a small box therein. She unwrapped it, grinning. “Look,” she said, as it unfurled.
The reservoir tip had Jesus’ face on it.
“Oh, God,” I said.
“Exactly! This drawer is full of Christian sex resources! I take back everything I said. I love it here.”
“Trix, I’m not exactly a churchgoing man, but there’s no way in Hell I’m going to ejaculate into Jesus’ head.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that.”
“Nor am I going to wear the little baby Jesus in my ass.”
“Spoilsport.”
Chapter 36
As the sun went down, we left the hotel and walked a while on the Strip. Dancing fountains and robot pirates for an hour, among the tourists and the beaten-looking locals and the pimps and losers handing out cards and flyers for sex and porn.
No one in Vegas ever looks like they’re having fun.
An old colleague of mine from there once told me of his plan to return to Vegas and get rich. He was going to install slot-machine public toilets on the Strip. You’d have to put a coin in the slot and pull the lever to get into the toilet. And if the reels were not your friend? The door would stay locked. He envisioned great long lines of people dying for a piss and throwing handfuls of metal into the machine for the chance of taking a leak before their bladders exploded.
He works in advertising now.
We spent a while in a bar with the map—no escape from the ringing cacophony of the machines—and then headed back to the Freedom to pick up the car, a two-seater new-style MG that I liked the sound of. It was small and sharp, great for navigating through the Strip. Once we were off the Strip, though, parking-lot country unfolded before us, as far as the eye could see. We could have been back in Columbus, San Antone, or any other city.
It was dark when we found the address. A cheap-as-dirt area, a bungalow that was ten years old but looked ready to fall apart like a stack of cardboard in the rain. The lights were all on, and there were a bunch of cars parked around it, but it was weirdly quiet. It immediately felt wrong.
“I kind of wish I had a gun,” I said quietly.
“Why?” I made her nervous. Which was good.
“Something doesn’t ring right. I don’t know what. If I tell you to run, head straight back to the car, no argument. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We got out of the car. Something was bugging me. And I was also disturbed by wanting a gun twice in as many days.
It was getting darker.
There were voices behind the door, low and fast. I rang the door buzzer a couple of times. No one came out. I leaned on it.
A tall, florid-faced Latina with purple streaks in her hair and mascara streaks on her face ripped the door open.
“Are you the paramedics?” she shrieked.
“No. We’re here to see Alexis Perez.”
She went to slam the door. I put my foot in it.
“It’s very important.”
“No it’s not. She can’t see you.”
“Why not?”
She lost it. “Because I think she’s dying!”
I straight-armed the door open, knocking the woman down, and boiled through into the house. I just had to follow the voices.
There were four other Latinas in the kitchen and one on the floor, naked but for a bra, laying on her front and shaking violently. There were livid red pinholes on her backside. The four standing may as well have been laying down for all the use they were. They were terrified.
I shoved one out of the way, went down on one knee, and pushed the girl over into recovery position. There was foam on her lips and her eyes were rolling back into her head. She was making long, drawn-out creaking noises, her chest convulsing.
I looked up at them. “Who dialed 911?”
The one I knocked down stamped back into the room, big hands balled into fists. “I did, bitch.”
“Call them again. Her lungs are locking up. Anyone know if she has asthma or allergies?”
They shook their heads dumbly.
“Do any of
