A Neon Darkness

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  to Los Angeles

  to your neon lights and inky darkness

  to your sharp sounds and soft breezes

  to all the places that I call home

  and to all the extraordinary, unusual people I’ve met here

  PROLOGUE: THE FIRE

  There are benefits to driving without a map.

  This country is sprawling and full of detours. The “Best Specific Local Food Item” here and the “World’s Largest Mundane Object” there. Usually the best places aren’t on any map. If you hurtle toward your destination on the most direct route you can find, you miss the nooks and crannies, the strange offshoots and odd corners of the country. The warm, welcoming towns. The wonders of nature. The breathtaking vistas.

  The road between Las Vegas and Los Angeles is barren. There’s no detour to take, no paths splintering from the highway beneath your tires. One road, a vein connecting two bloodless hearts, and the vastness of dry desert surrounding it. There’s no map to ignore, just a blank stretch of pavement in front of you. It’s easy to keep your eyes on the road. A yellow line illuminated in staccato bursts while blackness stretches out on either side. It’s impossible to say what happens out in that black, what things lurk in the desert. Darkness invites darkness; it folds in on itself, hides the things that seek hiding.

  That unfaltering darkness was interrupted in spectacular fashion on the night of October 31, 2006. If you’d been driving along that road that night—that endless, unchanging path—you’d have seen a burst of light so bright you’d have wondered if the sun was coming back from its sleep prematurely. A star in the middle of the sand, a nuclear blast, an explosion—it was over as quickly as it began, the monotony of the desert returning so rapidly that it was unclear if there had ever been any light at all, or if it had been merely a mirage conjured by a brain desperate for change.

  * * *

  Alex really shouldn’t have come here. He knew it was a risk—trusting the strange man who promised to help him with his unique problem, agreeing to meet him in an alley downtown in the middle of the night. But Alex met strange men every day in Los Angeles, had met them in alleys before. And now his problem had gotten so bad—just kept getting worse and worse—that Alex wasn’t sure he had much of a choice.

  He wasn’t like the others—he didn’t want this. It was tiring, being this full of fire all the time, worrying that you were going to destroy your favorite jacket, your furniture, the guy in your bed, your life. He could feel it now, burning under his skin, threatening to burst out and destroy the cool autumn night. His body itched with the need to explode and with a deeper hunger, a new hunger. His skin cried out in craving, wanting the only thing that seemed to soothe the burning, even as it slowly rotted the rest of him.

  Alex tried to think of his friends. Things had gotten easier since he’d joined up with that merry band of weirdos, but picturing their faces just made him think about how much better they all were than him. They weren’t perfect, but they were getting there. Alex was nowhere close to perfect. He was never going to get to perfect. And if it couldn’t be perfect, if it couldn’t be perfectly controlled, useful, and safe, he didn’t want it. Which is why he was now pacing up and down an alley waiting for a tall figure to step out of the street and into the shadows and give him a magical solution.

  What Alex didn’t realize, what he didn’t see in his pacing, was that the tall figure was already in the shadows. He loomed there, waiting. Waiting for Alex to pace past him. Waiting for his moment. Waiting to set off an explosion.

  PART ONE

  THE SUNSET

  In retrospect, going on a power spree in Las Vegas was not my smartest move.

  Typically, using my ability to get things—money, food, cars, you name it—isn’t too much of a problem as long as I keep the mark in my sights or move on quickly. But I didn’t think about the cameras. A security guy watching me take a table for all their chips with a pair of twos isn’t going to be susceptible to what I do. Not from a surveillance room all the way across a crowded casino.

  After a few hours on the empty, endless expanse of desert highway, I’ve traded the claustrophobia of Vegas for the traffic jams of Los Angeles. The sun is starting to set, making me squint as it beams through my windshield, but my wince turns into a smile as I think about the look on the head of security’s face when he said he’d never met anyone like me. That glow of admiration, the slight tinge of confusion. It felt good, seeing that expression on someone like that. His job is to make sure that the house always wins, and I won.

  I could have stayed, could have rubbed it in, hit up every casino on the strip, but after being taken to a back room with five guys twice my size, I figured it was time to cut my losses and get the hell out of dodge. Things turned out all right in the end, but I spare a thought for the fact that my face is still all over their security tapes. Still, I can’t imagine they’ll come after me for taking twelve grand. That amount of money means about as much to the Bellagio as it does to me. Which is to say, not much.

  LA seemed as good a place as any to hit up next on my haphazard tour of the western United States. Anything’s better than goddamned Nebraska. But, in another boneheaded move, I haven’t looked at a calendar in weeks, which means I’ve somehow timed it so that I’m driving into Los Angeles on the night of Halloween.

  So now I’m sitting in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, just trying to get to the ocean—I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean before—while swarms of people in absurd costumes walk west. I can barely see the next intersection for all the bodies in the street. I expected Los Angeles to have a light, nice sea breeze, but I have to roll up my windows against the hot October air carrying the smell of body spray and sickly sweet party drinks.

