DEAD_Snapshot_Book 4_Las Vegas NV, Page 2

  The words all seemed strange in his ears as Joel listened to the doctor tell him his time in Vietnam was over. He would be flown back to the States and then probably be put on a bus for home.

  “Next week?” Joel heard the word come out of his mouth, but it felt strange and the voice did not sound like him at all.

  “Yes, you will be given your medal this evening by the hospital commander and first thing Monday you will be taken by bus to the airfield where you will be processed and assigned a transport flight.”

  The doctor continued to speak, but Joel tuned him out. He couldn’t believe that he was going home. It felt strange knowing that this would all end so suddenly.

  “Also, what would you like us to do with these?” The doctor’s voice pierced his mind and he looked up to see a small baggie containing the dog tags he’d collected.

  Joel reached out and took the baggie. “I’ll take care of them.”

  He waited for the doctor to protest, but the man simply shrugged his shoulders. Apparently they were done because he moved on to the next bed and began speaking to its occupant.

  The next few days were a blur. Joel barely recalled being rolled out to the hallway with a few other members of his ward. Some full-bird arrived, said words about honor and heroism, and then pinned Purple Hearts on the breasts of the wounded. A smattering of applause came from the nurses gathered, and then it was over.

  Somewhere along the line, Joel was brought to a bus and transported to an airfield. He was given a series of papers to sign, and then he was escorted on board. There was one transfer, and then the next thing he knew, a voice was announcing that they had reached their destination, finishing with “Welcome home, men!”

  Joel looked out the window and saw a band, a few officers in pressed uniforms, and a small pack of anxious wives, parents, and children awaiting them. He knew there would be nobody to collect him so he didn’t linger on that crowd. The plane came to a stop and a set of stairs were rolled up. Joel was in the third row, but kept his seat until the last man had shuffled past. Getting to his feet, he winced slightly at the discomfort and then made his way to the exit. He emerged into the comparatively dry heat of Washington State and the McChord Air Force Base and was directed to the bus that would take him to Fort Lewis where he would sign his last papers and be processed out.

  As he boarded the bus with the handful of other soldiers that didn’t have family waiting their arrival and return to “The World”, Joel could see the gate where they would exit. Standing just outside the fence was another group of civilians.

  These weren’t anxious friends and family. His eyes were sharp, and even at this distance, he could see the long hair and loose clothing common for what was commonly referred to as members of the “hippie” culture. His eyes scanned them and a ball of anger began to smolder in his belly. He’d heard stories of these people and how they’d treated some of his other brothers-in-arms who’d been sent home. This group held signs that said things like “Baby Killers!” and “Murderers not Welcome!” and “Get Out of Vietnam!” in hasty scrawl.

  Time swirled in the chaos of the day’s events, but by that evening, Joel was checked in to his hotel room where he would stay the night before hopping a plane home to Las Vegas, Nevada. His family lived just outside of town in a small trailer park development. He considered for perhaps the thousandth time whether he should give them a call and let them know he was coming home.

  The last thing he wanted was a fuss. Joel simply wanted to walk through the door, hug his mom and start back with the simple everyday things he’d known growing up. The next day, he caught a shuttle that took him to the airport. He was told that it would be best if he wore civilian clothes instead of his uniform. Joel shrugged and decided that it didn’t really matter what he wore and slipped into a pair of jeans still stiff from having never been washed or worn along with a black tee shirt. The one thing he did not change were his boots. They made him feel safe and somehow still in touch with all the brothers he was leaving behind. Besides, he figured, who would care what he wore once he reached Las Vegas.

  Living outside of Las Vegas was very different from living in it. That was something nobody he ever met could understand. When he would say where he was from, people would make the most insane assumptions. They were shocked when he admitted to never touching a set of dice except for when he played Monopoly, and playing cards were nothing more than noisemakers in the spokes of his bicycle when he was a young boy.

