Lady Luck's Map of Vegas

by Barbara Samuel

  I'd planned to be in Las Vegas with Glenn by nightfall—a hard day's drive but doable. The girls would have their own rooms in his Las Vegas house, and maybe they'd be excited by his swimming pool and everything would be on the way to normal. That's how I was thinking, that running off in the middle of their lives, dragging them out to the desert without even their things, was perfectly normal, that a swimming pool would make up for losing their daddy.

  But India could be intractable and Gallup was on her list of towns we had to see in her Route 66 tour. She showed it to me on the map, circled in a red heart because it was the Heart of Indian Country. Gypsy, too, was excited.

  They wanted to stop at the lava beds at El Malpais, so we took the detour and drove down to the badlands. A desolate place, but India sure liked it. She was funny, pacing around with her little toy six-shooters and her neckerchief tied just so and her hair in pigtails. She and Gypsy did each other's hair every morning.

  After that, we stopped at the Continental Divide, too, which wasn't nearly as impressive as a person might think. I guess I was feeling guilty, because I pulled over at every two-bit tourist stand the whole way to Gallup. And if you've never been that way, there are a lot. I was disappointed this morning to see it was mainly casinos nowadays. The old places were tacky as stick-on fingernails, but they had some heart to them.

  After we stopped at the Continental Divide, the car started acting up a little bit. Spluttering and bucking, and finally overheating so much that steam was pouring out from underneath the hood. I was lucky it happened when it did, not more than a couple miles outside town—if it had happened an hour before or an hour beyond Gallup we would have been stuck in the desert, three females without any help. And remember, there weren't any cell phones in those days.

  I flagged down a trucker who drove us the rest of the way into the little town, which was really depressing, I can tell you. It's better now than it was. In those days it was a grimy reservation town with a lot of drunks all over the place and the smell of despair like soot in the air. I hated it on sight, but the girls were enchanted by the real Indian shops. Probably by a sense of something real, honestly. They have good bullshit detectors, those girls. They liked Gallup because it was the real thing, grimy and hard as it was.

  The car had a broken radiator and the service station man said they'd fix it but it'd take overnight. There was no way of reaching Glenn, who'd driven his own car ahead of us and wouldn't be in Las Vegas till later that evening. We were stuck in Gallup, and we just messed around all day. India was in a pissy mood, which I can certainly understand now, but at the time she seemed to be doing it deliberately, misbehaving just to get a rise out of me.

  It was India who insisted we had to call her daddy. I'd already gotten us all some supper at a tacky little Route 66 restaurant that reminded me entirely too much of Dina's in Elk City, right down to the chicken-fried steaks and the decor on the walls, all cowboys and lassos and neon. Terrible. It made me purely claustrophobic.

  The girls had milkshakes. They were both sunburned from being out in the sun all day. They begged me to let them go swimming after supper in the motel pool. I let them, too tense to put on my own suit and go with them. I was nibbling my bitten nails and smoking cigarettes one after the other, thinking about getting something to drink so I could sleep. I didn't, but I had a strong longing that night, I can tell you.

  Finally, we went back to the room, watched Love, American Style and Room 222 on television, and then India started agitating to call her daddy. I ignored her at first, pretending like I was reading. I used to do that a lot in those days, when I was tired and the children were wearing me out; I'd disconnect with a book in my lap. It wasn't like I didn't really hear them—I heard their voices and the tone, so if anybody was in big trouble, I'd know—but I could put them on the other side of a wall for a little while and let them sort things out on their own.

  But that night, India came over and put her hand over the pages of my paperback and said, “Mom. We haven't talked to Daddy since we left.”

  So what could I do? I had to call him. Well, I might have been able to get out of it. I don't know that I wanted to talk, exactly, but it did seem like a kindness to at least let him know what was going on. How I'd do that with the girls in the room was a little tougher to imagine, but he'd get it.

  We had to call collect, and he answered on the second ring, sounding so ragged a fingernail screeched down the middle of my chest. The operator asked if he'd accept the charges and for a long second, he didn't reply.

