There’s a satisfied twitch at the corner of Dr. Mallory’s mouth when the needle breaks the skin, and Alex feels his muscle tremble as the doctor drives the plunger home.
“Hold that for me, please,” Dr. Mallory says, nodding at the cotton ball under his thumb.
Alex stands and buckles his belt. The clock is ticking now. The other guests lie peacefully on large sheepskins and sections of sofa. Alex stretches out on the firm cushions of a beige leather sectional which, minutes later, seem to dissolve underneath him. He rides out a wave of nausea as his body leaves the sofa and begins to spin. The drug shoots through his system, numbing from the inside out. Alex turns his focus to his breathing, which creates colors against the backdrop of his eyelids—speckled, crackling neon green that deepens at the peak of every inhalation and turns to a rich and wavy blue as he exhales. The color fades like twilight, and Alex finds himself standing upright, staring at a distant point of light that grows into the head lamp of a huge steam-engine train. A wave of noise breaks over Alex: shovels clanging as men feed the fire, the hiss and heartbeat of the pistons, the shriek of wheels against the rails. His body shatters into atoms and becomes a cloud that splits in half around the train and re-forms as the final car goes flying past. The cloud retains a kind of body consciousness, but each particle has a mind of its own. A strong wind blows Alex’s cloud-self across a dark and jagged landscape. The cloud descends and trails behind a figure walking toward the dark horizon. Alex recognizes the lean, long-haired young man instantly, even from behind. He tries to call out to his friend—dead now for more than twenty years—but his cloud-self has no voice, and so he follows, hovering, unable to make contact. The ground beneath him looks volcanic—black, brittle, hell with the fire burned out—but his friend is barefoot and in no apparent pain. Alex is about to overtake him when the scene before him liquefies and darkens like sugar over heat.
Two
It’s late afternoon in Las Vegas, and Marvin Kowalski occupies his usual booth at the back of the Silver State Diner. Stray strands from his limp gray ponytail brush the chicken-fried steak on his plate, and a gold Rolex Daytona—worth more than his dented silver pickup parked outside—slides up and down his thin wrist as he eats. Marvin owned a string of pawnshops until his license was revoked. He waves reluctantly as Harris and Ramirez come through the door.
“Marvin, you look like a hundred bucks, as usual,” Ramirez says as he slides into the booth. “This is Dave Harris from the FBI. Dave, Marvin here is the Odell Beckham of receiving stolen goods.”
“Was,” Marvin says. “Now I’m just a helpful citizen.”
Harris shakes his hand, all business, unamused.
“Lemme guess what this is about,” Marvin says.
Ramirez clicks his tongue. “Make our lives easy, Marvin. Who was underneath those helmets?”
“Sure, I got their names and addresses right here. Come on, man.” Marvin swipes a slice of meat through a streak of white gravy, shoves it in his mouth, and continues talking through it. “Those boys weren’t from around here and they’re long gone and you know it. That crazy-ass necklace is sitting in some sultan’s third wife’s panty drawer right now. Which you also know, if you called in the feds.”
“You see the video?” Ramirez asks.
Marvin nods and takes a sip of his spiked coffee.
“Anything stand out?”
“You’re looking for the Sundance Kid and his superbike-racing friends.”
“Marvin,” Ramirez says, “how long have we known each other, huh? Don’t embarrass me in front of Agent Harris here. Why do I feel like you’re holding out on us?”
Marvin stabs a piece of carrot, chews, and swallows. “You interrupt my dinner with Special Agent So-and-So and no one thinks to mention a federal penny for my thoughts?”
“Consider it mentioned,” Harris says.
“How closely are you looking at the Chinese guy?”
Harris glances at Ramirez.
“Sorry,” Marvin says, “should I pretend I only know stuff from the news? Come on, guys. The developer from Shanghai, the one who bought the necklace.”
“The victim?” Ramirez asks. “Li Jianrong? He’s gearing up to sue everyone from Steve Wynn to Laurence Graff. He’s out seven million dollars. What’s in it for him?”
“Are you telling me that fucking thing wasn’t insured?”
Ramirez shakes his head. “No, sir. Bought and paid for when the store got hit. His insurance would have covered it at home, but not out here. If a client wants to make a pickup like that, the piece is their responsibility. Hence the armed delivery and the armed guard in the store, both of which he paid for. Thought he had his bases covered. Not so much.”
“Holy shit,” Marvin says. “That I did not know.”
“Why’d you ask about the Chinese guy?” Harris says.
“I heard he’s dirty.”
“You don’t make a mint in real estate over there without a couple bodies buried in the yard,” Ramirez says. “But dirty how?”
“Listen, this came through the grapevine, so take it with a grain of salt, but word is he’s into more than real estate. My buddy knows a guy who takes care of the high rollers from Shanghai when they’re here. Houses, girls, security, what have you. These guys all know each other. And they talk.”
“Could we talk to this friend of a friend?” Ramirez asks.
“Not if he can help it. His whole book is built on keeping his mouth shut. These guys find out he’s talking to the feds and he’ll be pouring coffee for us next time we sit down.”
“Can you talk to him?” Harris asks.
“We’re talking federal helper’s funding, right? Not some LVMPD bullshit petty cash?”
“If you’ve got the goods,” Harris says.
“In that case, I’ll see what I can do.”
“You think he got hit because of something else he’s into?”
“Who knows, right?” Marvin says. “You get into something dirty on the side and pretty soon you’re in up to your ears. Seen that shit a million times.”
Three
Alex comes to before the others. His limbs are numb and nonresponsive, but he manages to lift his head and finds his vision marred by floaters and waves of fun-house-mirror distortion. The room rocks gently as if the house set sail while he was under. Alex feels like he was out for days, but according to the mantel clock it’s been exactly forty minutes since he closed his eyes. Dr. and Mrs. Mallory sit side by side in armchairs, their heads encased in matching motorcycle helmets fitted with earpieces and microphones. They take a lower dose and talk each other through their trips, a form of psychedelic couples therapy that Dr. Mallory hopes to practice after he retires. Her head turns slightly toward him and his arm twitches, as if in response. Alex has often wondered what they say to each other, but has never found the opportunity to ask.
The other guests come down over the next few minutes, blinking and stretching, unsteady on their feet; the Mallorys remove their helmets. Alice busses the tray of used needles and returns from the kitchen with a platter of red grapes, French bread, and cheese while Ralph describes his first impressions of the drug to the doctor, who takes notes on a legal pad. Dr. Klein, recently divorced and always on the prowl, moves next to Diane for a hushed conversation. Alex, who can still see his dead friend walking through a barren landscape, is in no mood for small talk. He flips through an art book from the coffee table and watches the clock on the wall.