Pretty Bad Things

by C. J. Skuse

  “Prison dudes? Like our old friend Eddie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think Eddie’s gonna be too happy about putting us up as well as Dad.”

  “We can rent somewhere. Between the three of us, it’ll be fine.” She shivered and grinned. “God, I’m so excited. We’re gonna see Dad, Beau! At long fucking last.”

  She was watching the road, so I didn’t need to smile. I couldn’t share her enthusiasm at all. I didn’t like not knowing where we were going. Not knowing where we were gonna sleep tonight. Everything was so messed up. I rubbed my throat. It still hurt from being half-strangled by Matt. The M&M was ready. I took it out.

  “Bunny?” she said.

  “Yeah. A good one, too.” I held it out to show her. She smiled. “How long will it take to get to Paradise?”

  She squinted and pulled the sun visor down to shield her eyes. “I don’t know, another hour? Jesus Christ, it’s hot.” She put the windows up and turned on the air-conditioning. Within seconds the car was a refrigerator on wheels.

  I stared through the windshield and watched the white lines disappear beneath us. I wondered if this would be the road that would lead to him. What his first words to me would be. What he looked like. If he’d started to go gray. If he would hug me. If he would cry.

  My throat felt taut, as though Matt was still wrapped around it. I coughed to try to clear the pressing pain.

  “I seriously think that ape damaged my larynx.”

  Paisley rolled her eyes. “You’re fine.”

  A song came on the radio, and she squealed and reached for the dial.

  “Oh, this is a classic. This can be our road-trip song. Dad used to love this.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The Boss, of course. Springsteen. ‘Born to Run.’” She turned the volume up until it became distorted, and screamed her lungs out. “De-niw-niw-niw!”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. I leaned my head against my window. I wondered if the fire at our grandmother’s house had made the news. If we didn’t find Dad, I didn’t know what Paisley would do. Dad had always been kinda like her version of Kryptonite. But a good Kryptonite. I only had to mention his name and her face would release its pulled tension, her eyes would soften. When we were little kids, she would throw tantrums all the time, especially if Dad wasn’t home. She’d kick the walls and doors, and Dad was the only person who could calm her down. All he had to do was hold her hands and ask what was wrong, and she’d stop. One minute she was peanut brittle, the next she was a marshmallow. It was like flicking a switch. I didn’t like to think about what she’d do if we didn’t find him. She’d already burned our house down.

  Paisley turned down Springsteen. “You can put that French crap on, if you want,” she said. “Those two losers in turtlenecks. Noisy Blanks.”

  “Noir et Blanc …,” I corrected, feeling my head become heavier. “I didn’t bring it.” The air was cool and soft from the vents, and I drifted into nothingness, lulled by the gunning engine. The sun bounced off the hood of the car in little shimmers. I was with my sister and we were okay. It was all going to be okay….

  HONNNK HONNNK!

  I woke with a jolt, opening my eyes and sucking in the drool that had run down my chin. A gigantic semi was passing us by.

  “M—where?” I said, licking my salty lips.

  “Back with us, sleepyhead? We’re about twenty miles outside of Paradise.”

  I opened my eyes wider to focus. “How long’ve I been asleep?”

  “A good hour. You missed all the fun. The traffic getting into Barstow was a real hoot. You got the last letter? I think it’s, like, Chicks-with-Dicks Drive. Find the house number.”

  I fumbled around in the shoe box to find the envelope. “Uh, yeah, 659 Dickens Drive, Paradise.”

  She clutched my arm. “Oh my God, Beau. We’re actually going to see Dad again. Can you believe it?”

  “Now?” I asked, sitting up in my seat. “We’re going there now?”

  “What did you think we were going to do first, take in a show? Dad’s the whole reason we’re here.”

  “But it’s, like, nearly dark, and we’re tired, and we need to think about getting a room or something. We can go find Dad tomorrow.”

  But Paisley wasn’t gonna quit so easy. “No way. Dad is here and I’m seeing him today. And God help anyone who tries to stop me.”