  “Screw this,” I say to no one, pulling over. I grab a couple of stacks from the bag of cash flopped uselessly on the backseat and shove them in my pockets. I can get by without it but it’s always nice to have the extra security. I leave the car unlocked, keys on the dash—it served me fine through the Nevada desert, but I’m going to want something slicker for LA.

  The street is loud and a lot more Vegas-like than I would have thought, people shouting and stumbling through the streets in bright costumes. Vegas was fun, but I was hoping for a different scene. After two weeks there, I think I’m starting to discover that I like things a bit … quieter. Everything is easier to manage with fewer people. Less chance I’ll slip up. Less chance something will go terribly wrong. I look at the flow of people headed down the block toward booming music—groups of friends smiling and laughing with each other. I feel a pang low in my gut and I’m taking a step toward the teeming crowd before I have a chan
ce to think about it. Maybe things could be different this time—maybe I’ll join the revelers and then it will be me laughing and smiling like I have no cares in the world and I’ll mean it.

  But before I can even make a plan of attack for how I would go about joining in the celebration, my feet stop in their tracks, the pang overwhelmed by roiling anxiety. There are too many people, moving too quickly, already too drunk. It would be impossible to hold any influence and without it, I highly doubt anyone is going to welcome the baby-faced kid in a hoodie and scuffed-up shoes with open arms.

  I’m thinking about just calling it a night, starting the process of finding a place to crash, when I glance across the street to see a bright red neon sign proclaiming BAR LUBITSCH. There’s a bored guy out front, smoking a cigarette, but otherwise the place looks a hell of a lot emptier than the street. Emptier and easier. Eventually I’ll have to sleep, but right now I just want to sit in something other than the driver’s seat. I take a deep breath and saunter across the street, plastering on my most innocuous “nothing to see here” face.

  “ID?” the guy asks when I reach the gate. He squints at me through the smoke and I smile at him, the motion of my mouth curving feeling foreign and fake like always.

  “That’s okay,” I say smoothly, heart beating in my chest. “I don’t need one.”

  He exhales. More smoke. More squinting. I stand perfectly still and focus on what I want, and then:

  “Right,” he drawls, and then his eyes relax and his lips twitch around the cigarette he’s put back in his mouth. “Right, yeah, sure thing. Go on in.”

  My shoulders relax and I nod in thanks as I move through the tiny front patio, filled with a few more solo smokers. Eyes swivel, following me as I open the door.

  Inside it’s significantly less smoky but equally dark and empty. The whole thing has a real “Leon Trotsky would have hung out here” kind of vibe—little café tables and dark wood booths, blocky Cyrillic painted onto large mirrors, everything in black and red. It feels like another world compared to the noisy, chaotic streets. I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. God, I am sick of driving. Cramped and crowded with nothing but my own thoughts and the monotony of the constantly changing radio stations as I moved across state lines. I need a new sound—someone else’s voice in my ears, in my head.

  “What can I get ya?” I hear as I slink onto a bar stool at the long and empty wood bar. I swivel around to see a woman a few years older than me behind the bar, moving toward me. She’s stunning—tall, tan, and slender, her cheekbones lifted with a warm smile, her whole face glowing. But as she approaches me, her smile sinks a bit. Like the bouncer, she squints.

  “Whatever’s good here.” I shrug, going for nonchalant. “Which I’m assuming is … something with vodka?” I add, gazing pointedly at the Russian decor before throwing her my best rakish smile, ignoring the uncomfortable pinching in my cheeks.

  “Can I see an ID?” She smiles, her eyebrows lifting.

  “Nah, that’s okay.” I wave a hand. “Just the drink will be fine.”

  A beat. That familiar beat that sometimes happens in the blink of an eye—usually without my realizing what I’m doing—and that sometimes takes an eon. But no matter how long it takes, I almost always get where I’m trying to go.

  “Sure thing.” She nods, moving away, and I settle my arms onto the bar, leaning forward to watch her. She’s got tattoos up and down her arms and pink in her brown hair, and I can’t tell if that’s how she always looks or if it’s for a costume. If it is, I don’t get what she’s supposed to be. The black tank top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen better days, but if she works here, it’s possible she lives in the area. Even if her apartment is as worn as her shirt, it’s better than sleeping in a Subaru and easier than trying to find a hotel in the middle of the night when the street is packed with people. And there’s something about her … something friendly and inviting, that makes me want to lean farther over the bar until I’m fully caught in her orbit.

  But I can’t rely on the bartender—if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that it’s important always to have a Plan B. So I swivel back to face the rest of the bar, looking for a potential patron. Glancing at the prices on the menu board tells me this place is probably only frequented by people with cash, and based on the amount of people in here versus out on the street, I’m going to assume I’m looking at a room of mostly regulars.