  As the shuttle exited the base, it passed another pack of sign-toting hippies. Only, this bunch was armed…so to speak. A hail storm of tomatoes and eggs pelted the windows of the small army shuttle bus. Joel stared out the window at the angry faces and wondered what these people would do if the bus stopped and he and the rest of the grim-faced occupants emerged to confront them. He’d shove their “Make Love Not War” signs someplace very painful.

  At last the crowd vanished around a corner, the only proof of their existence displayed in the slurry of goo dripping down the windows. Joel sat back and watched the miles tick past. He looked at the distant Seattle skyline and wondered how anybody could live like that with that many people crowded in so close.

  Eventually he was in the air once more and on his way home…his real home. When his plane landed, he grabbed his bag and made his way through the terminal and out to where a line of taxi cabs waited for the fools about to be parted from their money.

  “Where to, buddy?” the man asked as he turned on the meter.

  Joel gave him the address and sat back. As soon as he’d revealed that his destination was not one of the casinos or surrounding hotels, the cabbie’s demeanor changed from false cheer to something more relaxed and…real?

  “How long you been back?” the man said as they put the false exteriors and electric billboards that would soon light up the night behind them.

  “Today,” Joel replied. “How’d you know?”

  “Not many kids your age these days with haircuts like that,” the cabbie said, his eyes catching Joel’s in the rearview mirror. Joel smiled.

  They drove on in silence for a while until the cabbie spoke again. “You kids shouldn’t be coming home to the sort of bullshit you’re getting. Wasn’t that way when we came back.”

  “Where’d you come back from?” Joel asked, trying to gauge the age of the man behind the wheel.

  “The Pacific.”

  “World War Two?”

  “Yep.”

  Joel let that sink in. His uncle had shared some stories about the landing of Normandy. Most of them were so incredible that Joel had written them off as over-exaggeration and a few too many shots of bourbon…until he’d seen the things of nightmares for himself.

  “What branch?” Joel asked.

  “Marines.”

  “Damn,” Joel breathed. “I bet you saw plenty of terrible things.”

  “One hour on Iwo would be enough to scare the drugs right outta them hippie bastards,” the old cabbie snorted. “Yeah,” his tone sobered, “I saw plenty.”

  Once more silence fell. The minds of both men drifted to a host of unpleasant things that lurked in the darker corners of their minds. At last, the cab came to a stop in front of a green and white trailer home with a faded white picket fence marking the border of its tiny lot.

  Joel got out of the cab, grabbed his bag and then leaned down at the driver’s window as he fished his wallet from his pocket.

  “The ride’s on me, kid,” the cabbie said with a wave of his hand. “Call it a welcome home gift.”

  “Thanks.” Joel gave a nod of his head.

  “And thank you for serving.” The cab driver gave a nod and then drove off.

  Joel watched the taxi depart and then turned to the trailer where his parents lived. Maybe he’d been away too long, but something seemed different. He couldn’t place it right away and started up the narrow stone path that meandered up to the steps leading to the front patio.

  As he reached the top step, h
e finally realized the first thing that was different. His parents kept a pair of lawn chairs on the porch. They liked to come out in the evening and just listen to the birds as the sun set and everything cooled. The chairs were gone. In fact, the porch was bare. His mother was always trying to grow some flower or another despite her obvious lack of a green thumb.

  He reached the door and his eyes drifted to the window just to his left. The living room still had the furniture, but that was it. All the pictures on the walls were gone. The small television on the rolling table that was wheeled around so that his dad could see it from the dinner table was also missing.

  “Joel?” a voice called from behind him, startling Joel and causing him to spin around with his hands at the ready to fight off whomever it was that had snuck up on him.

  “Missus Trainer?” Joel gasped, doing his best to recompose himself.

  “When did you get back?” The elderly woman made her way up the stairs one at a time, her cane causing a dull thud to sound in the otherwise quiet evening air.

  “Just today.” He stepped back to make room for the kindly old lady that had lived next door to him and his parents for as long as he could remember.