  “Sir,” said the operator again, “there is a collect call from Eldora Redding. Will you accept the charges?”

  Finally he said, “Yes.”

  “Hi,” I said with false joviality. “There are two girls here who are dying to talk to their daddy.” And before he could say a word, I handed the phone to Gypsy. In her throaty little voice, she said, “Hi, Daddy. We saw a red-tailed hawk today! It was so pretty.”

  Next to her, India was dancing from foot to foot, her socks falling down her skinny calves as always. She hissed, “Let me tell him about the silversmith!” Gypsy scowled and waved her hand away, but I knew she wouldn't give away her sister's secret. In her dignified way, she told him about some postcards she bought in a little store and about her apple pancakes at breakfast. They were wearing little T-shirts and I could see the first swollen buds of their nipples beneath their shirts. They'd be twelve in a couple of months. It was probably time to have the talk about periods.

  And for the first time it hit me that I was this old when I lost my mama for good. She'd been sick off and on for years, of course, but she was always there until then. I could go lie down next to her in bed if she was poorly, and when she was well, I helped her with the laundry and my brothers, feeding the next-to-the-littlest ones while she nursed the youngest.

  I felt so big then, I thought, looking at my little daughters. I remember coming in to find them on the floor and in the bathtub last night. What kind of mother had I become? I wanted to cry about it, but instead I got up and brushed my hair, lit a cigarette, turned the channel on the television to see what else was on. Only one of them came in clearly. The other one was snowy.

  India got on the phone next and excitedly told her daddy about the silversmith we saw in Albuquerque, and about the woman who showed her beading in the plaza yesterday and about the Magic Fingers. Then she wanted to know how his days were going and what he'd been doing, and she listened.

  In the end, she said, “Okay, Daddy, good night. I love you lots and lots!” Then she held out the heavy receiver to me. “He wants to talk to you, and he said me and Gypsy should have some candy so you should give us quarters to go to the machine.”

  “All right.” I dug out the quarters. “Stay away from the pool, you hear me?”

  “We're not babies,” Gypsy said with disgust, and nudged her sister with a roll of her eyes. “We'll sit in the lobby in those big chairs.”

  I nodded and put the receiver to my lips. “Hi. They're gone.”

  “Eldora, I have some bad news.”

  His tone was so terrible that my heart caught hard. “Who died?”

  He cleared his throat. “Bea.”

  His ex-wife. “What?” It didn't make any sense to me. “How? What happened?”

  “She came by here yesterday all dressed up. Had on her lipstick, a pretty dress, and I could tell she was happy, you know?” He paused, and with a sharp, painful sense of clarity, I could see his face as plain as day, the way he'd be pinching the bridge of his nose, the way his blue eyes would have bewilderment in them. “I asked her where she was going all dressed up so pretty. And she said … she said …”

  Oh God. “Take your time.”

  He was weeping silently. I knew it by the utter depth of quiet on the other end of the line. Finally he went on. “She said she'd come by because she knew you'd left me. She wanted to go out to dinner.”

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  “I asked her to co
me in and have some tea. I swear that's all it was gonna be, Eldora. But she started kissing me and I was so sad about everything and I let her. I let her. I let her touch me and I let her take me to bed and then I felt so bad and told her it just couldn't ever be again, that I loved you, even if you didn't love me. And she went home and put her head in the oven and turned it on. She killed herself, Eldora.”

  “Oh, Don,” I said in a whisper.

  “It's my fault.”

  I felt the thick tears in my throat, but I had no right to weep over her. “No, it wasn't.” And I wasn't even going to say whose fault it was, because it was too much attention on me and my stupid self. But I thought of her standing there in my backyard.

  I thought of her. “She loved you so much, Don. I never saw anyone who loved—”

  He was weeping again.

  “I was coming home, Don. Really. My car broke down,” I said. “The radiator broke. I tried calling you this morning but I couldn't get through.”