  We rolled through all these quiet little subdivisions, which looked pretty much the same as any other. The sunshine made everything look clean and happy. Kids were out on bikes, people in T-shirts and sandals were drifting around at their own pace. There were signs for golf courses, art galleries, craft shows, a farmer’s market, a petting zoo, new apartment buildings. Everything looked so ordered and sanitary, like the town in Edward Scissorhands. Something just didn’t fit here. Dad—at least the Dad we knew—definitely didn’t fit here.

  We started coming across street names that sounded like items on the Taco Bell menu: Escondido, Hacienda, Caliente. And then, after a wrong turn down Avenue del Sol …

  “Dickens Drive, there it is, there it is, Beau,” said Paisley, turning the corner and ogling out the window for signs of house numbers. Every house was painted a different color, pastel blue, pastel pink, pastel orange. “Six-five-six, six-five-eight. Where the hell is six-five-nine, Beau?”

  “It’s there,” I said, pointing to a small house at the end of the cul de sac. “Six-five-nine.”

  Paisley pulled into the spotless yellow stone driveway next to an immaculate Ford and turned off the engine. She got out, slammed the door, and immediately went up to knock. I took my time. I still hadn’t fully woken up. I still wasn’t sure if I was just dreaming all this. And I still didn’t know what I would say when I saw him. I’d kinda figured I’d think of something during the drive. But then I’d fallen asleep. And here we were. I couldn’t think straight.

  The heat outside our rolling icebox hit me like a sheet of hot plastic. It was late afternoon and the sun still showered down in pulsing orange waves. I followed Paisley to the door, hanging back a little, already wiping the sweat from my eyes. I didn’t know what would be best, a hug or a handshake. A “How are you?” or a “Long time no see.” I cleared my throat.

  A black guy answered the door in a lemon shirt and navy shorts, like he’d just been called away from a barbecue. It was Eddie. Will Smith, but shorter.

  I glanced at Paisley, who seemed unfazed.

  “Hey, is Buddy home?” she blurted out.

  The man glanced back inside the house and stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him. “Buddy?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, Buddy Argent? He wrote us and gave this address.”

  “We’re his kids,” I cut in. “Remember? The Roosevelt Hotel? He said you’d put him up once he was on parole.”

  “Oh. Yeah. You’re … Paisley and Beau?”

  “Yeah, so is he here?” said Paisley.

  “Uh … no.”

  “No?”

  “I said he could stay here a couple of weeks.” He looked over his shoulder at the house. “That turned into a couple of months, and I had to …”

  “Let me guess, your wife was giving you static and you kicked his sorry ass out on the street.”

  “Look, I’d just gotten married and moved out here, I was trying to start over. And then Buddy shows up, asking to stay, and I let him. And he was here for a long time. But … I gotta get on with my life.” He looked at me. “We wanted to start a family and …”

  “What, did he keep walking in on you or something?” said Paisley, stomping away from the door and back to the car.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain,” I said to him. “We just thought he’d be here, that’s all. It’s just kinda disappointing. Sorry to bother you.”

  Eddie smiled and then laughed. “Damn, Paisley and Beau! You two sure grew up since I last saw you. So y’all remember me? From the hotel?”

  Eddie had been the inside man on
the job, the concierge. He knew when people were checking in, going out for the evening, what they put in the safe. He laughed again and clapped his hands together.

  “God, your dad never stopped talking about you two.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yeah. All the time. You’re what, fifteen now …?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen! Yeah, Paisley was this little blonde hothead who always got her own way. And you were this quiet little dude, always smiling.”

  I raised my eyebrows and pushed away a sweat bead.

  Eddie’s smile disappeared. “I think Bud was under the impression that you two didn’t wanna see him.”

  “It’s a long story …,” I said, not wanting to elaborate further on the whole letters debacle. I stepped away. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” he called out. “Your dad talked about getting work on the Strip. Pal of ours works at a bar in Caesars Palace. You could try there.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Paisley was slumped in the driver’s seat when I got in. It took me a minute to build up the courage to say anything.

