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darkness, growing closer, larger. An eagle; no, an eagle kachina with long,
feathered wings strapped to arms that filled the width of the room as it rose
toward us, enormous, majestic and terrible. I could hear the flap of the
great wings, feel their wind wash over me. It flew overhead and vanished,
leav-ing me drenched in silence.
Sorry to interrupt, said Chase pleasantly beside me, but we need to
talk to someone connected to the show.
Tickets at the concierge desk, an irritated voice re-turned from the
darkness. Sorry, no visitors. You ll have to leave the theater.
I noticed a dim row of aisle markers on the floor. My eyes were
adjusting. Chase was now a shadow nearby.
We re not visitors, he said. We re with the FBI. If you ll bring up
some lights and talk with us, we ll try not to take up too much of your time.
Mutterings, indistinguishable. I glanced over my shoul-der at the
doors. The faint seam of light between them flickered; a silent shadow
passing. My skin prickled with the sense of someone unexpectedly near,
and I was still peering after the shadow when the lights came up hard,
making me blink. There was no one there.
Thank you, said Chase.
I followed him down the steps to where three men were sitting in a
booth; two Native Americans and one Anglo. The natives both had that
ageless, flat, round face that looked like it hid centuries of secrets; they
stared at Chase with dark, watchful eyes. The white guy was around forty,
with frizzy, graying hair in a ponytail and a pair of head-phones around his
neck. He looked pissed.
Chase flashed his badge. Any of you know Alan Malone?
Yeah, said the white guy. The little shit s late.
Well, yes, as a matter of fact, said Chase gently. He was halfway
through explaining before I noticed the pun. Cop humor. I gave him a look
but he seemed not to notice, except that a corner of his mouth twitched a
little. The others didn t have a clue.
Oh, man! said the Anglo, his eyebrows going up. Oh, shit! Joe, call
Ben and tell him to get down here!
One of the natives nodded and started up the aisle at a jog. Joe, I
wrote in my pocket notebook, starting a list of people to interview.
Can I have your name, sir? I said.
Huh? Oh, sure. Stauffer. Daniel. Jesus, when did he die?
We re not sure yet, said Chase. When was the last time you saw
him?
Monday night. Final performance of The Wild West.
Stauffer turned out to be the director for the Kachina Theater. He
alternated between puzzlement over Malone s death and dismay at its
impact on the upcoming premiere, and some kind of excitement that I didn t
fully understand.
A few other people connected with the show emerged from various
parts of the theater. Most of them, to my surprise, were white, not Native
American. A couple were Hispanic. I took down names while Chase
encouraged Stauffer to chat about Malone and the show. It sounded
spectacular; from the way he was talking the eagle we d seen was nothing.
Live performers interacting with holo-graphic gods, acting out the legend of
creation. State-of-the-art physical simulation effects. When Stauffer offered
Chase a pair of tickets, I felt a stab of envy.
Stauffer glanced past me, and I turned to see Joe coming back. I
suppressed a shiver; hadn t heard the door.
He s coming, said Joe.
Good, said Stauffer. Jesus. OK, let s set everything up for the
opening number again. Tom, recalibrate the soundtrack for Ben.
Who s Ben? Chase and I asked in unison.
He s, um, Malone s understudy, said Stauffer.
Hey, Danny, yelled a stagehand. Somebody s made a mess of the
props!
Shit! said Stauffer, pulling off the headphones and starting down the
aisle toward the stage.
We ll get out of your way, said Chase.
Stauffer paused. Yeah, I m sorry
So are we. We ll be in touch.
I followed Chase up the steps. As he opened the door the casino s
noise struck me like thunder. I paused, gearing up to plunge into that chaos
of light and sound. I d always been kind of curious about Las Vegas or
Atlantic City, but now I was beginning to lose interest. The people sitting at
the slots all had this kind of weary, hope-against-hope expression as they
fed the machines gold tokens from their plastic cups. False gold, false
hopes. Seemed everything around here was false.
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