His head was tipped down, listening to his daughter. He was a big man, but he walked lightly. Beside him, Malaya Begtang’s face was lit up. She was talking, and her hands were moving, and while Coral watched her, she took a little skipping step, either to catch up with her father’s stride or out of pleasure—Coral couldn’t tell. She looked young, younger than she had seemed in a long time, and Coral thought of the little girl who would stop by to show Trey her artwork, or to ask if she could give the little boys some suman her grandmother had made. That little girl had been so beautiful, so full of light.
For a second, Coral imagined she saw that light shining off Malaya’s rainbow hair, reflecting on her father’s navy suit. She thought of her own boys, of the way they still curled into her lap or into Koji’s, like animals claiming their owned territory. She thought of Trey, and of her husband standing on his tiptoes to rest an arm around his nephew’s shoulders. She thought of her brother telling everyone at school that she was a 100 percent Jackson. She thought of her mother, holding her hand as they sang at Macedonia Baptist on Sundays. And here was Malaya, looking into the face of the father she had thought she might never know.
Malaya and her father reached the corner. As they turned to walk toward the park, the girl looked back, past Coral in her car, to her mother still standing near the mailbox. The girl looked, and she smiled, and she waved. Tiny in the rearview mirror, Honorata waved back.
36
Coral had lived in Las Vegas for nearly all of her forty-nine years, but she had never set foot in the El Capitan. It was ironic that she would be headed there now—nearly two years after it had been scheduled for demolition, more than three decades since her father had died, now that her brother no longer owned it.
But Engracia worked at the El Capitan—had apparently worked there before her son had died—and she had been so reluctant to meet with Coral, so reluctant to discuss that day or what she had done, Coral wasn’t about to complicate things by not accepting the first place she suggested. Engracia would come to the Midnight Cafe at nine in the morning, just after her shift ended. Coral had intended to be there early, but Isa couldn’t find his baseball mitt, and Gus had yelled that if he were late, he wouldn’t get to play and why did Isa always lose his things, and so Coral had stopped to help Isa find his glove, and Koji had given her a quick kiss; she could catch up with them later.
She was on her way to the El Capitan to meet Engracia at the request of Honorata.
Her neighbor had knocked on the door a few weeks after the incident and asked if she had time for some tea. She had made a cake, if Coral wanted to come down. So Coral, who wondered why Honorata had not called first, raised her eyebrow to Koji, ruffled the top of Isa’s hair, and told them she’d be back in an hour or so.
Honorata’s house was very clean. There were several pieces of furniture made of black lacquered wood, and, as usual, there was not a speck of dust showing. There were embroidered pillows on each chair, and embroidered curtains in the kitchen; Honorata had made these. It was a cheerful room, very light, and Honorata’s mother was there, playing something on an iPad.
“Hello, Mrs. Navarro. It’s nice to see you.”
Honorata’s mother stopped playing her game long enough to stand up and give her neighbor a hug. “Hello, hello,” she said. Coral had never heard her speak much more English than this, but Nanay had been sending Malaya down with plates of lumpia and pancit for years. Coral knew that Nanay appreciated how Malaya felt about them: had noticed the hours Keisha spent playing with her when she was a toddler, had observed Trey’s gentle teasing when she was eight, knew how much Gus and Isa had loved their babysitter.
Honorata motioned for Coral to sit down, and then she brought out a cake, decorated with coconut and set on a clear glass cake stand.
“It’s a beautiful cake.”
Honorata’s mother nodded approvingly.
“Good cook. My daughter good cook.”
Coral thought of Augusta, who had lived in her own house to the very end. She had never been sick enough to leave it, though Coral had always thought that her mother would one day live with her, and that she would have the chance to care for Augusta in the way her mother had cared for her. But it wasn’t to be. At seventy-six, which wasn’t so old, her heart gave out. They’d always known it would be her heart.
Honorata sliced the cake, poured some tea, and placed three sections of tangerine on each plate before handing one to Coral and another to her mother.
“Is Malaya home?”
“She’s asleep. I want to talk before she comes down.”
“Of course.”
Coral had thought Honorata might want to explain about Malaya’s father, but she didn’t say anything about James Wohlmann. She must have known that Malaya had told Coral everything, but Honorata didn’t give Coral any more information. This also made Coral think of Augusta, and how her own mother had never felt the need to explain herself. Still, Coral had just seen Malaya walking down the street with her father; she wondered how things were going.
“My housekeeper, Engracia . . .”
“Yes.”
“I’m worried.”
“Malaya told me about her son.”
“Yes. But that’s not why I’m worried.”
“Oh.”
Honorata did not continue right away, so Coral took another bite of cake. The grandmother patted her arm in an encouraging way. Finally, her neighbor continued.
“She’s nice person, this housekeeper. Wise person. Even though she’s very young.”
Honorata wiped some crumbs off the counter, added some more cake to her mother’s plate, picked up a napkin that had fallen to the floor.
“She might not be legal. Immigrant, I mean.”
