Motel. Pool. (10 page)

When Tag looked back at the men, they wavered a little—like a heat mirage—then settled again. But he could still see through them to the opposite wall and to the hills and Lake Mead behind. They didn’t look angry or scary. In fact, he’d have to classify their expressions as solemn but mildly curious. Still, it felt a little like a standoff. Then one of the men stepped forward. His eyes were narrowed in a permanent squint. He wore a grimy white tank top, dark trousers, and a hat shaped like a pith helmet. Ignoring Tag completely, he came to a stop directly in front of Jack. And then all the ghosts, including Jack, vanished.

Tag was shaken. One figment was bad enough, but that had been a whole platoon. He walked back along the top of the dam, which suddenly felt far too insubstantial despite the millions of tons of concrete. He returned to the parking garage, but instead of climbing the stairs to his car, he bought an ice cream cone at a snack window and sat on a bench, trying to gather his wits.

How many men had died building the dam? It was dangerous work, the temperatures would have been roasting hot, and they were a long way from decent medical care—which in the 1930s must have been limited anyway. No medevacs to trauma centers. Maybe the dam was haunted. “Damn ghosts,” Tag said out loud, then winced because talking to a hallucination was somehow better than talking to himself.

He’d finished the ice cream and was still sitting there, paper napkin in hand, when he saw Jack strolling toward him. Jack sat on the bench and lit a cigarette. “I’m glad you didn’t drive off without me,” he said.

“You—”

“I was talking to them. They explained some things to me. They’ve been dead even longer than me, but at least they have each other for company.”

“Are there… are there ghosts everywhere? Everywhere someone’s died, at least.”

“Dunno. I was the only one in Jasper, and until you came along, I never went anywhere else.”

A family walked by: parents, a teenage girl, a couple of younger kids. None of them glanced Tag’s way. Maybe they were too fixated on the snack bar to notice him. Then two boys in their late teens stood near the edge of the dam, taking selfies with their arms slung around each other. Jack seemed distracted by them but waited until they’d walked into the gift shop to lean over and whisper, “Do you think they’re queer?”

“Ghosts don’t have gaydar?”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.” Tag got up and tossed the napkins in a trash bin. “They might be a couple or they might just be bros. Hard to tell sometimes.”

“Bros?”

Tag just shook his head. “I think I’m gonna do the tour.” Might as well.

The visitor center was fronted by a tall glass wall. Blessed air conditioning enveloped Tag as soon as he entered. He breathed a deep sigh and walked to the desk. He glanced at the information sign. “Power plant tour, please.”

The woman behind the counter nodded. “The next tour will begin in fifteen minutes.”

“No problem.”

“That’ll be twenty-two dollars, please.”

He frowned. “But the sign says eleven bucks.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I thought he was with you.” She gestured behind Tag—where nobody stood except Jack, who was smiling broadly.

Tag clutched the counter with both hands. “I…. You can
see
him?”

The woman’s cheery expression turned troubled, and she glanced toward a nearby security guard. “Sir? Is there a problem?”

“I… I….”

Jack strode forward and pushed Tag slightly out of the way. “You’ll have to excuse my pal, ma’am. He likes to play stupid jokes. Terrible sense of humor.”

Relief filled her eyes and she smiled again, albeit cautiously. “Would you like two tickets?” she asked.

But Tag grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him out of the building and to a group of a half-dozen people with guidebooks clutched in their hands. “Excuse me. Could you— It’s a bet, sort of. Could you tell me what color this guy’s shirt is?”

The tourists looked at him, looked at Jack, looked at one another. Two of the women murmured in what Tag thought was Japanese. Then a third woman nodded. “His shirt is white,” she said slowly, with a heavy accent.

“Thanks.”

Jack allowed himself to be tugged over to a man and woman in motorcycle gear. This time he spoke first. “My friend is having a small problem. Could you please tell him how many fingers I’m holding up?” He raised his right hand, two fingers extended.