  “Eldora—”

  “I'm trying to tell you that we'll be heading back tomorrow morning. They got me a new radiator and the car is fine. You hold on, honey, okay? I love you. You can count on me.”

  “Eldora, I thought you were gone for good.”

  “Oh, honey,” I breathed, “how could I ever leave you?”

  Part Six

  THE FLAMINGO HOTEL

  Bugsy Siegel's desert dream, The Flamingo, has anchored the Las Vegas Strip since they started rolling dice in 1946. This self-contained casino and resort offers everything an adventurous vacationer could want—including a Wildlife Habitat and a 15-acre Caribbean-style water playground. 3,530 rooms.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  India

  The morning is classically Southwestern spring weather: brilliantly blue skies stretched like rubber over the bowl of the horizon, the snow melted or melting in a cheery drip-drip-drip from the roofs to the ground. I run by the homeless shelter on the way out of town, but we don't even eat in Gallup. Both of us are anxious to get to Las Vegas.

  “What's your general plan when we get there, Mom? Are there special places you want to see? I booked rooms at the Flamingo, I thought you'd enjoy that, but we can stay somewhere else if you'd rather. What was there when you were there?”

  “Oh, there was lots there. I just don't know which ones are which these days. They're always having an implosion and building a new casino. Who can keep up?”

  “That's true,” I say to be agreeable, but what I know of Las Vegas can be summed up in a few words: neon, Elvis, wedding chapels, and the mob.

  “F'instance,” she says, “the Bellagio went up over the place where the Dunes was. And I know they imploded the old Aladdin and built a new one, but it wasn't there when I was.”

  “What were your favorites, back then?”

  “Hmmm. The Sands, of course. The Sahara was very big and important. Sometimes it was fun to go up to the Tropicana, but I didn't, much. Each of the casinos had their flavor, you know? I never much cared for the Trop.”

  “So, do you want to visit those places, or just look around, go shopping, gamble? I don't know what we'll be doing when we get there.”

  “You don't have to tag along, India. You can look at whatever interests you. I'd like to take you into the Sands if it's still there. It's kinda special. Have you ever played slot machines?”

  “Nope, can't say that I have.”

  “You might enjoy it. And I expect you'd probably enjoy the big, fancy resorts they've been building. The New York, New York, and the Luxor and the Paris and … what's the other one?”

  I'm chuckling at the names, which I must have heard but have not filed. “I have no idea, Mom.”

  She snaps her fingers, frowning. “You know. It has canals and a palace.”

  “Venice?”

  “Yes! That's it. The Venetian.”

  “Venice in Las Vegas?”

  “Is that any weirder than New York in Las Vegas?”

  “Guess not.” I shift the heater vent to blow on my cold hands. “Maybe you should think about some other travel, Mom. You'd probably enjoy it. Cruises and that sort of thing.”

  “Mmm.”

  We're quiet for a while. “You think Gypsy's okay?” she asks me suddenly.

  The word is out before I know it will be, “No.”

  “Me neither. I had bad dreams all night.”

  “So did I.” Howling winds. Coyotes and graveyards. One woke me up, a blood-soaked wash of color, noise, fear; a jumble of images I couldn't sort out. I sigh. “God, I wish we could find her!”

  “I know, but other than what we're doing, I'm not sure what else we can possibly do, baby.”

  “What about our language? Mine and Gypsy's. She left me another message in it. I keep thinking if I could just figure it out, maybe I could piece it together.”

  “I'm sorry, honey I never did understand it. You two made it up and that's the way it stayed.”

  “You don't remember anything about it? A certain kind of sound or a rhythm or something?”

  “Yeah, there was a rhythm, a rolling kind of sound. Or no, not rolling. Lilting. LalaLAla LalalaLA.”

  Letting the sound percolate, imitating it under my breath, I shift to go around a U-Haul chugging down the highway. A weary-looking dad in a fishing hat is leaning over the wheel. Poor guy. Chewing on my inner cheek, I shake my head. “That didn't shake anything loose, either.” I take in a breath. “I'm so worried about her this morning!”

