Chapter 106
Him
Todd leads him downtown and through Fremont Street, its crazy big video canopy dazzling neither of them while the groups of tourists agitate them both.
Once they get through, Todd carries on up toward North Main Street and West Bonanza, the sprawling encampments set up for Vegas’s homeless.
The area known as the corridor of hope without an ounce of irony.
He knows it well.
It’s mostly men. Young dudes with missing teeth, high on methamphetamines. Older guys, some sleeping, plenty with bottles of spirits in their hands. But there are women too, some so young and desperate it makes his skin sizzle.
Todd gets plenty of nods and half-smiles as they walk through the encampment, and he uses their goodwill to his advantage, showing his phone to every guy who’s conscious. A few won’t engage, but most do, screwing up their faces, shaking their heads.
‘Got to be patient, man,’ Todd says as they walk on, seeming to enjoy this new job he’s carved out for himself. ‘Someone will know him.’
‘Hey, what’s on that?’ A woman crawls out of a makeshift tent made of tarpaulin and plastic bags.
She’s wearing a denim skirt and stars and stripes T-shirt.
Her dark hair is hanging loose on her shoulders and there’s a yellowing bruise on her cheek.
She might be in her thirties, but she looks about fifty.
‘A guy I’m trying to track down,’ he answers. Keep it simple.
‘A fucking pedo,’ Todd adds. ‘Taken a kid.’
‘Let me see,’ the woman says.
He lifts his phone. She leans over until her nose is only an inch from the screen.
‘You know, he looks kinda familiar,’ she says. Then she turns toward her tent. ‘Hey, kiddo, come out here!’
A face appears out of the shadows, and jeez, she looks so young. He pushes his palms together, rubs them. The girl’s wearing pink velvet yoga pants and a silver cropped top, like she’s ready for a night out. Except the outfit’s filthy and frayed, and her face is grubby and gaunt. ‘What?’ she says.
‘Come look at this.’
The girl stumbles over.
‘This guy,’ the older woman says, pointing at the screen. ‘I feel like I know him, but I don’t know why.’
The girl barely hesitates before answering. ‘Yeah, he’s that photographer,’ she says, her voice monotone but certain. ‘Remember, he took pictures of me for a thing he was doing about Vegas streets or something.’
‘Ah, yeah, course it is.’ The older woman smiles like she’s won a prize. ‘He couldn’t stop staring at your tits. Fucking creep, I remember now.’
A jolt of anger surges through him – this fucking freak has got his Maple – but it must also jump-start his brain, because a flash of something rips through his mind. A memory maybe.
The girl said he was a photographer. That he took pictures of her.
Why does that make sense to him? Why, on some level, was it not a surprise to hear her say that?
‘Did he tell you his name?’ he demands, everything more urgent now.
‘What? No.’ The older woman shrugs, defensive. ‘He gave us twenty bucks.’
‘He said he made good money from his photos,’ the girl pitches in. ‘And he had a fancy camera. Big boxy thing. Said it cost him fifteen grand.’
A fancy, boxy, expensive camera.
Fuck, that’s it! That’s where he’s seen him before!
‘Gotta go,’ he shouts, even though these people don’t give a shit what he does. Then he runs back down Fremont, toward the bus station, toward his truck. But as he’s running, he takes his phone out and calls his ex-boss, the grumpy fucker who fired him for dropping one diffuser.
‘Paul,’ he says, breathing heavy. ‘It’s Brandon.’