The man laughed. “Blind drunk or too much jerking off, man?”

“Psychosis,” mumbled Tag.

The guy laughed again. “Well, it’s two. Anything else?”

“Tell him I’m real,” Jack said.

“Buddy, I don’t know what you been smoking, but he looks pretty fucking real to me. Right, Fawn?” He turned to the woman.

She had one of those sexy hoarse voices, like Lauren Bacall after a carton of Marlboros. “Oh, he’s real. Real cute. You too, honey.” She winked at them, then laughed when the man gave her a playful swat on the rump.

Tag managed to make it to a boulder. His knees gave out and he sat heavily. “I’m not crazy,” he said to Jack, who’d followed him.

“Not especially.”

“You’re a ghost. Ghosts are real. I’m talking to a
ghost
.”

Jack’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Last night you slept with one.”

“I…. Fuck.” The inside of Tag’s head was like the tornado in
The
Wizard of Oz
, whirling and spinning with all kinds of crap zooming by. He grabbed the nearest thought. “Why are you haunting me? Are you looking to avenge your death?”

“I
told
you. Nothing to avenge. The people I knew when I was alive, they’re probably all dead now too. I stopped being angry at them decades ago. What happened to me—it’s my own damn fault.”

“Then what do you want?”

Jack rubbed his eyes. “I want—I wanted to get out of Jasper. I wanted a little company. I wanted to be reminded what it was like to be alive.” He said the last sentence choppily, as if the words were hard to get out.

“And now?” Tag asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” He scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground a few times, then looked at Tag. “Can I just go to Las Vegas with you? Please?” He looked about twelve years old.

Six decades alone in the middle of nowhere, not even his own right hand for company. The poor guy deserved at least a few days of neon lights, drunken tourists, and over-the-top theming. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s go now, okay? I’m hot.”

Jack held out his hand, offering Tag leverage to help him stand. Tag grasped the hand and rose to his feet.

E
VEN
SOME
distance from Vegas, Tag had spotted the Stratosphere Casino, the tallest structure on the horizon. He had visited Vegas a couple times, but he’d never driven in the city, so he had to concentrate on navigating. Jack offered to help but then got distracted by the scenery—“Did you see what that lady was wearing?”—and was soon useless. They entered the Strip far south of the Stratosphere, near Caesar’s Palace, and Tag trawled some of the casinos and hotels.

Even though it was still daytime and the lights weren’t in full glory, Jack was nearly beside himself, keeping up a running commentary of amazement. “Is that the Eiffel Tower? Jesus, that guy’s almost naked. What the hell was
that
?” He twisted in his seat like a hyperactive eight-year-old, pointing and gasping at the sights.

Tag was delighted, because how often did he get the chance to astonish a spectral being?

Traffic crawled, but Tag didn’t mind. He wasn’t in a hurry. He drove all the way down past the Luxor—Jack squawking, “Holy shit! A pyramid!”—and then back up.

“It’s like a giant movie set,” Jack said when they were stopped at a light.

“And about as authentic. Well, the panhandlers, drunks, and hookers—they’re authentic, I guess.”

“Everything’s so big. And… shiny.”

Tag thought that the city was pretty tarnished if you looked closely, but he didn’t say so. No reason to ruin Jack’s enjoyment.

Shit. He was sitting here in Las Vegas, entertaining a ghost. The absurdity of his situation kept him immobilized after the light turned green, earning him a loud honk from the SUV behind them. Maybe he ought to find a place to stop before Jack worked himself into a phantom conniption and Tag ended up steering into the Bellagio fountain.

He hadn’t really planned where to stay. There were tens of thousands of hotel rooms right here on the Strip, but none of the casinos appealed to him. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to stay in faux Venice, faux New York, or anyplace with a Cirque performance going on. And it wasn’t only that the crowded, smoky casino floors lacked appeal. It was the rooms themselves that he didn’t want. Too modern. Too clean. Too good.

