The same way we did every night, regardless whether we’d a reason.
I’d sent in two reports: one on Angel, one on McAvoy. The McAvoy report yielded a lot less joy.
Great work, wrote Ms. Ramirez, politely thanking me for what I’d done.
I wrote back, Who is Voss?
Not familiar with the name myself, she wrote. And then, Enjoy Las Vegas!
So we did.
The burn on my arm stopped me from swimming, but I was happy just to lie beside the pool, soaking up the sun. We ate too much. We went to bars. We once drank yard-long margaritas around 10:00 a.m. and had to nap by 12. We visited a dolphin pool and saw the paintings at the Bellagio. The latter was impressive, just to say the least.
“You don’t get this in Blackpool,” I said.
“What’s Blackpool?”
“It’s like Coney Island, but with fish and chips.”
In the mornings she rose early. She’d vanish for an hour or more and often I would wake alone. I never asked her where she went or what she did. She brought back coffee which we drank in bed. Then we made love. Then we hit town. Then came back, and made love again. There was an urgency about it, the way you get when you know something’s going to end—not now, and not today, but soon.
One evening, we met Elvis Perez, idling with a cola and a hot dog between jobs. So they dueted—Angel on the backing vocals, very formal, very classical, while they ran through “Teddy Bear,” and Perez growled, squealed, and postured. He struck karate poses. He sneered. He swiveled his hips.
To tell the truth, he couldn’t really sing.
“I am the last great Elvis on the Strip, people! Everyone else is superhero, spaceman. But I—only I am Elvis!” He raised his hands into the air, thanking an audience that no one else could see. “This—I tell you, friends. It is more than just a costume! To be Elvis—it is life!”
“At least the ghosts are gone,” I said.
“Ah. The city finds a way. I should have faith in them . . .”
Another night, in the Venetian, she sang back to the gondoliers. And everyone applauded.
“Brilliant,” I told her.
“Average,” she said.
I should have just relaxed. I should have kept off e-mail and the news feeds, should have ditched my phone and my computer. But I didn’t.
Four days after leaving Vegas, Edward Ballington, Senior, announced that he would run for President.
Like he was doing everyone a favor.
He promised great strides in alternate energy production, and “the biggest shake-up to employment laws” in well over a century.
Angel just looked at me.
You do the right thing short term. You wonder about long term, though.
I said, “At least he’s just a man this time. He could have been a god.”
“Why’d a god want to be President?”
“Gods are greedy. They want to eat. You get them paired with someone else like that . . . The god might not care one way or the other who’s President. But the man does. And that’s the part that interacts. The part with the ambition.”
I felt dizzy, worn out with the light, the heat, the booze.
“We’re going to have to talk,” I told her. “Not just yet, but soon.”
Silverman called. He wanted me to do another interview.
“We can Skype it, if you want, although I’d rather face-to-face. I just think there’s a few points need some clarifying here. Voice-over, maybe.”
“Whatever.”
“You due in New York anytime soon? That’d be best.”
“Well, you know my itinerary . . .”
“Not really, Chris. That was a one-off.”
“Why the rush?”
“Ah.” His voice got louder then. “I’ve got a spot in TriBeCa. The festival. I sort of suggested things might be a bit further along than they are, but I think I’ll be OK. I mean, there’s some amazing shots. You won’t believe.”
“I think I will.”
“I’ll send you the program. It’s called Steal the Lightning. A film by Paul Silverman. Sound good?”
“This is . . . about what I do, right? About me?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you tickets to the premier. You and Angel. As many as you like.”
“It sounds,” I said, “like a Frankenstein film. It’s an awful title.”
“Chris! It’s like—it’s like Ben Franklin, you know? Or like, Prometheus. That’s good, right? Stealing the power of the gods?”
“Frankenstein,” I said.
“The organizers like it.”
“They’re idiots. Besides, it’s fire. Prometheus stole fire, not lightning.”
“That’s just a detail, Chris—”
“Is Ballington in this?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“I, um, actually, I’ve an injunction from his lawyers. If I make any reference to him, in any way—”
“I thought he wanted everything recorded.”
“He did. But it wasn’t exactly Triumph of the Will, was it? So I suppose he changed his mind. I could take him to court, but he’d do his usual trick and drag it out until I’m broke. You know?”
“By which time, he’ll be President.”
“Chris.” He laughed. “This is America. He’ll never be President . . .”
“You’re qualified. You know what that means? For the first couple of years at least.”