loneliness. “It’s not that kind of deal.”
“When is this supposed to happen?”
He brightened. “I’m already late.”
I took a breath. “All right. I have to take Marcela back; then I’ll meet you out front. Thirty minutes.”
“What?” Marcela cut in. “No, you’re not taking me back. It’s boring there. I’m coming with you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.
“Who cares?”
“There is that.” I asked Lance, “Is this a place where she can wait outside without armored protection?”
“Dude, it’s a
bakery.
She can have a muffin while she waits.”
“Oh, I like this,” Marcela said.
“Good?” Lance asked.
I wasn’t ready to call it that yet. “We’ll see.”
Lance slapped the table and started to slide out but was stopped by a girl in a small black dress who looked like she’d been through an industrial washing machine. Lance recoiled.
“Can I please have my Veronica back, you fucking pervert?”
“Huh?”
“My
shoe?”
“Jesus, yes. Take it.” Lance handed her the shoe.
She leaned on the table and tried to glower at him while she put it on, but it was apparently too hard to do both. She focused on the shoe and spun and clomped away.
We stood and watched her go. Her other foot was bare.
“Damn,” Lance said.
Marcela made a noise in her throat. “I hate high heels.”
“Yeah?” Lance looked her over. She came up to his chin. “They’d make you taller.”
“So why don’t you wear them?”
Lance beamed at me. “She’s a keeper.”
“Like it’s up to me.” We got to the door and began the expedition of finding the exit in a Las Vegas casino.
CHAPTER 9
We made it onto the Strip and started walking north. The Golden Pantheon was near the south end, so we had some ground to cover and distractions to avoid. A guy handing out flyers and hollering in English switched to Spanish when he saw Marcela and tried to give her one of the shiny cards covered in pink and flesh tones.
She smacked it away and said, “I’m from Brazil, stupid.”
The guy swerved into Portuguese without a pause and baffled Marcela into taking one of the flyers. She looked at it and muttered and gave it to me, then wiped her hand on her jeans. I tossed it into the next trash can on top of a pile of its kin.
The Strip was full and flowing both ways, people rushing to the next casino or stopping every ten feet to take a picture of one another in front of something lit up and sparkling. We found a group of movers and drafted in behind them. The flyer hawkers kept trying, but we walked fast and kept our hands close to our sides.
“How far?” I asked Lance.
“Other side of Sahara, just past St. Louis. You want to get a cab?”
I looked at Marcela.
She said, “I want to walk. I like the smells.”
Lance goggled but stayed quiet. Traffic was moving like an old man in a pharmacy, so a cab might not have made a difference.
We were on the east side of the Strip, and I glanced back at the front of Caesars and the people going in the front door. Suckers. We stopped so Marcela could admire the pirate ship across the street in front of Treasure Island. We’d just missed the latest battle, so we continued on and made it to The Venetian before she wanted to stop and stare again.
She pointed at things and gasped and said, “Look. Oh, look.”
I nodded and said, “Neat, huh?”
Lance bounced from foot to foot. “It’s not much farther. Hey, we can check this stuff out on the way back, really take our time, you know?”
A genius selling seven-dollar disposable cameras for fifteen bucks out of a backpack noticed we weren’t taking pictures—a Class A felony in Vegas—and he handed one to Marcela and turned to me for the money. Marcela already had the foil wrapper open, so I paid.
Lance paced toward traffic
“When is this supposed to happen?”
He brightened. “I’m already late.”
I took a breath. “All right. I have to take Marcela back; then I’ll meet you out front. Thirty minutes.”
“What?” Marcela cut in. “No, you’re not taking me back. It’s boring there. I’m coming with you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.
“Who cares?”
“There is that.” I asked Lance, “Is this a place where she can wait outside without armored protection?”
“Dude, it’s a
bakery.
She can have a muffin while she waits.”
“Oh, I like this,” Marcela said.
“Good?” Lance asked.
I wasn’t ready to call it that yet. “We’ll see.”
Lance slapped the table and started to slide out but was stopped by a girl in a small black dress who looked like she’d been through an industrial washing machine. Lance recoiled.
“Can I please have my Veronica back, you fucking pervert?”
“Huh?”
“My
shoe?”
“Jesus, yes. Take it.” Lance handed her the shoe.
She leaned on the table and tried to glower at him while she put it on, but it was apparently too hard to do both. She focused on the shoe and spun and clomped away.
We stood and watched her go. Her other foot was bare.
“Damn,” Lance said.
Marcela made a noise in her throat. “I hate high heels.”
“Yeah?” Lance looked her over. She came up to his chin. “They’d make you taller.”
“So why don’t you wear them?”
Lance beamed at me. “She’s a keeper.”
“Like it’s up to me.” We got to the door and began the expedition of finding the exit in a Las Vegas casino.
CHAPTER 9
We made it onto the Strip and started walking north. The Golden Pantheon was near the south end, so we had some ground to cover and distractions to avoid. A guy handing out flyers and hollering in English switched to Spanish when he saw Marcela and tried to give her one of the shiny cards covered in pink and flesh tones.
She smacked it away and said, “I’m from Brazil, stupid.”
The guy swerved into Portuguese without a pause and baffled Marcela into taking one of the flyers. She looked at it and muttered and gave it to me, then wiped her hand on her jeans. I tossed it into the next trash can on top of a pile of its kin.
The Strip was full and flowing both ways, people rushing to the next casino or stopping every ten feet to take a picture of one another in front of something lit up and sparkling. We found a group of movers and drafted in behind them. The flyer hawkers kept trying, but we walked fast and kept our hands close to our sides.
“How far?” I asked Lance.
“Other side of Sahara, just past St. Louis. You want to get a cab?”
I looked at Marcela.
She said, “I want to walk. I like the smells.”
Lance goggled but stayed quiet. Traffic was moving like an old man in a pharmacy, so a cab might not have made a difference.
We were on the east side of the Strip, and I glanced back at the front of Caesars and the people going in the front door. Suckers. We stopped so Marcela could admire the pirate ship across the street in front of Treasure Island. We’d just missed the latest battle, so we continued on and made it to The Venetian before she wanted to stop and stare again.
She pointed at things and gasped and said, “Look. Oh, look.”
I nodded and said, “Neat, huh?”
Lance bounced from foot to foot. “It’s not much farther. Hey, we can check this stuff out on the way back, really take our time, you know?”
A genius selling seven-dollar disposable cameras for fifteen bucks out of a backpack noticed we weren’t taking pictures—a Class A felony in Vegas—and he handed one to Marcela and turned to me for the money. Marcela already had the foil wrapper open, so I paid.
Lance paced toward traffic
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