Free The Secret History of Las Vegas by Chris Abani

next to it, sift mail collected from doorman before putting it down next to the briefcase. The only variations today: a piece of candy from the bowl laid out for trick-or-treat, popped into his mouth; and tucked under his arm, the envelope containing a research file on twins from the institute, also handed over by the doorman. He meant to read it that night. Tomorrow was Saturday but he intended on interviewing the twins in the morning. No one worked a five-day week at the institute.
    Sunil lived in a soft loft in one of Vegas’s modern, hip buildings. He argued to others that the incredible architecture of the place was the draw, but its location just five minutes off the Strip probably had more to do with its appeal for him. He could be near all that noise and energy, and just distant enough to remain a voyeur—all of the excitement, yet no risk.
    The soft loft was one of those real estate terms for condominiums with high ceilings and an elevated but open sleeping area. Since the ’80s nobody had bought or wanted to buy a condo, so real estate brokers got creative. It was nice on the inside, noise- and weather-insulated blue glass walls on the far side. Cut stone floors, an immaculate kitchen, a den hidden behind sliding wood doors, and a second bedroom just off the front hall.
    He put the file down on the marble-topped island in the middle of the kitchen and opened the Sub-Zero refrigerator, careful to leave no fingerprint smudges on the polished silver door. He took out a beer, a piece of tuna, and a cantaloupe.
    On a plastic cutting board, he cut the cantaloupe neatly in half with one smooth movement. He placed one half facedown on a plate and returned it to a shelf in the fridge, then cleaned and cubed the other, enjoying the sound of the cutting.
    Next he set the tuna on a wooden cutting board, noting the time on the microwave clock—11:00. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up a balanced ceramic knife that had cost too much and sliced perfect slivers of fish. The shape of the pieces, and the sound of the knife scraping the wood, reminded him of slicing plantains in Johannesburg for Dorothy to fry. Pausing in his slicing, he inspected his work, mentally checking for precision. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this concerned about order. Perhaps it was a reaction to the memory of Jan. He put a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth and thought about her.
    Their first date, Sunil came to realize later, hadn’t been a date at all, just coffee that Sunil brought with him from home and his lunch of fried fish and hard-dough bread. Even with this new experiment in integration, the black students weren’t allowed to eat in the cafeteria, so they all brought lunch from home. Once, early on, Sunil had tried to eat in the cafeteria, but one of the blacks cleaning the floors had come over to him, and barely able to make eye contact for shame, pointed to the sign on the wall above Sunil: VIR GEBRUIK DEUR BLANKES—FOR USE BY WHITE PERSONS .
    He left and never returned, opting to eat under the umbrella tree outside the science building, on the only stretch of lawn where the black students were allowed to be. Every day, they spread out like a flock of blackbirds at lunch, pretending not to see one another.
    That day, on a whim, Sunil asked Jan if she would like to have lunch with him.
    Yes, she said, her easy assent taking him by surprise.
    She followed him to the patch of grass under the tree as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He turned his jacket inside out and spread it for her to sit on. He remembered every detail fondly for days afterward: that they shared coffee out of the cap of his thermos because he hadn’t brought any cups; that she ate the hard bread and oily fish with a relish that he could still summon like a taste to his mouth; that he had no napkins so she sucked on her fingers and he felt himself swell with desire. Finally he remembered his