  “He said to try the Strip. Caesars—”

  “I heard.”

  “We’ll find him, Pais. It’s just gonna take more time.”

  She started the engine and reversed out of the driveway.

  “It’s not gonna be like the woods,” I told her, checking her reaction. I tried to sound optimistic. “We’ll get to him. Whatever it takes. Okay?”

  She just nodded.

  PAISLEY

  NINE

  LAS VEGAS BOULEVARD,

  AKA “THE STRIP,”

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Car horns blasted. Engines revved. Lights flashed. Music pumped from convertibles, tour buses, and ginormous Jumbotrons. It was full-on nighttime and we had hit a stream of traffic. This was it—the Las Vegas Strip.

  On both sides of the street were these large looming hotels that looked like they’d been designed by children. We were stopping and starting the whole way down the street ’cause of the traffic, like a car in a board game when you keep throwing ones. But for the first time since we’d managed to escape from LA, I was glad. I wanted to take in all the sights, make mental notes of where we should go look for Dad and maybe have a little fun, too.

  Beau was goggling it all like his eyes were kaleidoscopes. This big shiny bronze-colored building with Wynn scrawled across the top was definitely the hugest hotel, but then this sprawling Italian-style one came into view and that looked huger.

  “Keep a look out for Caesars,” I said to him, flipping the bird at a cab driver who was giving me the eye from the next lane. “Piss off, pervert.”

  Along the other side of the Strip there was a ton of construction going on, and presumably they were busy building even bigger and better and more wacky hotels to fill in the gaps between the others. Hundreds of tourists lined the sidewalks. We stopped at the lights and got a good look at them all, swarming like bees in a golden hive. Hawkers peddled overpriced bottled water from overflowing coolers. Guys and girls strolled hand in hand, some catching buses, others posing for photographs, laughing, pausing to admire and point things out. Everything was busy, everything was loud, everything was big, everything shone like cheap jewelry.

  Beau brought his head back inside the car. “Pais, I just had a thought. We’re not gonna be allowed in any of these places. They’re casinos, and we’re totally underage.”

  “It’s cool. I got a fake ID.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  The computer equipment at ICA was pretty tech-tarded, but had the basic stuff to cope with this small task. “It was surprisingly simple. Me and these two other girls did it in Photoshop. Color printer, a couple of butterfly pouches, and a laminator. It got me banned from the computer lab, but it was totally worth it.”

  “It can’t look very good. They’ll know it’s a fake from a mile away. Best case, they turn you away at the door; worst case, they call the cops.”

  “I made you one, too.”

  “You did?” he said, almost touched but still all paranoid android.

  I nodded.

  The Paris Las Vegas hotel loomed over us, looking like some insanely ornate office building with its own Eiffel Tower and big blue hot-air balloon statue out front. That just blew Beau away. Next to the Paris was a giant Planet Hollywood hotel, and then we saw the MGM Grand with this gigantic gold lion out front.

  “They got real lions in there, too,” I told him. “I saw this documentary about Las Vegas on the plane. They got cubs sometimes.”

  He looked through the rear window. “If we can get a room at the Paris, that’d be way sweet.”

  “Not if you’re gonna go all quoting Sartre and spouting how pathetically pleasing the place is the whole time. I don’t think I can handle that, bro.”

  “Not pathetically pleasing, aesthetically pleasing.”

  I looked at him. “I know, Beau.” I loved it when he corrected me. It made him feel all intelligent and high and mighty, and then all embarrassed when he realized I didn’t need correcting.

  “I wonder if they speak French in there,” he said, then answered his own question. “Maybe not. They might have some French people working there, though. This is Vegas, after all. Anything’s possible.”

  Another hotel was shaped exactly like the New York skyline, with an Empire State Building, Chrysler Building, Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and there was even a roller coaster looping around the outside of it. I could hear the screams of the passengers as it twisted and zoomed across the front. We had to stop again for some tourists to cross, but we could watch these fountains in front of the Bellagio Hotel dancing to “Hey, Big Spender,” and on the trumpet parts the water shot up into the air.

