by Billie Letts
Finally, he sat down. And with trembling fingers, his breath coming shallow, he opened the sack and peered inside.
The bag contained a package of peanut-butter crackers, an orange, and a small carton of milk, which did not have a photograph of a missing child, a boy named Fate McFee.
Lutie couldn’t seem to get past many windows along the Strip without stopping to check out her reflection, thrilled with the image of the girl who stared back at her. A girl with coral lips tattooed on her neck, new studs in her ears, golden highlights in her hair, an airbrush tan, and a French pedicure done in black and white to match her newly “acquired” sunglasses.
As a silver stretch limo passed and parked at the curb beside her, she enjoyed a short-lived fantasy that it was stopping for her. Moments later, jarred out of that movielike reverie, she imagined that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie might step out, followed by their new children, who would parade by her like a row of ducks and ducklings. But when the chauffeur opened the door, a gaggle of giggling Paris Hilton wannabes spilled out and sauntered into Luxor, not one famous face in the whole bunch of them.
Though she’d gone the entire day without thinking of food, she was suddenly struck by the gnawing of her stomach. Down to her last two dollars and change, she decided to go into the next casino she came to, order whatever she wanted, then walk the check, as she’d done the day before.
But inside the Tropicana, she ran into a wedding party— a young man and woman wearing grass skirts, leis, and necklaces of conch shell beads, both barefoot, moving across the casino floor toward the escalators. The bride wore a bikini top of ivory silk designed to match the garland of flowers encircling her head and the bridal bouquet she carried.
They were followed by the bridesmaid, quite obviously a sister, and the best man, both dressed in island getup. After them came the wedding guests, which Lutie estimated to be nearly a hundred.
Guessing the ceremony would include a reception, Lutie decided to go for the food that would be available rather than take her chances downstairs at one of the restaurants, so she “hid” herself in the crush heading upstairs.
The Island Wedding Chapel, palm-thatched, blanketed with tropical foliage, included a waterfall and recorded Hawaiian music playing softly from concealed speakers. The chapel filled quickly with a few guests—including Lutie, standing at the back.
After the “I do’s” and the traditional kiss, the bride’s father invited everyone to a private dining room a short distance down a hallway for a reception honoring his daughter and her new husband on “this very special occasion.”
A combo of musicians played inside a spacious ballroom with a gigantic chandelier shimmering above a polished dance floor. Round tables set with gleaming china and crystal as well as centerpieces of fresh orchids awaited the wedding party as servers filled flutes with champagne, while others began delivering plates with silver warming covers to the tables, each setting identifying guests by name with a place card.
Since Lutie knew her name would not be among them, she simply stepped inside the room to a line of food carts and helped herself to a plate, the wait staff too busy to notice or care.
In a food court across the street at the Showcase Mall, she devoured her feast. Chicken livers and water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, mahimahi, Hawaiian barbecued ribs, and chunks of grilled pineapple on skewers. And though she could not have put a name to all the food on her plate, she enjoyed every bite.
Finished, she crossed the street and headed for her meeting with Nechia, but when she found out the time—ten past three—she slowed her pace, reluctant to arrive earlier than she’d been invited.
Fortunately, she discovered the Carnival Court, a piazza just outside Harrah’s with lots of action. A rock group played on a broad stage, kids danced in front of the bandstand, and a big circular bar was crowded with groups of mostly older teens and young twenty-somethings who laughed, moved in time to the music, and downed little bottles of beer stacked in buckets and fancy drinks served in tall colored glasses.
The bartenders, mostly guys, tossed bottles in the air and to one another, constantly flipping, spinning, throwing, and catching while they sang, danced, and kept the crowd entertained. When Lutie said something to a girl washing glasses behind the counter, a remark about the bartenders’ tricks, the girl warned her that the word trick could get her dumped on if one of the dudes heard her use it. This, she explained, was a flair bar, and those “tricks” she saw were called “flairs.”
“Oh, like Tom Cruise in Coyote Ugly,” Lutie said.
“Tom Cruise was in Cocktail,” the girl answered in exasperation, then turned and walked away.
When the best-looking of all the bartenders slapped a napkin in front of Lutie, he said, “What’ll it be, sweetheart?”
“One of those,” she said, pointing to a tall blue bottle in the hand of a smiling blonde seated at a bar stool nearby.
“You got an ID?”
“Not with me, but I’m twenty-one.”
“Yeah, and I’m seven.”
Lutie felt her face flush but hoped her new airbrush tan would hide her embarrassment. “Okay, I guess I’ll have a Coke.”
Just then, a handsome man, midtwenties, slid onto an empty stool beside Lutie. “Here, Octane, bring me two rum and Cokes. In blue bottles.”
“Sure thing, T.,” the bartender said as he swiped up a ten-dollar bill T. had rolled into a cigarette-size circle.
“Everyone here calls me T.,” he said to Lutie. “What do I call you?”
“Lutie.”
“Unusual name. Matter of fact, you’re my first Lutie.”
