
Strip. Other times there would be no car tailing him, but strangers who looked at him briefly before looking away. Once it
was a tall skinny guy in a Hawaiian shirt, chinos, and oversized black sunglasses. Once it was a woman with two kids, gawking
at him like a zoo exhibit. Was he being followed? Or just being paranoid? There were a lot of weirdos in Vegas. People-watching
was a common pastime.

All his hunches were forgotten amid the sensory rape. How was a working man supposed to think under the constant carnival
of video game bleeping, bing-bonging family-friendly slots, the screaming children, the five hundred colors of ten bazillion
blinking lights, ring-a-ding-ding, Cock-Eyed-Sammy impersonators singing from the grave, Methamped bus boys, Mexican maids,
Arab deliverymen sneering over a pallet of shrimp, red-faced entertainers roasting good sport Jews, racism rampant in the
no-boundaries smarm, shock and jive, 24/7 entertainment, it’s all just entertainment, stuff to fuck the minutes away until
the bank account’s empty and the heart attack strikes.

Delay of death.

Time-suck
. As in, where did it go? Shit, it’s a clockless world here at Caesars Palace, where every man is a king. There is no sun
and no moon, no day, no night, only indoor time, bio-dome containment. Bars, casinos, restaurants, strip clubs, musical stages,
tiger cages, pirate ship lagoons, drape-drawn rooms, morning noon and night, keep the windows sealed tight. Crush ’em with
AC, comp ’em another drink.

What’s that smell?
The chemical residue of carpet shampoo and floor polish and toilet bowl cleaner a constant tincture in his clothes, his hair,
his nostrils. Luiz, his boss, calling him ‘you’ or ‘kid’ or ‘skinny white boy’ and screaming at the terrified illegals, laughing
as he brings them to tears, sticking him with the worst of so many awful duties. Someone left a salmon in room 525, take the
chisel, Shaker. Y’heard me, a salmon. Clean it up. Clean the shitter, clean the lobby, clean the elevators – but not while
anyone’s around. Stand aside, get out of the way. You don’t exist, got it? Room 786, blood on the mattress, flip it, turn
it, make it go away.

The waiting. The Waiting. THE WAITING.

Funny he got fired here. He used to live here. Started in a Centurian Tower suite with powder-smooth pillow
cases, got downgraded to the Motel 8, then to a former fuckpad guest house rental on the pawn shop and rubber dick store side
of town.

The look in Julie’s eyes.

When? When’s it going to come back? How much longer do I have to put up with this slave grind? She had stayed sober for the
first five of the impoverished months, then it was a glass of wine now and then, then she lost her job as a supervisor working
the call center of a travel bureau. Landed at the Mirage as a bartender but somehow, as their mission lost focus, continued
to slide into her own fishnets cocktailing at Slots-of Fun, getting ass-pinched hourly.