  “Nobody has told you.” Missus Trainer patted his cheek. “And I sure wish it didn’t have to be me.”

  “Tell me what?” An icy sensation began to grow in the center of his chest.

  “I’m so sorry, Joel.”

  She didn’t need to say any more. Joel knew. As impossible as it seemed, he’d returned from Vietnam and it was his parents who were dead. Part of him wanted to laugh at the irony.

  “How?”

  “Car accident.” Missus Trainer sighed and then patted his shoulder. “The police say it was quick. They probably never even felt a thing.”

  Joel turned back and peered into the window. He spun back to the kindly older woman who was looking up at him with tired eyes and the remnants of a forced smile.

  “When? And where are my folks’ things?”

  “Almost three weeks ago. The manager had everything placed in storage.”

  Joel turned back and cupped his hands against the window. “The furniture is still there.”

  “Easier to rent out as a furnished unit.”

  Joel spun, his fists clenching as fresh anger surged through him. “Rent it out? What the hell do you mean rent it out? And that is my mom’s couch…my dad’s recliner. So how does that work?”

  “The manager, Mister Garrity, he would know better than me, I’m sure. But—”

  Joel didn’t hear another word spoken by the kindly Missus Trainer as he stormed off the porch and took off at a sprint towards the trailer where the manager lived. He didn’t need to follow any signs. He’d lived here long enough, and he knew exactly where he was going.

  He reached the run down single-wide and charged up the steps. He pounded on the door with his fist.

  “Open up, Mister Garrity,” he shouted. He beat on the door again with his fists and saw a shadow move past the flickering light of the television.

  “Hold on to your britches,” a raspy voice said between hacking coughs.

  Joel paused long enough to glance in the window. He could see the bent over figure of Old Man Garrity as he stumped to the door, ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. The red cherry at the tip bobbing with his uneven steps.

  The door opened and a wave of stale smoke, grease, and sweat swirled out. “What the hell is so important you gotta bang on my door at this hour?” Walt Garrity snarled. He looked up and his rheumy eyes squinted as he tried to focus on Joel and make him out from the shadows of the porch. “The office is closed, and if you are inquiring about renting and moving in, the hours are from ten in the morning to three in the afternoon.”

  The bitter stench of the old man’s alcohol and cigarette fouled breath hit Joel in the face as the trailer park manager slurred his angry words, apparently not recognizing the young man who stood before him.

  “Where are my mom and dad’s things? And what gives you the right to rent out their trailer with their furniture still in it?” Joel snapped, his eyes drifting past the hunched over man before him. His eyes locked on the television sitting on a rolling table in Mister Garrity’s living room. He felt as well as heard the blood rush to his ears, turning them red hot.

  Without thinking, he reached out and grasped the old man by the neck. He lifted the man’s feet from the ground with almost no effort. Walt Garrity’s reply ended before it began with a harsh cough and surprised gasp that also silenced suddenly as his air was cut off by the hand gripping his throat.

  “You’re nothing but a fucking vulture, you son of a bitch!” Joel hissed, pulling the old man close enough so that their noses were almost touching. “Maybe you thought I would come home in a body bag so you could just do what you wanted with my folks’ stuff.”

  “Joel!” a calm voice said from over his shoulder. Joel turned to see Missus Trainer at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were wide with fear and her whites shone in the reflection of the streetlamp almost directly above her. Despite her obvious fear, she continued to hold him with her gaze.

  “This piece of trash is looting my parents’ place. He was gonna rent out their place like it was his to do with as he pleased.”

  “Put him down, Joel,” Missus Trainer whispered. “You’re going to kill him.”

  Joel looked up at the old man turning an ugly purple in his grip. He let go, allowing Mister Garrity to fall to his knees. The old man hacked and coughed as he struggled to suck air into his starved lungs.

  “I’ll call the cops,” he finally rasped.