“Well, I guess that makes us even. You’re my first T.”
“Good. I like being first. You here on vacation, Lutie?”
“Sort of.”
“Ah, a story here. And a mysterious girl to tell it.”
“I’m here to meet my father.”
“You and your father staying at Harrah’s?”
“Yeah. Well, my father’s not here yet, but . . .”
“So, Lutie, what are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Twenty-one,” she said as the bartender put both drinks T. had ordered in front of him. This time, T. tossed a twenty on the counter.
“Keep the change, Octane.”
“You know him?” Lutie asked.
“I know them all.”
“So you’re not on vacation. You live here.”
“I do indeed live here, but I’m always on vacation.”
Lutie tasted the drink T. handed her, then smiled. “I like it. Thanks.”
“So what are you going to do if your old man doesn’t show, Lutie?”
“What makes you think he won’t?”
“Hey, girl. You can’t fool an old fooler, didn’t you know that? You’re in some kind of trouble. I spotted that when I saw you walk in here.”
Lutie didn’t want to show that his remarks scared her, but she found herself pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, a signal that she was uneasy.
“Relax, honey. I’m a helper, not a hurter.”
“Look, when my daddy gets here—”
“Well, let’s say he doesn’t. What are you gonna do then? Huh?”
“I’ve got to get back to college by the first of the month, so I’ll stay here and play for a few days, then—”
“Honey, if you’ve ever been on a college campus, I’ll chug this and eat the bottle.” He held up his glass. “My guess is you don’t have enough money to get a good swerve on.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve got you figured for a runaway with a pile of baggage to carry around.”
“Well, you’ve got me figured wrong.”
“A runaway who doesn’t have enough dough to see the elephant. And you can’t get a job ’cause you’re just a kid.”
“I told you—”
“Probably don’t have a driver’s license, no ID. But T. can help you out with that kind of problem.”
; “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting someone in Harrah’s and—”
“Yeah. I’ll bet you’ve got a real important meeting to go to. But you remember this: T. can help you out with that ID. Make you eighteen or eighty.”
“Thanks for the drink,” Lutie said as she slid off the bar stool and started toward Harrah’s.
“You bet. Now, come back and see me, you hear? I’m easy to find. And if you don’t find me, I’ll find you.”
Fate was sitting on the hood of the Pontiac, but when he saw Lutie coming from a block away, he ran to meet her.
“Did you talk to Daddy?” he asked, his face flushed with excitement.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, did that lady call the prison? Was she able to find out when—”
“Yeah, she called, but she won’t know anything until tomorrow. Someone in the warden’s office is going to get in touch with her then.”
“So when did she say for you to come back?”
“She didn’t set a time. Just said tomorrow.”
“Well, guess we can survive another night in the car, huh, Lutie?” he said, an attempt to get more than a few words from her. He was much more accustomed to her anger than to this new quiet tone.
“You look different, Lutie. I don’t know what it is, but you don’t look like you did when—”
“I had my hair up this morning.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Guess that’s what it is.”
Lutie knew how little attention Fate paid to appearance; nevertheless, she’d made herself ready to meet him. Her tattoo was covered by her turtleneck; she’d hidden her stolen sunglasses in her purse; and she’d taken the temporary studs from the new holes in her ears. If he mentioned her tan, she could explain that away. She had, after all, been in the sun for two days, and he wouldn’t, she knew, notice the highlights in her hair. But there was nothing she could do to hide her pedicure because of the flip-flops she was wearing. Fortunately, Fate hadn’t noticed. Not yet.
“Here,” he said, handing her the orange he’d received in his mystery lunch sack.
“Where’d you get this?” she asked.
“At the library. You won’t believe this, but someone gave me some peanut-butter crackers and milk and this orange.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. I got up to go to the bathroom; when I went back to the table where I was reading, there was a sack with this stuff in it.”
“And you didn’t see who put it there?”
“Nope. And I looked, believe me. Because of what you said about the note on the car. I thought at first that you might be right about someone setting us up, someone trying to get us in trouble, but—”
“Do you think it might have been one of the librarians?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, I ate the crackers and drank the milk, but I saved the orange for you.”
As unaccustomed as she was to feeling guilt, Lutie couldn’t help but regret that she’d spent the money from the pawnshop on herself and bought nothing for Fate, who’d saved her his orange.
“So, you want to move the car to the library for the night? The parking lot looked pretty safe.”
“How far is it?” Lutie asked as she got into the Pontiac.
“Couple of miles, I guess.”
“I don’t think we have enough gas to go two miles.”
“Hey, look!” Fate pointed to the gas gauge, which showed almost a quarter of a tank.
“No,” she said, flicking her fingernail against the glass covering the gauge. “Something’s out of whack.”
“But when we parked here this morning, the needle was at empty, just like it was last night.”
“This is crazy. Who would put gas in our car? And how would they drive it to a station when I’ve got the keys?”
