That vacant stare again. He knows they love Love more than they love him. I’m sure that’s true in most families, and some kids shrug it off. But other kids, kids like Forty, I bet he made this same face at every birthday party when Love got just a few more presents than he did and when her mom hugged her and just held on for a teensy bit longer. Forty did not get enough love. A lot of people don’t. But the thing is, he’s twinned with someone who got so much love that she is Love. And that’s got to be hard.

He shrugs. “Let my mom stress out and starve for a few more days,” he says. “She’s been starting to pork up, Old Sport. We don’t want that, right?”

My sympathy evaporates. “So you don’t want me to tell them you’re okay?”

“They need to back off,” he says. “I’m not in fucking high school.” Reverse psychology 101 and his eyes pop. “You know what I do want though,” he begins. “Old Sport, you should come to Vegas. We can bang out a new script, Hangover meets Hangover!”

The Hangover can’t meet the Hangover because the Hangover is the Hangover and I tell him no, maybe next time, definitely next time.

He shrugs. I see a bag of drugs in his car, literally, a bag of drugs. He raises his hand for a high five and the next time I touch him, it will be different. I will be strangling him.

42

SEVEN thousand hours later, I am getting close to Vegas and the lights of the city twinkle in the distance the way they did in Swingers. I made it. And it wasn’t easy. When I told Love that I had a “hunch” that Forty was in Vegas she was befuddled.

“Joe,” she said. “I’m his twin. We have that psychic twin thing and I think I would be the one to know if he was in Vegas.”

“I know what you mean,” I reasoned. I folded my shirts into one of Love’s black suitcases. “But I think when you’re upset like this, it has to affect your radar.”

She sat on the bed. “Should I go with you?”

I kissed the top of her head. “No,” I said. “I got this.”

“You really want that Boyfriend of the Year trophy, don’t you?” she asked teasingly.

So I fucked her good and hard and then I went to Hollywood Boulevard to pick up some items for my Captain America costume—not the superhero, the generic Vegas bro. I got a Colts jersey and a baseball cap. I let the guy at the store choose. I was feeling lucky. I was going to Vegas.

And now I’m almost here, I see it in the distance, getting closer. My balls drop. It’s Vegas; it really is. It’s brighter than it is in the movies and it’s uglier as I get closer, every sign a threat. Last casino for twenty miles and last gas and I pull over. I put on my Dodgers hat. I tear the tag off my Colts jersey and pull it on. Mr. Average America! I get back on the road.

On the strip, at a stop light, I see a woman pull her pants down, squat, and defecate. Tourists abound. People smoke cigarettes and push their babies in carriages and it’s hot and I want to stare at all of it, the sheer volume of lights, the width of the sidewalks, the throngs of people, young and old, fat and American. I allow myself a few minutes to dork out and blast Elvis and the fountains at the Bellagio are grander in real life. I tell Love I made it and she tells me to start at Caesars.

“This isn’t a twin thing,” she says. “It’s a Forty thing. He says they have the best tables.”

LOVE was wrong. Forty is not at Caesars and everything here is so grandiose. The floor of the casino is a sprawling wide pasture and the slot machines are immovable cows, blocking my view. There are pods of blackjack tables, people everywhere, blasting music, machines making noise. I have a burner phone. I could call him. But I don’t want to call him until I have eyes on him. Love calls again.

“So my dad got word from our host at the Bellagio,” she says. “Apparently he’s over there.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m going there now.”

I walk fast. The air is dry and random dudes high-five me— Colts!—and I listen to my pool mash-up and I reach the fountains. There is so much pomp leading up to the front entrance—oversized revolving doors, giant glass flowers on the ceiling, behind the front desk. Businessmen and hookers fill a lounge. I pass a bay of blackjack tables where the minimum bet is ten dollars. I move on, weaving my way through cocktail waitresses in skimpy sequined getups, couples fighting, a woman on the phone with her bank—CASH ADVANCE—a toddler crying, a mother telling him to hold on baby, Mommy’s almost done, as if gambling is a job.

It’s disorienting the way every area is identical, tables and slots, tables and slots. I reach a clearing and I see a Hangover slot machine and he’s not there and I walk toward another mess of tables, white leather chairs, more of a palace than Caesars, and that’s why Forty is here, sitting in a white chair at a blackjack table. His hair is a wreck. He’s wearing two pairs of fucking Wayfarers, one pair on his head, one on his face. His collared shirt is wrinkled and his feet are grimy and he’s got them propped up on two chairs, like he owns the joint. He’s playing three hands, smoking two cigarettes. Chips fall out of his pocket and he doesn’t bend over to retrieve them. I want to bash his head into the table but the ceilings are high and the cameras are everywhere. I sit down at a slot machine. Texas Tea. I put in ten dollars. I text Love: I’ve looked and looked and I haven’t seen him but I’ll keep looking.

She writes back: My dad says thank you. You are the best.

I write back: We’ll find him.

I play two cents a round on Texas Tea and Forty plays a thousand dollars a hand on his three hands. He’s losing. He is loud. Even several feet away, I can hear him. He sits with a hooker and he periodically grabs her neck and licks her chest. A Chinese lady stares at him disapprovingly. “I’m sorry if I offend you, honey, but this is Vegas and if I want to blow lines off Miss Molly Tupelo’s lovely, enhanced chesticles, then I will do it all night long.”

The Chinese woman gets up and walks away and I can’t believe this city is so crowded.

Forty loses a hand. “Is that cuz I pissed off the Chinawoman?” he asks. “Because if that’s the case, then you’re gonna have to call the pit boss.” He smashes the table with his drink. “Fuck this!”

Forty walks five feet and sits down at another table. And it all happens again. A girl in a short skirt sits down next to him. A new old Asian woman tries to sit down too. Forty grabs the seat. “Does it look like I want company, lady?” He knocks back his whiskey. “Fuckin’ A. Back off.”

The girl in the short skirt laughs and tells him he’s funny. He says she can stay but only if she’s lucky and she says she hopes so and I officially hate it here.

The dealer tries. “Maybe a little lady luck would do you some good, sir.”

Forty sneers. “I’d rather have some face cards. You know what? Fuck this.”

And he’s up and I leap to follow him but no. He sits at a neighboring table. He lights up next to a pregnant woman.

“Do you mind?” she asks. She points at her protruding belly.

“You should be at a non-smoking table,” he says. He blows smoke into the air. “Or really, you should be home. You fucking pregnant people, you own the whole world. Do you really need to own this too? I can’t smoke anywhere because of you and you really need to tell me I can’t smoke in fucking Vegas?”

The dealer asks him to quiet down and Forty rises. “Do you know who I am? Motherfucker, I own this city. I just sold a screenplay that takes place in this fucking city for more money than you’ll see in your whole fucking life.”