  “You do that.” Joel turned his back on the man. “Make sure they know how you were looting my parents’ trailer and how you were putting their home up for rent and how you were gonna pocket the money.”

  “You’re crazy,” Old Man Garrity coughed as he scuttled back inside his trailer and slammed the door.

  Twenty minutes later, the flashing lights of a squad car added to the atmosphere of the rundown trailer park. People came out onto their patios or stared out from their curtains or blinds. What they saw was a young man bent over the hood of the squad car for a while until the two officers eased him into the back seat.

  The next day, word spread about what happened. A group of residents got together and posted Joel’s bail. Missus Trainer was kind enough to allow Joel to stay in her trailer. She insisted that he stay as long as it took to square things away. That turned out to be less than a month. A judge found in his favor and dismissed the case, scolding Mister Garrity for trying to take advantage of a tragic situation.

  That was also how long it took for Emerson Powell, attorney-at-law to discover that the son of Dottie and Hank Landon had returned home from Vietnam. Joel was stunned to discover that not only did both of his parents have a substantial life insurance policy, but apparently they had squirreled away a tidy sum. When it was all said and done, Joel was looking at a mid-six-figure bank account balance.

  The first thing he did was make an offer to the owner of the trailer park. The hour the papers were signed, he had Mister Garrity evicted. The man blubbered about having no place to go and not enough money to afford to be able to move his trailer.

  “Not my problem,” Joel said as he walked off the porch and to his parents’ trailer where he planted the sign that read “MANAGER” at the head of the driveway.

  Within three years, Joel Landon owned four trailer parks around Las Vegas, Nevada. He made it a point to pay attention as the city began to grow. He could imagine a day when Vegas was the ultimate tourist destination. Taking a gamble at the many tables and slot machines was not his style. Instead, he gambled on his vision of an expanding city.

  Joel bought gigantic tracts of land all around the areas surrounding the city. He saw his first return in less than five years when a developer arrived with a plan to build an upscale subdivision.

  The levels of Joel’s wealth became staggering as the 80s arrived. By then,
he had a staff of accountants and lawyers as well as a team of investment advisors. Always looking to the future, Joel showed an uncanny foresight. He made a fortune on a small shoe company that emerged in a town called Beaverton, Oregon as well as some computer program start up in Washington State. There were other investments, and while not all were winners, it was safe to say that most did very well.

  Through it all, Joel lived in his parents’ trailer. He lived there until the late 90s when the last resident that had come to his aid all those years ago finally passed. After he’d scored big on his first deal, he had let each of those people know that they no longer needed to worry about their space rents.

  If you spoke to any of the associates that came to know Joel Landon over the years, they would have been shocked to know he’d done such a thing. His ruthlessness was legendary, and as a businessman, there were few better.

  The years passed, and Joel had conceded that he would probably never marry. The early years he credited to his constantly working. That had left him no time for a social life. As he grew older as well as wealthier, he decided that he would never be able to trust the intentions of any woman he met. She would see his net worth, and that would be what she more than likely fell in love with.

  Then he met Wanda Jean Billings. She was one of his front office staff in his main real estate office. He’d walked in one afternoon and asked to see the office manager.

  “Mister Parks is in a meeting,” Wanda had said without hardly looking up at him for more than a few seconds.

  “Well, tell him it’s an emergency,” Joel had said through a clenched jaw. If there was one thing he hated, it was waiting…for anything.

  “More important than his son’s first birthday?” the raven-haired woman had sniffed. “How about you just take a seat, cool your jets, and as soon as Mister Parks is done with his lunch meeting with his wife and son, I’ll tell them you are here.”

  Joel opened his mouth to say something when the woman looked up at him and locked eyes with him. “Look, I get it. You are probably some real estate hotshot, and you think the world rises and sets on your ass, but there are more important things than your next deal. Mister Parks already spends too much time away from his family working for our boss. His kid only turns one once. You can wait. Like I said, I’ll tell him you’re here as soon as he’s done.”