“Right. Well, I don’t think what happened here will matter. The police don’t turn that sort of stuff over to Immigration. And she didn’t do anything.”
“Yes. I see.”
“Is she still working for you? Is she worried Immigration will find her?”
“No. She hasn’t come back to work here.”
Coral could have predicted that Honorata would not tell her why. Her neighbor didn’t have ordinary conversations with people. Talking with her was like throwing a ball against a cracked wall: it bounced back, but not necessarily the way you predicted.
“She took the gun.”
“What?”
“She took Jimbo’s gun. She hid it in her pocket. The police didn’t search her.”
“Wow.”
“That took a lot of courage. To take a gun when she’s not legal. Right?”
“Well, courage is one word. It was definitely a risk.”
“She just did it. She understood the problem. She understood how everything was going to go bad, how it was going to go bad for Malaya’s father. She just fixed it. She fixed the problem, all by herself.”
“I guess. I’m not sure. I mean, if Malaya’s father had had a gun, they would have arrested him. I’m sure of that.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t have let them take him.”
“Oh. Yeah. That would have been bad.”
“It would have been bad for Malaya,” Honorata said. “She would never recover from this. In her own house. After she found him. So mad at me.”
“Yeah. I think you’re right. I think that would have been terrible for Malaya.”
“So. Engracia. This young woman. Who lost her child. She saved mine.”
Coral’s eyes watered. It was true, probably. If Engracia had gotten the gun away from Malaya’s father. If it was because of her that the whole thing hadn’t exploded.
“Does Malaya know this?”
“No. Malaya doesn’t know her father had a gun.”
“She told me about Engracia’s son. How Engracia told you and her father about him.”
“Yes, she knows that.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that a very nice woman has a gun, and is not legal, and also, her
son has died.”
Yes. Coral agreed. The gun was dangerous in anyone’s hands, and certainly in Engracia’s. She’d be deported in a minute if she were caught with it. And, too, she was awfully vulnerable right now. A gun could be dangerous in so many ways.
“Have you talked with her? Asked her about the gun?”
“No.”
“Do you think you could do that?”
“No.”
Coral waited.
“Engracia doesn’t like me, I think. She doesn’t like that I didn’t tell Malaya’s father about her.”
“She said this?”
“No.”
“Well, okay. But you’re just going to call her and ask about the gun. See if she got rid of it. Where it is.”
“Maybe the police are listening to my phone.”
“I doubt it.”
“Maybe her number doesn’t work anymore.”
“Her phone? Did you try it?”
“Yes. It’s disconnected.”
“Well, I don’t know how we would find her. Do you know her last name?”
“Montoya.”
“Okay. Engracia Montoya. Illegal immigrant. We’re not finding her.”
“I worry about it every night. I worry about her. I want to help her.”
“Well. How did you hire her? Do you know someone that knows her?”
“Father Burns. From Saint Anne’s church. He asked me to hire her. He knows her.”
“Okay. Well. Call him.”
This was getting a little frustrating. Why was Coral here?
“No. I can’t call. She won’t take my call, and Father Burns won’t tell me about her.”
“So?”
“You could call Father Burns. You could talk with Engracia.”
“Me? That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It does. You’re a teacher. People feel safe with teachers. I want to give her some money.” Honorata pulled out an envelope thick with cash. “For saving my daughter. You can give this to her. And you can tell her about the gun; about how they will deport her.”
Honorata pushed the envelope of cash across the table, and Coral was looking at it, thinking this felt weirdly wrong, like a drug deal or something.
“I don’t know anything about deportation. Nothing.”
“Your husband’s an immigrant.”
Coral couldn’t think of anything to say. Koji had been an American citizen for years. And Honorata was an immigrant too. Her neighbor could be so odd. It was kind of her to want to give this money to Engracia, Coral appreciated that, but it wasn’t anything Coral could do for her. The boys wanted to see a movie today. She had hoped to bag items for the Salvation Army to pick up. It was time to go.
“Please, Coral. I trust you. Just call her. Find a way to give her the money. Get the gun. Make sure she doesn’t have the gun. I can’t sleep at all. I think of her every night, and I need your help.”
Coral wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t want to get in the middle of this. But the truth was that she’d been thinking about Engracia too. She hadn’t known about the gun, of course, but she remembered the housekeeper sitting in her car, wanting to go to the church, looking for a place that was safe. Malaya had said her son was ten years old. So was Isa.
Oh, what the hell. Augusta would have said yes.
“Okay. Honorata, I’ll try. I’ll see if I can find her, if she’ll talk to me. I don’t know when. But I’ll work on it. I’ll let you know.”
She regretted it the second she said it.
But it was too late. Honorata’s face was transformed. Coral rarely saw her neighbor look unguarded in this way. Her eyes were bright, and she was smiling, and she reached out to take Coral’s hand.
Well, all right. This would be awkward, but she would do it.
Coral didn’t do anything about the envelope of cash for several days. She told Koji what Honorata had asked, and he raised his eyebrows when he saw how much money it was, but he told Coral it wouldn’t hurt to try. For sure, Engracia could use the money.