  “Oh my God, this place is awesome!” said Beau. I didn’t think Vegas was going to be Beau’s cappuccino, guessing he’d think it was sleazy and seedy, but for some reason he was really soaking it up. I leaned across him to get a better look out his window.

  The car rolled on until the Strip became quieter, darker. The hotels became motels and the strolling tourists turned into bums sleeping on the sidewalks. I scoped a little pink motel right at the far end, illuminated by a tiny neon sign and a large green shamrock. The Lucky Inn.

  We pulled into the parking lot. After everything we’d seen on the way, it was pretty disappointing. Beau just stared at me. He obviously had his heart set on a suite somewhere with valet parking and gold taps, but we just couldn’t afford it. The buzzing neon sign and the dumpster with the cluster of derelicts rifling through it welcomed us to reality. I turned off the engine and went to get the bags from the back.

  “You can’t be serious,” Beau said, shutting his door.

  “The big hotels’ll ask too many questions,” I said. “We’ll stay here so we can be more incognito.” I handed him the swag bag and his backpack. “It’s just until we find Dad. Then we can give him the antiques and he can pawn ’em and we’ll be able to afford something better.” I waited until Beau had turned his back before I reached through my window and stuck the keys back in the ignition.

  There was no one in the tiny brown reception room when we walked in. It was all cheesy wood paneling, water stains on the ceilings, and chintzy pink drapes. A plastic Elvis figurine was wiggling his hips on the counter beside a miniature flashing sign saying Welcome to Las Vegas. Beau copped a glance through the window at the Luxor, then looked back at me and rolled his eyes.

  A blonde woman appeared from a back room and came to the desk, glitterbag flashy and chewing gum like her mouth was mechanical.

  “Hey there.”

  “Hey, do you have a room?”

  “Got twelve of ’em. Twelve rooms, twelve vacancies. Queen or king?”

  “Uh, no, a double, please,” I said, offended, sifting through my wad of bills courtesy of the Skank.

  She just looked at me. “You know, you’re lucky to get a roo
m. There’s a big rock concert over at the Mandalay this weekend, and Britney’s in town tomorrow.”

  “How come you’ve got twelve empty rooms, then?” I asked.

  “Won’t be empty tomorrow,” she said.

  “Whatever, how much for the week?”

  “Five ninety.”

  “Five ninety?!” I cried.

  “Like I said, Britney’s in town. We’re the cheapest on the Strip.”

  “I’ll say,” I muttered, peeling the bills from the roll. I slammed them down on the counter. She was lucky I was too tired to argue.

  The woman teetered over to the back wall for our key and placed it on the counter. “You got no blow-dryer, and don’t flush the toilet with the shower on ’cause it gets, like, extra hot. Okay, you’re all set.”

  “Thanks bunches,” I said, smiling my fakest.

  Our room was basic to say the least. Two queen beds, draped in what looked like leftover gingham sacking. It stank of dog blankets, and the pleather headboards were spewing yellow foam at the corners. We each had a nightstand, and there was a small desk and chair with the Yellow Pages and a plain legal pad for notes. A sliding wooden partition opened to reveal a very small avocado-colored bathroom with a cracked shower door. There was a big warning sticker on the side of the tub: PROLONGED EXPOSURE TO WATER MAY CAUSE OSTEOPOROSIS, HEART DISEASE, AND BIRTH DEFECTS. Fu-larious.

  “Well, there’s a bed, so I’m happy,” I said, throwing my backpack down on the floor and flopping onto the one closest to the bathroom. It looked kinda gray and hard, but it was so soft it felt like I was lying inside a loaf of fresh bread. Bedgasmic.

  Beau stood by the window. “How much money have we got left?”

  “I don’t know. Take a look.”

  I threw over my jacket and he rummaged around in the pocket.

  “There’s, like … there’s not even five hundred left!”

  “Yeah, well. You heard what she said. Can I just get a little shut-eye, please?” I hadn’t slept in, like, two days.

  “Do we get breakfast at least?”

  “I had to pay by the bath towel, Beau; what do you think?”