“Just a second.” Fate slid out and walked back to the cover on the car’s gas tank. An empty industrial-size bottle of cooking oil was overturned on the curb. He picked up the bottle and sniffed the odor of gasoline. By then, Lutie was beside him.
“Here’s how.” He held out the bottle for her to smell.
“Fate, something really screwy is going on here. Rocks falling on the car, that note, this.” She held out the orange. “And now, gas. Almost a quarter tank.”
“Well, whoever is doing this stuff for us must not mean any harm. So far, he . . . or she seems to be looking out for us. I say let’s go to the library, give it a try.”
“Okay, show me how to get there.”
At ten o’clock, with the car parked in the back row of the lot at the library, Fate peeled the orange, then handed it over the seat to Lutie.
“Don’t you want any?”
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “You eat it.”
“So what did you eat today?”
“Oh, I had some chicken and stuff.”
“You walk the check again?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, Lutie, you’re going to get caught doing that.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we ought to go to a shelter—”
“Fate, I told you we can’t do that. If we do, we’ll get caught and sent back to Spearfish.”
“Well, maybe we don’t have to spend the night. Maybe we can go to a shelter, get a free meal, and leave.”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.”
“You know, Lutie, when Daddy gets out, we won’t have to worry about food and gasoline and beds to sleep in. He’ll take care of us.”
“And we’ll all live happily ever after?”
“We can go to school, and have beans and corn bread, fried bologna, okra, and that dish he used to make. Goulash. Isn’t that what he called it?”
“I think so.”
“And we can go places. Maybe to the Grand Canyon. Take one of those helicopter rides. And go to the Hoover Dam. Did you know you can take tours of the dam and they’re free? And we could go see the petroglyphs and—”
“The what?”
“Petroglyphs. They’re drawings chiseled into the cliffs of the canyons centuries ago. Boy, they would be something to see. And we could do stuff you’d like to do, too. We could go to—”
From the front seat, Lutie, who’d been crying silently, could no longer hold back. A mournful sob escaped from deep inside her, followed by another and another.
“Lutie?” Fate sat up and leaned over the seat. By the pole lights in the parking lot, he could see her face twisted with grief, her sobs turned to wailing.
“What’s wrong? Did I say something that—”
“Daddy’s not coming back, Fate,” she said.
“What? What did you say?”
Then, working for control, she said in little more than a whisper, “He’s not coming back, Fate. Daddy’s dead.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER NINE
FOR THE NEXT few days, while Fate spent time at the library where they continued to park the Pontiac, Lutie walked the streets looking for a job. She first tried the upscale casinos popular with tourists: Bellagio, Luxor, Wynn’s, and Rio. But before long, she was reduced to making the rounds of the seedy joints that catered to the down-and-out, small casinos selling cheap, watered-down booze; cockroach cafés and short-order diners smelling of onions, sweat, and stale grease.
But even the worst of the worst required documents she didn’t have. And without a Social Security card she couldn’t get a job washing dishes or taking out the trash. So on the fourth day she returned to the one place and the one person who had offered to help her.
When Lutie arrived at the Carnival Court one morning around eleven, T. didn’t act at all surprised. In truth, he looked as if he’d been expecting her. Instead of sitting at the bar, he was at a table, where he ordered two screwdrivers. One for him; one for her.
He stood, pulled out a chair, and greeted her with a soft kiss on the cheek.
“Ah, sweet Lutie. Hey, has my favorite little girl been crying?”
Lutie had been trying since ea
rly morning to conceal her red nose and the puffiness beneath her bloodshot eyes with cover stick and dark foundation, but each time she’d applied more makeup, a fresh outburst of weeping had destroyed her efforts.
“You said you could help me get a driver’s license. Were you kidding?”
“Guess that meeting you had the other day didn’t go so well.”
“I asked you if you were kidding,” she said, an edge to her voice now.
“Do I look like a kidder? Here.” He handed her one of the drinks. “Try this.”
“What is it?”
“Orange juice and vodka.”
“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”
“They don’t seem to think so.” He gestured toward the bar, which was busy and loud. “Besides, didn’t your mother ever tell you that orange juice is good for you?”
Lutie set the glass back on the table without tasting the drink. “So what do I have to do? To get the license.”
“It’s a snap. We’ll take your picture and come up with a new name.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Have I asked for any?”
“So I’m gonna need to change my name?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If the law is looking for you.”
Lutie hesitated, then took a long swallow of her screwdriver.
“You’re gonna have to trust me, Lutie, or I can’t help you.”
“I might be in some trouble. See, this woman me and my brother were living with in South Dakota, she died. And we—”
“Did you kill her?”
“No! Why would you ask me something like that?”
“Hold on, now. I’m just trying to find out what kind of problems you’re dealing with. That’s all.”
“She had a heart attack at a Wal-Mart, so . . .”
T. started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“She died at a Wal-Mart?”
“Yeah, at the checkout line.”
T. was hysterical, laughing so hard that he made heads turn. Wiping tears from his eyes, he said, “That’s wild, Lutie. Too good for you to be making it up.”