The sirens woke Mal. The light outside his window made him get up to look. He lived in a room over a grocery store on Monmouth Street, and with all the neon on all the joints on the strip, the night was never dark. But this was too bright for 3 a.m.
He raised the sash and poked his head into the freezing air. A glow lit the sky, rising behind the storefronts. He sniffed. Plenty of smoke this time of year, but this was acrid and dirty. He dressed, grabbed a quart bottle of beer from under his bed, shrugged on his coat and headed up to the roof.
Old man Morton sat on a crate, hands burrowed in his pockets. He jerked his chin at the darkness.
“Damn shame, that.”
Miles south of town, red and gold flames rose from the top of a hill, shooting several stories into the air. The color danced, mesmerizing and alive like the inside of a hot crucible. Black smoke poured into the sky, blotting out the stars overhead. He bet people could see the show from the high places across the river in Cincinnati.
Mal’s breath fogged in the frigid air. He stamped his feet to shake the cold and took a pull of beer.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That’s the Beverly Hills, son. We won’t see her like again.”
The Beverly Hills. A gambling palace fit for Hollywood and royalty, where swells from all over threw their money away. Gutter rats like him never made it past the door, though he could handle cards with the best of them.
And someone torched it.
Mal sat on the crate and shivered in the bitter cold. He offered his bottle to Morton, watching dreams burn while the smoke stink sank into his clothes and skin.