returned to his motel room, there had been a letter waiting for him, a note bearing the same symbol that was tattooed across his back, a rosary, and an address: 321 Easton Ave., Tiber City. Campbell put the gun away, but kept a bullet in the chamber.
All night, the pay phones lining the back wall in the Greyhound bus station rang.
At first, Campbell answered, picking up the sticky metallic handset on the third or fourth ring. Each time, however, the line was dead. Giving up, Campbell retreated to a corner of the station with a bottle of whiskey, the onset of Benzedrine withdrawal gnawing at the edges of his frayed nervous system.
Located on the western edge of the desert, the bus station was too far away from the Strip to attract tourists. Instead it hosted a collection of the souls Vegas had broken: not the businessman flying home to the little woman with a substantially smaller bank account, but the showgirl, the real estate hustler, the valet, the handicapper who caught a hot streak five years ago and decided to stay; the people who couldn’t leave until Vegas cycled them through the system, using them until they broke before discarding them on the edge of the desert. Cities like Vegas were machines; human flesh and blood were the gasoline. The phones continued to ring; sudden, strident cries with no discernable pattern or purpose. For a moment, Campbell wondered if he was hallucinating; it had, after all, been a fucking long night. He scanned the station, searching for an indication he was not the only one who heard the phones, but the bus station was empty except for two homeless black men and a plump teenage girl in fishnets who was crying, her mascara runningdown her cheeks as she sniffled. There was also, Campbell noticed, a trannie leaning back against a pinball machine on the other side of the station, leopard skin skirt hiked up past bruised thighs, legs spread with mutilated genitalia visible whenever the screen mounted above the game cycled through the high scores.
While the girl and the trannie were oblivious to the phones, the homeless men were visibly panicked, their bloodshot eyes darting from the phones to Campbell, back to the exits, and finally, back to the phones. It made Campbell dizzy and the whiskey wasn’t sitting well; nausea began to rise in his throat. Then he was on his feet, rushing past the homeless men. Campbell’s sudden charge toward the bathroom was the last straw; the two homeless men took off, shuffling back into the night.
Seconds later he was alone in the unisex bathroom, the mosaic of reds and browns lining the inside of the toilet bowl fueling his nausea, the smell of regurgitated whiskey sealing the deal.
After staring into the mirror for five—or was it 15—minutes, Campbell wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his Salvation Army jacket and headed back out into the station’s waiting room just in time to see the chubby girl board a bus to L.A. She was no longer crying, just the occasional sniffle, although the mascara had left two long black streaks connecting the bags under her eyes to the cold sores above her lips. She was heading toward one end of America, leaving Campbell alone—save for the comatose transvestite—waiting for his ride to the other.
A strong, hot wind had kicked up and the station’s foundation groaned while the palm trees outside the grimy glass door pitched so far forward Campbell was convinced they would snap in two, crashing through the roof and rendering everything that had happened to him irrelevant. Occasionally, the wind would blow so hard the door would pop open, wind and debris rushing into the breach.
Campbell struggled to stay awake as his eyes began to shut involuntarily; he suspected that his odds of escaping Vegas alive would decrease dramatically if he fell asleep. Funny, he considered, only a few hours after almost committing suicide, staying alive was suddenly his priority.
Eventually, Campbell’s bus arrived and as he moved to
All night, the pay phones lining the back wall in the Greyhound bus station rang.
At first, Campbell answered, picking up the sticky metallic handset on the third or fourth ring. Each time, however, the line was dead. Giving up, Campbell retreated to a corner of the station with a bottle of whiskey, the onset of Benzedrine withdrawal gnawing at the edges of his frayed nervous system.
Located on the western edge of the desert, the bus station was too far away from the Strip to attract tourists. Instead it hosted a collection of the souls Vegas had broken: not the businessman flying home to the little woman with a substantially smaller bank account, but the showgirl, the real estate hustler, the valet, the handicapper who caught a hot streak five years ago and decided to stay; the people who couldn’t leave until Vegas cycled them through the system, using them until they broke before discarding them on the edge of the desert. Cities like Vegas were machines; human flesh and blood were the gasoline. The phones continued to ring; sudden, strident cries with no discernable pattern or purpose. For a moment, Campbell wondered if he was hallucinating; it had, after all, been a fucking long night. He scanned the station, searching for an indication he was not the only one who heard the phones, but the bus station was empty except for two homeless black men and a plump teenage girl in fishnets who was crying, her mascara runningdown her cheeks as she sniffled. There was also, Campbell noticed, a trannie leaning back against a pinball machine on the other side of the station, leopard skin skirt hiked up past bruised thighs, legs spread with mutilated genitalia visible whenever the screen mounted above the game cycled through the high scores.
While the girl and the trannie were oblivious to the phones, the homeless men were visibly panicked, their bloodshot eyes darting from the phones to Campbell, back to the exits, and finally, back to the phones. It made Campbell dizzy and the whiskey wasn’t sitting well; nausea began to rise in his throat. Then he was on his feet, rushing past the homeless men. Campbell’s sudden charge toward the bathroom was the last straw; the two homeless men took off, shuffling back into the night.
Seconds later he was alone in the unisex bathroom, the mosaic of reds and browns lining the inside of the toilet bowl fueling his nausea, the smell of regurgitated whiskey sealing the deal.
After staring into the mirror for five—or was it 15—minutes, Campbell wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his Salvation Army jacket and headed back out into the station’s waiting room just in time to see the chubby girl board a bus to L.A. She was no longer crying, just the occasional sniffle, although the mascara had left two long black streaks connecting the bags under her eyes to the cold sores above her lips. She was heading toward one end of America, leaving Campbell alone—save for the comatose transvestite—waiting for his ride to the other.
A strong, hot wind had kicked up and the station’s foundation groaned while the palm trees outside the grimy glass door pitched so far forward Campbell was convinced they would snap in two, crashing through the roof and rendering everything that had happened to him irrelevant. Occasionally, the wind would blow so hard the door would pop open, wind and debris rushing into the breach.
Campbell struggled to stay awake as his eyes began to shut involuntarily; he suspected that his odds of escaping Vegas alive would decrease dramatically if he fell asleep. Funny, he considered, only a few hours after almost committing suicide, staying alive was suddenly his priority.
Eventually, Campbell’s bus arrived and as he moved to
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