He didn’t look at me when I glanced over. I didn’t really expect him to. I know what he was asking, though—how am I different from the media ghosts, the legendary ghosts, the little ghosts, the layers and layers of stories people tell themselves to keep things like him at bay all night? How
is
it that my city and I
are
more than a memory, a mirage?
He was asking if I had a name.
I turned around and leaned one hip on the cement. He looked up, then. “John Henry Kinkead, Jr.” I stuck out my hand. “My old man was the third governor of Nevada, but I never did meet him. My partner’s Hiram Stewart; his family’s ranch is what the city’s built on, more or less.”
He looked at the hand, at me, back at the hand. “Never heard of you, man.”
“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t have. Genii aren’t the sort of people that stories grow up around, King. They’re the sort of people who get consumed by the stories, instead.”
“I know what that’s like,” he said, and he took my hand and gave it a quick cold squeeze and one firm shake. His hair slid across his forehead, a soft blond wing. Even in the predawn, his eyes were startling. “Elvis Aron Presley. At your service.” And then he glanced back toward the mountain, and grinned his famous crooked grin. “Inside, if you don’t mind.”
I looked at the first broken rays of dawn roofing the valley; they’d slid down Mount Charleston and limned the red tile housing on the western valley in gold and red. By the time I looked back along the retaining wall, he was gone behind the blacked-out door into the bar, a lingering phrase of “America the Beautiful” hanging on the still-warm air.
Nice song. And good to hear him sing.
It’s like “This Land is Your Land,” though. Nobody ever makes it to the interesting verses.
O beautiful for patriot dream / That sees beyond the years / Thine alabaster cities gleam / Undimmed by human tears—
I shrugged and leaned back against the wall, concrete snagging the shoulders of my jacket. The gray and golden sky was fading to a blue like turquoise. Desert dawns are over fast.
“Viva Las Vegas,” I said, and spat over the wall before I went down to meet Stewart for breakfast in the cafe, humming a song of my own.
Author’s Note
This book was born and chiefly written during the time when I lived in Las Vegas, 1999-2006. Of course, it is a work of fiction, and where the likenesses of real or fictional historical people appear in its pages, I present but shadows of those folk—no attempt at reflecting reality, but instead an attempt to show how perceptions of history and art overshadow the reality of what existed.
Much as the Las Vegas version of the world is a theme park, so this novel’s version of Las Vegas is a funhouse mirror reflecting and distorting even make-believe.
This is a book in large part about the history of Las Vegas, and Las Vegas is a city that relentlessly eats its own history. Because of that,
One-Eyed Jack
remains a period piece; I found it impossible to portray Sin City in a timeless fashion. It seemed more honest to anchor it in a specific moment in time. So in this book, it is eternally 2002... except when it is 1964.
I had a difficult relationship with the city when I lived there: Vegas and I were not a comfortable fit.
One-Eyed Jack
is the pearl that grew around that irritation—an examination of the parts of Las Vegas that I could learn to love or value.
This book and its metafictional aspects owe their existence in large part to the often-pseudonymous ladies and occasionally gentlemen of the
The Man from UNCLE
and
I, Spy
fan communities, whose insight into fandom and how it processes transformative works greatly influenced my creative process. Thank you all; your generosity with your time and expertise is incredible.
It also could not have been written without the assistance of Kit Kindred and Dr. Michael Green, my sources for a great deal of Vegas lore and history. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Steven Brust, who generously shared his skill and insight with me when we both lived in Las Vegas. I would also like to thank Hannah Wolf Bowen, Kat Allen, Jaime Lee Moyer, Leah Bobet, Amanda Downum, Solomon Foster, Emma Bull, Sarah Monette, Jodi Meadows, Charles Finlay, Rae Carson, Chelsea Polk, and all the other critiquers and first readers whose names are lost to my failing memory—and the depths of failed hard drives.
The entire loosely conceived Promethean Age sequence of novels owes an enormous debt to Jennifer Jackson, my agent; to Michael Curry, her able assistant; and to Liz Scheier, the editor who first purchased
Blood and Iron
back in two thousand and mumble. The current volume was utterly graced to be edited by Paula Guran, whose suggestions much improved it, and I am indebted to her.
Well, that’s the book handled.
For support of the author, in addition to the above, I would also like to thank my mother, Karen Westerholm; Beth Coughlin; Stephen and Asha Shipman; Alisa Werst; Jeff MacDonald; Sheila Perry; and Heather Tebbs. And my brilliant and stubborn and startling Scott, who sustains me.
About the Author
Elizabeth Bear
was born on the same day as Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, but in a different year. She is the Sturgeon, Campbell, and Hugo-winning author of over twenty novels and nearly one hundred short stories. Her dog lives in Massachusetts and her partner, writer Scott Lynch, lives in Wisconsin. She writes on planes.
OTHER BOOKS BY ELIZABETH BEAR
Eternal Sky
Bone and Jewel Creatures
Range of Ghosts
Book of Iron
Shattered Pillars
Steles of the Sky
Jenny Casey
Hammered
Scardown
Worldwired
The Promethean Age
Blood and Iron
Whiskey and Water
One-Eyed Jack
The Stratford Man
Volume I: Ink and Steel
Volume II: Hell and Earth
Jacob’s Ladder
Dust
Chill
Grail
The Edda of Burdens
All the Windwracked Stars
By the Mountain Bound
The Sea thy Mistress
The Iskryne (with Sarah Monette)
A Companion to Wolves
The Tempering of Men
An Apprentice to Elves
New Amsterdam
New Amsterdam
Seven for a Secret
The White City
ad eternum
Garrett Investigates
Other Novels
Carnival
Undertow
Collections
The Chains That You Refuse
Shoggoths in Bloom