On Wednesday, she looked up the number for Saint Anne’s and left a message with the receptionist asking the priest to call her.
“Hello?”
“Coral Jackson? This is Father Burns.”
“Father, thanks for calling. I appreciate it. Listen, I’m looking for a woman. She did some housekeeping for my neighbor. Her name is Engracia Montoya?”
“Oh, Engracia. Yes. She isn’t working as a housekeeper now. I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, I don’t want her to clean my house. I wanted to talk with her. I wondered if you had a phone number.”
“Well, um . . .”
“I gave her a ride home one day. Something happened in the neighborhood, and I gave her a ride. And I’ve been worried about her. I know about her son. I know she lost her child.”
“Yes. Engracia has had a difficult time.”
He sounded like an old man, rather formal, like someone with money. Not quite the way she imagined a priest.
“I just want to make sure she’s okay. And there’s something else. Something I want to talk to her about. I have something to give her.”
“Well, I can see. Perhaps I can call Engracia. She’ll have to call you.”
“Sure. Here’s my phone number. If she wants, all three of us can talk. If that would make her feel better.”
“Well, I’ll see. She’ll probably be here tonight, and I’ll ask her. Okay?”
“Thank you, Father.”
Of course, Engracia did not call. Coral had to call twice more, feeling a little more foolish each time, but she had this stupid envelope of cash, and there was still the question of the gun. Coral was not about to ask Father Burns if he knew about the gun. She did say that she knew someone who wanted to give Engracia a gift.
She almost missed the call when it came.
It was early on a Saturday morning, not even light. She didn’t recognize the number, and she was just about to roll over and fall back to sleep when she thought of Engracia.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” Engracia’s voice was very quiet. “I’m Engracia Montoya.”
“Engracia, thank you for calling. This is Coral. I drove you home, awhile ago, after the thing . . . the thing with the police.”
“Si.”
“How are you?”
She didn’t reply.
“I mean, uh, I hope you’re doing well. I called you because I was hoping we could meet. Ms. Navarro wants to give you a gift. She appreciates what you did that day. She’s very grateful. And she’d like to give you something.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“I understand. I do. But maybe we could just talk. Ms. Navarro is worried about something else. She wants to be sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you think we could just meet? Just for ten minutes? I can meet you anywhere. At your house? At work?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Engracia. You saved a whole family. You saved Ms. Navarro’s daughter from a lot of pain. She’s grateful. Please, just meet with me.”
There was a long silence.
“Please. Don’t hang up.”
“I work at the El Capitan.”
Coral’s heart skipped. She would never be free of that place.
“I could meet you after my work. In the Midnight Cafe. I get off at nine.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great. Thank you, Engracia. I’ll be there.”
She didn’t say good-bye. Coral heard the phone click, checked for the number. It looked like a hotel. She had probably called from a room in the hotel.
So here she was now, racing to make it to the El Capitan before nine, and wondering what exactly she was going to say to Engracia Montoya. She had the money with her, but mostly there was the issue of the gun. Engracia might not reveal the truth about the gun, but maybe Coral could just tell her some of the risks of having it. How m
uch more difficult Immigration would be if she were caught with that gun.
Thank God she was alive.
She figured Father Burns would have told her if something had happened, but he didn’t give away much information. Each time she called, he just said that he would give Engracia the message again.
Coral took a shortcut to the back side of the casino, but a fence blocked the road a short ways from the hotel, so she pulled her car onto a patch of gravel and made her way around the fenced area on foot. Construction had stopped so fast on the Strip, when the money dried up a few years ago, that nobody had bothered to even move the trucks or the cranes or the lifts off the lots where the new casinos were to have been built. They just sat there, hulking, rusting beasts, and behind this array of them stood the faded façade of the El Capitan, with its arched entry and its old-fashioned neon and some of the letters missing in the sign: “C–me On In! Ge– Rich!”
The Midnight Cafe was just to the right of the main entry, in an older part of the casino. The whole place looked dilapidated, though the newer half had a tropical 1980s feel, whereas the older part was darker and lower, with wood paneling on the walls and a deep red fabric above it. The cafe sign was an old-fashioned marquee with a 1950s pin-up girl splayed across the letters M-i-d-n-i-g-h-t, and Coral gathered that the room had once been a nightclub. She took a booth on the side, facing the door, so that she would see Engracia when she entered. It was 8:55. Her shift had not yet ended.
Coral looked around to be sure Engracia wasn’t there. Then she picked up the heavy leatherette binder that held the menu.
“What’ll you have, honey?”
The waitress looked at least sixty, with bouffant hair and a big, smothering bustline and a Southern accent, though she might have lived in Vegas for decades.
“Coffee, please. I’ll order when my friend arrives.”
“No problem. Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream.”
The cafe must have been remodeled shortly before the economic crash. Enormous black-and-white photos ringed the wall; they looked like they might be pictures taken at the El Capitan in its early years. She could see a line of showgirls, a group of men standing around a roulette table, and what might be Del Dibb posing with a little girl and smoking a big cigar.
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