  “Don't think about it, sweetheart. Maybe she'll call or show up at one of the shelters, but if she doesn't there isn't anything we can do but pray for her.” Her hand on my wrist is comforting.

  “Tell me some more about Las Vegas, then, Mom. Who gave you the Thunderbird?”

  “How do you know I didn't buy it myself?”

  I give her a look.

  She grins, and it's a half smile, dashing and pretty, making her eyes look mischievious. “Well, you're right. It was a present.”

  “From?”

  For a long moment she's quiet, looking out the window, and I can feel her wish for a cigarette to punctuate her tale. After a time she opens her purse and takes a photograph out of her wallet. “Him,” she says, holding it up so I can glance at it in long bits.

  He's dark and beautiful, with thick black hair sweeping away from a high forehead and an elegant, bold Roman nose. His dark eyes are knowing and somehow familiar. He's wearing a white dinner jacket. “Wow,” I say. “He's gorgeous.”

  “His name,” she says with a hint of sadness, “was Alex Morelli. He was my downfall, and I was his.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Eldora, 1960

  In Las Vegas, this was my life:

  Late in the afternoon I'd lay out my clothes for the evening—dress, shoes, bag, accessories. I especially liked the intimates: champagne silk and black lace bra and panties. I kept the advice of Mrs. Pachek from the department store in Elk City and bought good foundation garments, but I found them in elegant fabrics and colors. It's a decision I've never had reason to regret.

  Once I knew what I'd be wearing, I ate a cold supper of some sort, shrimp or tuna mostly, often cold cuts. In those days, I never had to watch a single thing I ate, but I discovered I felt better longer if I kept my portions small in the heat of the day. I'd have my main meal late, usually at one or two in the morning.

  After the quick supper, I'd shower and smooth my skin, my hair, put on my face, and then get dressed. By eight, I'd be in the casinos.

  My world. The richness of carpets stretching through the labyrinth of tables and machines and people, the cocktail girls in their tight uniforms and short skirts; the players with worry or hope or weariness around their eyes. The slightly sour smells of sweat and spilled alcohol, the spice of colognes and exotic perfumes, the bite of cigarette smoke. One of the reasons I love going to Cripple Creek so much is that smell, and the sound. The sound of slots and cards and voices, excitement and music. These days there's an el
ectronic angle to it; in those days it was more clattery But it's still the sound of money falling home.

  Nothing like it.

  The night I met Alex I was sitting in the Riviera in a cloud of blue cigarette smoke. There was a singer, someone I didn't know, and the sound of the barman clanking bottles.

  He approached me in the blue-dark room, and offered a flame to the end of my cigarette. “Alex Morelli,” he said, and I knew immediately who he was. A casino boss, a made guy as they said then. Connected, wealthy, ruthless. I'd heard of him, had heard that he was charming. But no one had ever said how beautiful he was.

  I nodded, as if I didn't know the name, blew smoke into the darkness, pretended he did not move me. He sat down on the bar stool next to mine. “You won't tell me your name?”

  “I think you know it already,” I said, and took a tiny drag on my cigarette. “Just like I know who you are.”

  When he smiled, he had a dimple, deep in his dark smooth cheek. “You're right. Your name is Eldora, and that makes me think of Eldorado, and gold. You've been in town three years and are sometimes seen in the company of a certain Arabian prince.”

  I raised an eyebrow and shifted, knowing his eyes would fall on my neck and shoulders, and lower, to the swell of my breasts. “And you are a well-connected man with an interest in many casinos, but particularly the Sands and the Sahara. And you have a very beautiful wife, a Sicilian with a temper.”

  He nodded. “Will you come to my suite for a steak?”

  “No.”

  “That's probably wise,” he said, and put the lighter in my palm. “But I hope you will change your mind.”

  Even then, I knew that I would. There was chemistry arcing between us like the Fourth of July. I could almost taste him as he looked at me, and I know it was the same for him. Who knows why that happens, why anyone falls in love with anyone else?