Leaving Las Vegas by John O'Brien Page A

mistakes, and Sera, as always, will do as she is told. After all this time she will suddenly see him: a surprise. He still has his eyes, the eyesthat she could not share a city with, and they will burn their way back into her soul where they belong, where they have always belonged. One command—best if it is a trick on the street or at a bar—one task, one little fuck on his behalf, and she will be his, and he will be him. As it was.
    But there is not all that much money, and the fuel tank is not all that full. Gamal Fathi, in his peripheral vision, thinks he sees the second hand of the dashboard clock move, but a direct look leaves this unconfirmed.

     
    Days—one? two? black plus blue—later, looking in the mirror, she is dismayed at what she expected to be an improvement in the condition of her face. The healing process, in its imperfection, is apparently working on an irregular curve. A new, unnatural spectrum seems to be developing under her skin. Slowly becoming discernible, it looks like it will get worse before it gets better. Her face has become a life-size, organic Polaroid photograph. Exposed then hand manipulated, it is trying out various hues before returning to its original, very perfect flesh tone. A new world of greens, blues and yellows covers the vast, swollen areas of her eye and cheek. She sort of purses her lips, then tries to frown at herself. This is definitely the worst number she’s ever had done to her face.
    (“…but please, my friends, call me Al. It is my American name! I picked it myself!” The men at the table joined him in a hearty laugh, but without exception they were eyeing the pretty brunette who stood in the corner.
    “Gamal… I mean Al, who’s your friend? Is this the one you told me about?” Shrimp dip clinging to his moustache, and even to one of his diamond cuff links, this man secretly had his handon his own erection as he nudged the man next to him, who failed to notice the contact through his own expansive middle. The other four men at the table—excluding Al, who stood—continued to stare at Sera.
    “Ah, yes,” said Al, his own eyes constantly darting to the fat buff-colored envelope on the table, “this is Sera. She is my gift to you, my new American friends from New York City. You may do with her as you wish in this beautiful penthouse suite, which is also my gift for the weekend to my new New York City friends. You will find her a very willing girl for all of you…” His skin a taut, healthy leather; his smile well-practiced and full, Gamal Fathi’s eyes flared with meaning, and the natural magnet in him seized the table to a man as he said pointedly, “…just like we arranged.”
    Troubled, though too distracted by the coming evening to say why, the man with the misplaced shrimp dip looked up at Gamal. Now he smiled more because he felt he should than because he felt the smile. He said, “Of course, Al. I think you’ll find this just as we discussed.” He handed the envelope to the Arab.
    “Where are you from, Al?” this from across the table, a well-built man, foolish and proud of the country he had been born into. “I mean, you sure don’t talk like you’re from this neck of the woods.” A hint of contempt lingered in the comment, and the room tensed.
    “No, you are right, my new friend.”—Al was doing remarkable things with his smile—“How very observant you are.” Then to the whole table as if in introduction: “I am from Oman.”
    “Tough place,” said the well-built man.
    Al smiled, now more broadly than ever, and said, “Yes, I hear this too. But I am not a tough man. I am a simple man who is here to learn from my new American friends.” There was an awkward moment. Gamal Fathi made as if to embrace the entire table withhis outstretched arms. “I must leave. The hotel service will bring you whatever you like. Enjoy these gifts.” He turned and headed towards Sera and the door.
    “I don’t want this. Al, please, I really