The Voting Machine

Missing in Action

Past the Mandalay Bay, there was a concrete pipe pouring a slow trickle of water into the floor of the tunnel, run off from the hotel sprinkler system. My shoes got soggy in the thin stream and a blanket of algae.

"You should've told me I'd need boots down here."

As the tunnel twisted south, Luke led me under a grate, where the stream flowed into a tide pool in between sandbars lined with crayfish.

Farther down in the southern drain, a man sat on a mattress hanging from the ceiling of the tunnel, his feet dangling in mid-air. His bed was suspended directly under a manhole. It was strapped to rungs of the ladder that led to the surface. Underneath him, a mountain bike stood leaned against the tunnel wall.

"That you, Luke?" the man said. It was a strong voice. He shined a flashlight at us. When we approached, I had a better look at him. He was not what I expected. He was young, probably in his twenties. His skin and eyes seemed healthy. This man was not an addict.

What struck me most was his resemblance to his father in spite of everything that made them so different: the determination in his stare, the firmness of his jaw, the boldness of his posture sitting upright in his hanging bed. Even though he was living in the gutter, the man exuded a strange, unstoppable confidence that seemed to run in the family.

"Temo, I want to introduce you to Zeke Legend Junior."

"You're his son," I said. It wasn't a question. "I thought you were dead."

Zeke Junior smiled. "In a way, I am dead. My father wanted a son who was a perfect soldier. That Zeke Junior is dead."

"So he knows you're here?"

"He knows. He just can't accept it. It's probably easier for him to pretend I was killed in action."

"The war changed you."

"Once you see certain things, it changes everything; things you can't forget."

"What did you see?"

"I can't get into that. It might be dangerous for you to know, dangerous for my father. It's probably better off for him that he pretends I am dead. I had a special mission in Iraq. Only two survived."

"Is the other survivor here in Vegas, too? Is it Brenda Savage?"

Zeke gave me a hard stare.

"Who is this guy, Luke?"

"He's good people, Zeke. He's helping with the voter drive, working with that old hippie David Stone."

"David Stone," Zeke repeated. "I hear that guy's asking dangerous questions about what happened. The war ain't over. There's going to be more casualties. You've got to get your sister out of the Babylonian, Luke. Those games are too dangerous."

"The games are our meal ticket, you know that," Luke said. "I don't see how your mission in Iraq is related to some goddamn casino on the Strip."

Zeke Junior grinned with a crazy, determined gleam in his eye, just the way his father did when I met him in the family living room. "Of course you can't. Nobody sees the connections. They're all living in the cave looking at the shadows on the wall. I've been out of the cave and seen the world for what it really is."

"Well, if you're so much smarter than the rest of us, why don't you come out of this tunnel," Luke said. "Help me with the voter drive, Zeke. You're a vet. You're a hero. Or you used to be."

"I might just take you up on that," Zeke Junior said. "Like you say, I can't go on hiding down here forever."

We left Zeke Junior and backtracked through the drains. By the time we returned to the surface under the glowing "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas" sign, it was after midnight. We drove north through the Strip where the action was going full blast as usual.

"You understand why I want to do this campaign?" Luke said. "I need to help my brothers and sisters. We're losing good people in this town. They're slipping through the cracks into the sewers. Look at Zeke Junior, he was a fucking war hero for Christ's sake, and now he's living in a flood drain."