Finding Marla Singer - Part 5
Finding Marla Singer
Part 5
The Lucky 7’s fan clicked through the night, a steady tick against the highway’s growl, Marla slipping into my half-dreams, her trench coat a dark smear in the wind, her scar a faint line under flickering neon, that laugh a splinter I couldn’t dig out. I woke up damp, the sheets twisted, the room a stale haze of smoke and heat. It was 6 a.m., Vegas’s glow still seeping through the blinds, the air thick outside. I showered under a trickle of lukewarm water, the stall’s tiles chipped like broken teeth, then dragged a razor across my jaw, the blade dull, my reflection a shadow in the smudged mirror. The notebook sat on the nightstand, “Clark County? Meth. Marla smart.” scrawled in jagged ink. Twiggy was my angle, and I’d play it quiet today.
I eased out, the Corolla grumbling through Boulder Highway’s morning blur, strip malls and pawn shops fading past. The Clark County Detention Center loomed downtown, a concrete hulk, razor wire glinting, the air heavy with dust and fumes. I parked in a lot strewn with fast-food trash, the heat already pressing, and slipped inside, the AC rattling like a junkie’s cough. The guard, Sanchez, bald, blank-faced, barely glanced up as I leaned into the Plexiglas, keeping it low.
“Thomas Wiggins,” I said, casual, like I was asking for directions. “Goes by Twiggy. Meth bust, ’22. Still around?”
Sanchez typed slow, eyes on the screen. “Wiggins. Paroled ’24. Last known, 1420 Ogden, halfway house. Probably skipped by now. They don’t hang on.”
I jotted it, “Twiggy, paroled ’24, 1420 Ogden.” And, nodded, easy, like it didn’t matter much. “Appreciate it.” I left, the door clanging, and drove east, Ogden Avenue a grimy stretch of liquor stores and sagging fences. The halfway house was a peeling shell, a guy in a tank top sweeping the porch, slow, like he was half-asleep. I parked, lit a Camel, and ambled over, smoke trailing.
“Twiggy upstairs?” I asked, flicking ash, keeping it light.
The guy stopped, leaned on the broom, eyes narrow. “Who’s asking?”
“Just passing through,” I said, shrugging. “Heard he might know someone I’m looking for.”
He smirked, spat into the dirt. “Room 6. Yeah, he’s there. Good luck, he’s an asshole.”
I nodded, dropped the cigarette, crushed it under my boot, and climbed the stairs, the wood creaking, the air sour with sweat and stale beer. Room 6’s door was chipped green, the “6” dangling loose. I knocked, soft, and it swung open, revealing Twiggy, skinny as a wire, tattoos crawling up his arms, eyes sunk under greasy hair.
“What?” he snapped, voice rough, like he’d smoked his throat raw.
“Looking for an old friend,” I said, leaning on the frame, hands in my pockets. “Marla Singer. You know her?”
He stared, then grinned, teeth yellowed. “Marla? Shit, man, you’re late to the game. She’s here, Vegas. Snake Eyes, off Fremont. Works the bar. Saw her a couple days ago, still a pain in the ass.”
My gut tightened, but I kept it cool. “Fremont, huh? She sticking around?”
“Fuck if I know,” he said, lighting a Marlboro, coughing hard. “Go see. She’ll probably tell you to piss off.” He waved me away, smoke curling.
I scribbled, “Snake Eyes, Fremont, now.” And, gave a half-smile. “Thanks, man. Might swing by.” I left, his raspy laugh trailing me down the stairs, and drove to Fremont, a half-hour crawl through heat and horns, the old Vegas strip chipped and loud. The Snake Eyes was a dive, neon snake eyes flickering, windows grimy, a jukebox pumping punk, maybe the Dead Boys, all snarl and static. I stepped in, the floor sticky, the air thick with booze and sweat, and there she was, behind the bar, black hair tangled, scar a faint streak under the lights, pouring a beer with a flick of her wrist. Marla Singer, real, close enough to touch.
I slid onto a stool, hands steady, the notebook tucked in my jacket. She glanced over, eyes sharp, no spark of memory. “What’s it gonna be?” she asked, voice low, scratched, like she’d been up all night.
“Whiskey,” I said, easy, leaning back. She poured it, slid it over, and I let it sit, watching her. “You Marla?”
She stopped, bottle in hand, smirked quick, a flash that didn’t linger. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”
“Jake,” I said, sipping the whiskey, the burn slow. “Heard you’re a fixture here. Been around Vegas a while?”
Her eyes narrowed, sizing me up. “Long enough. You a regular or what?”
“Nah, just passing through,” I lied, smooth, swirling the glass. “Heard your name somewhere, Barstow, maybe. Sounded familiar.”
She lit a clove cigarette, spice and tar cutting the air and exhaled, smoke veiling her face. “Lots of people hear lots of things. Don’t mean shit.”
I nodded, kept it light. “Fair enough. Barstow, ’16, laundromat, some chick asking for a quarter. That you?”
Her gaze flicked, hard, then she laughed, short, sharp, a blade’s edge. “Quarter guy. Christ. What’s your angle?”
“No angle,” I said, shrugging, the lie smooth as the whiskey. “Just funny running into you. Been kicking around, Reno, here, there. You from Barstow?”
She tapped ash into a tray, quick, dismissive. “Nope. Passed through. That’s all you’re getting.”
“Scar’s got a story, though,” I said, nodding at her cheek, keeping it offhand.
Her hand twitched, brushed it, then dropped. “Yeah, it’s called none of your business. You fishing for something, Jake?”
“Just talking,” I said, smiling small, sipping again. “Twiggy says hi, by the way.”
Her smirk faded, eyes icing over. “Twiggy’s a prick. Tell him to choke on it.” She turned, poured a shot for a guy down the bar, her back a wall.
I scribbled, “Snake Eyes, now. Not Barstow. Scar, no story. Twiggy a prick.” The pen light, my cover holding. “He mentioned you two go back,” I said, tossing it out like it didn’t matter.
“We don’t,” she snapped, spinning back, clove glowing. “He’s a ghost I ditched. You’re digging for dirt, I’m not shoveling.”
“Fair,” I said, raising the glass, keeping it loose. “Just passing time. Shift end soon?”
“Midnight,” she said, eyeing me, guarded. “Why?”
“Might stick around,” I said, casual. “Buy you a drink, keep the ghosts away.”
She stared, smoke curling, then smirked, faint. “Maybe. Don’t hold your breath.” She moved off, serving, dodging, a shadow slipping through the bar’s haze. I finished the whiskey, the burn lingering, her laugh still ringing in my head. The notebook stayed tucked, scraps of her, not Barstow, scar, Twiggy, locked tight. She was here, real, but a cipher, a lock I’d pick slow. I’d wait till midnight, play it cool, see what slipped. The chase was done, but Marla Singer was still smoke, drifting just out of reach.