legitimacy, if you will. At least that’s the general consensus.”
“Do you think you have a chance this time?” I asked.
“There’s always a chance, dear, but it’s not looking very good. Prostitution is still such a hot potato. The counties love the income, but the politicians like to pretend we don’t exist. Afraid to be seen as proponents of the industry and afraid to outlaw such a revenue maker, all of them have parked their fat behinds on the fence.”
“That explains why they all walk around like they have sticks up their asses,” I said.
Mother hid her smile behind her napkin. “Crude, dear, but accurate.”
“I need some help here,” Dane said. “You
want
to be taxed?”
Mother shrugged. “It’s tiresome always being the bastard child.” She reached over and patted his hand. “You’ll get used to Sin City. The people who don’t fit anywhere else find their spot in Vegas.”
“Square pegs and round holes?”
“Precisely.”
“Lucky, too?”
“Good heavens, no. She’s my iconoclast—she strives to be normal.”
Dane threw back his head and laughed. “Exceptional, maybe. But normal? Never.”
He thought I was
exceptional
—okay, maybe exceptional? Who knew? For some reason the thought pleased me. I tried to remind myself that all men are pigs, but I was having a hard time believing myself.
My mother settled back in her chair, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth. “I think I’m going to like you, Mr. Dane.”
High praise indeed.
Tamara materialized with three frosty glasses of tea decorated with sprigs of bright green mint. The tablecloth, silver, crystal and now the mint, I had no doubt our lunch would be dainty and served on bone china. My mother was seriously entrenched in a Southern-belle phase. I had no idea what she was trying to prove—nor to whom.
I took the opportunity to alter the course of the conversation. “Mother, can you tell us about Lyda Sue?”
Dane snapped to attention. “Lyda Sue?”
“One of the reasons for our visit. She used to work for Mother, and apparently she’d been coming out here to meet a high-rolling john. I’ll let Mother explain.”
“You keep you cards close to your vest, don’t you?” Dane said out of the side of his mouth.
“Vegas survival skill.”
The look he threw my way gave me the impression he was rethinking that “exceptional” remark. Ah me, it was nice while it lasted.
Mother waited for us to finish before she started. Basking in the klieg-light glow of our attention, she patted her hair, sat up straight, played with her pearls until they hung just right then, satisfied she held us spellbound, she began, “Lyda Sue—”
“Wait. Her
john
? You mean she was a
hooker
?” Dane interrupted.
Mother hated being interrupted. She cast an imperious look down her nose. “Mr. Dane, I can assure you, this is not the place to trot out your prejudices.”
“Sorry, ma’am. That’s not what I meant. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“I see. And why are you surprised? Did you know Lyda Sue?”
I knew I could count on Mother. Arms crossed, we both looked at Dane and waited.
Gazing over Mother’s shoulder he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Of course not. I’m just not used to this whole prostitution thing and sex being so out in the open here, that’s all.”
It was a lie, and all three of us knew it.
Mother and I said nothing. We waited.
Most men don’t last twenty seconds under the heat of Mother’s stare, but Dane was made of sterner stuff—he lasted a full minute. “Okay, here’s the deal. Lyda Sue was from my hometown. Her older brother married my kid sister. A couple of weeks ago, Lyda Sue called her parents, said she was in some kind of trouble but wouldn’t give any details. She told them she’d work it out, then come home.”
“And you chose not to tell us because . . . ?” I asked.
“I do better running under the radar.”
“I see.” This time I did see—pretty
“Do you think you have a chance this time?” I asked.
“There’s always a chance, dear, but it’s not looking very good. Prostitution is still such a hot potato. The counties love the income, but the politicians like to pretend we don’t exist. Afraid to be seen as proponents of the industry and afraid to outlaw such a revenue maker, all of them have parked their fat behinds on the fence.”
“That explains why they all walk around like they have sticks up their asses,” I said.
Mother hid her smile behind her napkin. “Crude, dear, but accurate.”
“I need some help here,” Dane said. “You
want
to be taxed?”
Mother shrugged. “It’s tiresome always being the bastard child.” She reached over and patted his hand. “You’ll get used to Sin City. The people who don’t fit anywhere else find their spot in Vegas.”
“Square pegs and round holes?”
“Precisely.”
“Lucky, too?”
“Good heavens, no. She’s my iconoclast—she strives to be normal.”
Dane threw back his head and laughed. “Exceptional, maybe. But normal? Never.”
He thought I was
exceptional
—okay, maybe exceptional? Who knew? For some reason the thought pleased me. I tried to remind myself that all men are pigs, but I was having a hard time believing myself.
My mother settled back in her chair, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth. “I think I’m going to like you, Mr. Dane.”
High praise indeed.
Tamara materialized with three frosty glasses of tea decorated with sprigs of bright green mint. The tablecloth, silver, crystal and now the mint, I had no doubt our lunch would be dainty and served on bone china. My mother was seriously entrenched in a Southern-belle phase. I had no idea what she was trying to prove—nor to whom.
I took the opportunity to alter the course of the conversation. “Mother, can you tell us about Lyda Sue?”
Dane snapped to attention. “Lyda Sue?”
“One of the reasons for our visit. She used to work for Mother, and apparently she’d been coming out here to meet a high-rolling john. I’ll let Mother explain.”
“You keep you cards close to your vest, don’t you?” Dane said out of the side of his mouth.
“Vegas survival skill.”
The look he threw my way gave me the impression he was rethinking that “exceptional” remark. Ah me, it was nice while it lasted.
Mother waited for us to finish before she started. Basking in the klieg-light glow of our attention, she patted her hair, sat up straight, played with her pearls until they hung just right then, satisfied she held us spellbound, she began, “Lyda Sue—”
“Wait. Her
john
? You mean she was a
hooker
?” Dane interrupted.
Mother hated being interrupted. She cast an imperious look down her nose. “Mr. Dane, I can assure you, this is not the place to trot out your prejudices.”
“Sorry, ma’am. That’s not what I meant. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“I see. And why are you surprised? Did you know Lyda Sue?”
I knew I could count on Mother. Arms crossed, we both looked at Dane and waited.
Gazing over Mother’s shoulder he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Of course not. I’m just not used to this whole prostitution thing and sex being so out in the open here, that’s all.”
It was a lie, and all three of us knew it.
Mother and I said nothing. We waited.
Most men don’t last twenty seconds under the heat of Mother’s stare, but Dane was made of sterner stuff—he lasted a full minute. “Okay, here’s the deal. Lyda Sue was from my hometown. Her older brother married my kid sister. A couple of weeks ago, Lyda Sue called her parents, said she was in some kind of trouble but wouldn’t give any details. She told them she’d work it out, then come home.”
“And you chose not to tell us because . . . ?” I asked.
“I do better running under the radar.”
“I see.” This time I did see—pretty
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