  There’s a couple cozying up in one of the booths—ugh, no, I hate dealing with couples. That kind of closeness is alien and impossible to navigate, my desire always swinging from wanting to be more than a third wheel to wanting to break the whole damn bicycle. But my gaze lingers on the pair, watching the guy’s arm grasp his girlfriend’s shoulder, watching her put her hand on his face, and I feel the same pang I felt out in the street. I’m in a much smaller space now though—much closer to them than I was to the crowd outside—so if I’m not careful, I might find myself dealing with a couple all the same. I tear my eyes away.

  There’s a group of guys around one of the café tables, vodka shots in each of their hands, egging each other on. I already got too much of the frat house vibe in Vegas. No thanks.

  A much older woman is tucked into a corner booth, sipping on something that—based on her expression—is either very bad vodka or very strong vodka. She’s wearing what looks like expensive jewelry and definitely seems like a regular. That looks promising. I might not even need to do anything. She looks lonely—just talking to her might drum up enough sympathy for her to offer me a place to crash.

  I’m contemplating my next move when the bartender says, “Here you go,” and I spin around again to see her placing a drink in front of me.

  “This is on fire,” I say pointlessly, looking at the flames rising out of the alcohol and licking the edge of the glass.

  “A Molotov Cocktail.” She smirks and I can feel the corner of my mouth lift involuntarily in response, the shadow of my first genuine smile in months.

  “A Molotov … did you give me a bomb?” I ask patiently, nervous excitement building in me. Her grin grows wider.

  “It’s one of our unique creations,” she explains. “Vodka and apple juice that we then, you know—”

  “Light on fire,” I finish.

  “Yep.” She smiles.

  “How do I drink it?” I ask, refusing to feel stupid about being reluctant to put a flaming cocktail anywhere near my mouth.

  “Like a Russian,” she deadpans.

  “Well”—I swallow around my suddenly very dry mouth—“na zdorovie.”

  * * *

  “—and then I went to, uh, Denver,” I say. “And then … um, Salt Lake City, I think? I don’t know, somewhere in Utah. Then I spent some time in Vegas, made some money, and now I’m here.” I finish with a flourish, gesturing loosely around the bar.

  Once she found out I was new in town, the bartender, Indah, asked me where I was from and I decided to give her my life story. Well, my highly edited life story. My life story for the past two years. I’ve had several drinks at this point—though not all flaming, thank god—and am feeling very amicable. She seems to be feeling amicable too, pouring me drink after drink, despite the fact that I don’t think I want anything except her attention.

  “My goodness.” She smiles and shakes her head. “You’re quite the nomad, aren’t you?”

  I shrug, maybe a little too big, because I catch Indah trying to stifle a laugh before she restarts her interrogation.

  “Why go to so many places?” She leans forward on the bar, her duties as bartender largely over now that the only other person left in the place is the old woman in the corner booth. “Is it for work? What do you do?”

  “I travel,” I say loftily.

  “Doing what?” she laughs. “How old are you anyway?”

  “What about you, Indah?” I pivot, putting emphasis on her name. She should know that I know it. People like when you remember their names. At l
east, I think they do. I like when people remember my name. It means something when someone knows who you are. “What do you do?”

  I may be drunker than I thought because she gives me a blank look at that idiotic question and stretches her arm to indicate the old wood bar wrapped around her.

  “Well, yeah, that.” I wave my hands in front of me and nearly knock over the several glasses that have stacked up in the past few hours. “But I mean, like, who are you? What’s your deal?”

  “Well…,” she begins, smiling. She smiles so easily. I’m so envious of that. The vodka turns in my stomach and suddenly the last thing I want is to watch her smile around another adorable quip. I wish she would stop smiling, rubbing her happiness in my face.

  And then, after a beat—simultaneously in slow motion and instantaneously—she stops smiling. It’s like the corners of her mouth are being pulled down by invisible strings. The frown has reached her eyes now and she’s stopped talking. She’s just staring at me with large, frightened eyes.

  “Well, what?” I snap, and she flinches. Shit.

  I close my eyes for a moment, focus on letting go of the envy, the bitterness. I don’t want her to not smile. I want her face to do whatever it wants to do. I do my best to drop the strings.

  “Sorry, I—” She shakes her head like she’s clearing cobwebs from her hair. “I must have lost my train of thought.”

  She smiles at me again, this time with shades of sadness to it.

  “Can I have another?” I ask, indicating the glass in front of me. She nods, turning for the bottle, but having her back to me doesn’t break whatever strange tension I created. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten drunk. I always get sloppy when I get drunk.

  “You could probably pour yourself a drink if you wanted,” I suggest, hoping maybe if she gets drunk too we can get back to the easy rapport I thought we might have been building. “This place is basically empty and I doubt anyone else is coming in tonight.”