He was all the way back at the top of the Strip and considering heading downtown when he spied the small structures huddled in the shadow of the Stratosphere. He turned off Las Vegas Boulevard for a closer look and stopped in front of one of the buildings. It was made of painted cinderblock, U-shaped, with a flat roof. He could still see the kidney shape of where the tiny pool had once been; it was now filled with gravel, but a few broken plastic chairs were still scattered nearby. The weathered sign said
Studios for Rent. $130 Weekly.
Perfect.

More signs directed him to the registration office, which was located in a separate building at the end of the street. Apparently he was about to check in to the Baja Inn and Casino. He parked the car and unbuckled his seat belt. “I’m gonna get a room,” he said.

“You want me to stay here?”

“Come with if you want.”

Jack tilted his head slightly. “It’s okay?”

“Sure.”

Grinning, Jack bounded out of the car.

A filthy man with a grizzled beard sat on the steps near the front door. He was deep in conversation with himself, gesturing broadly as he muttered about rhythms and spies and lizards. On a whim, Tag jogged back to the car and snagged one of the large bottles of water he’d bought along the way. He walked back and handed the bottle to the guy, who looked bemused. “It’s really hot out,” Tag said. “Maybe you’re thirsty.”

The man smiled toothlessly at him. “Thanks. I’ll bless you ten thousand times.”

“Well, I could use ten thousand blessings for sure.” Tag patted him on the shoulder and went inside.

Jack had watched the interchange silently, but now he grabbed Tag’s arm to stop him. “Why’d you do that?”

“I thought he could use some water.”

“That guy was nuts.”

Tag yanked his arm away. “So? Crazy people get dehydrated too. Some of the meds give them dry mouth.”

“Are you a doctor or a psychologist?”

Tag snorted. “Hardly.”

Slot machines were ringing and some sports event was blaring from the televisions in the bar, and people wandered around or stared blankly, like zombies or like addicts needing a fix. The registration desk was hidden in a corner, and as Tag drew closer, he saw that the second
t
was missing from the Registration sign and the
a
was about to follow suit.

“Help you?” The man behind the desk was enormous: at least six and a half feet tall and well over three hundred pounds of muscle and fat. His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his beard was gathered in a rubber band. Aside from his face, all the bits of visible skin were covered in tattoos. His voice was as deep and rough as a truckload of gravel. If Tag had been into bears, this guy would have taken his breath away.

But he wasn’t into bears, and he was tired and a little pissed off at Jack, so he scowled. “We need a room.”

The man gave Tag a long, considering look. Then he turned his attention to Jack, who was gawping at some girls who were apparently testing the tensile strength of Spandex. The clerk narrowed his eyes at Tag. “How long?”

“A week, I guess.”

“One fifty.”

“The sign says a hundred thirty.”

“They don’t got taxes where you’re from?”

Tag wasn’t happy about flashing his wad of money so openly, but he hadn’t been smart enough to set some bills aside ahead of time. He set three fifties on the counter. “I think taxes are everywhere,” he said.

“Nothing is certain but death and taxes,” Jack chimed in. “And death… it’s kind of a so-so thing, sometimes.”

The bear snorted. “I need ID. And a credit card for damage deposit.”

Not that again. Tag pulled out his driver’s license and set it down. “I don’t have any plastic.”

With his bushy brows drawn, the clerk inspected the license. The rectangle looked tiny in his enormous paw. “Taggart?” he growled.

“Tag.”

“You live in Iowa?”

“I am currently of no fixed abode. C’mon. I just want a room, all right?”

“And him?” A meaty finger was pointed at Jack, who smiled sweetly.

“He doesn’t have any ID,” Tag said. “I’ll vouch for him.”

The guy chuckled like a chain saw. “Right.” Then he spent a moment or two staring into space, deeply lost in thought. He must have reached a decision, because he shook his head wryly, handed the license to Tag, and scooped up the bills. “No drugs. No noise. No crime. My name’s Buddy. You do right by me, we’ll be pals. You fuck up and I’m your worst nightmare.”