Lady Luck's Map of Vegas

by Barbara Samuel

  There was a lot of excitement coming from some little round tables in a strip down the middle of the casino and I stopped there to see what was going on. There were six men gathered around the table, along with a dealer passing out cards. The men had a cleanliness to them that I associated with a lot of money—nails neat and filed, jaws shaven painfully close, the collars of their shirts starched and standing up.

  One wore a cowboy hat and a string tie, which I hadn't seen for a while, and it made me smile. I knew he was a Texan before he ever opened his mouth. A big man, beefy but not yet fat, with a diamond the size of my shoe on his right hand. He was winning, by the look of the chips in front of him, and having a grand old time. He caught my eye and said, “Come on over here, sister, let me show you how it's done.”

  So I did. I stood there beside him and listened when he told me what he was doing. The money those men threw away made my head spin—thousands and thousands of dollars on the draw of a card. Insane.

  But it was exciting. The Texan kept up his winning streak until way past midnight. By then, he'd been drinking a bit and made a few bad calls. When his pile of chips was about half what it had been, he took his hat off, wiped his brow and said, “Well, I reckon I'm all done in for this evening.” He winked at me. “Didya learn anything, darlin'?”

  I blinked. “I'll let you know.”

  He chuckled, putting chips in his hat. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “And I'm sixteen,” he said with a tilt of his mouth. He picked up some of the chips and pressed them into my hand. “That's for keeping an old man company. Don't get yourself in trouble around here, sugar, you hear?”

  I curled my hand toward my chest with a little smile. “No, I won't,” I said, and met his eyes. “I'm smarter than I look.”

  “I reckon you are,” he said, and lifted his hand. “You be good then, honey. Buy yourself something pretty.”

  When I took the chips to cash them in, it turned out they were $100 markers, and he'd tossed six of them at me like they were nothing. I blinked at the cashier and then I laughed and tucked the bills into my bra.

  When I walked away from the cage, another man approached me, a casino employee in his mid-thirties with a crew cut and hard eyes. “Hi, there,” he said, holding out his hand. “I'm Rick.”

  I took his hand, warily. Had I done something wrong? I decided to play it cool. “Eldora.”

  “I'm the pit boss around here. Can I buy you a cup of coffee, maybe some breakfast? I have a little proposition for you.”

  I was starving. “I'd love some food.”

  His smile made his hard face look a little less intimidating. “All right. Let me tell my boys what's going on, and we'll go get some steak and eggs, how 'bout that?”

  Over plates of eggs and thick steaks and hash browns at an all-night diner, Rick laid out his proposition. “I was watching you tonight.”

  “Yeah?” I still wasn't sure I wasn't about to get in trouble.

  “What you did tonight, standing there by that old rancher, cheering him on as he played big money, that's worth something to the casino. You're not only gorgeous, but you're a natural.”

  I inclined my head, stayed quiet.

  Rick took a bite of his bacon. You could see he was somebody who hadn't had much as a young man, but was learning. He forgot to put his napkin in his lap, then did it. He held his fork like a shovel, then remembered to do it the right way. I liked him for that. His voice carried an accent I didn't know, but found out later that he was from New Jersey.

  “All I'd want is for you to show up at the casino a few nights a week and let me point out the high rollers. I'll see to it that you get some compensation—food, drink, a room in the hotel if you like.”

  “And all I have to do is stand there by the high-roller guy and cheer him on?”

  “Yep.”

  “What if he wants more than that?”

  He lifted an eyebrow and smiled very slowly. “You're not as naive as you look, are you?”

  I let that go. Waited for his reply.

  “There's prostitutes by the dozens around the casinos, sweetheart.

  You're way above that.” He grinned. “What'd Tex throw at you tonight?”

  “That's my business,” I said, but I couldn't help the smile that curled up my mouth.

  He chuckled. “Good for you.” Buttering his toast, he said, “So what do you think?”

  “I think I need a place to stay while I see what this town's all about, and I wouldn't mind trying your offer for a little while.”

  “Good. I'll get you a room when we get back.” He measured me. “And a fake ID.”

  “That would be nice,” I agreed.

  And that's how Rick Marconi and I become friends. Within a few months, I had more money than I'd ever dreamed I'd see in one place. Enough to get myself a nice apartment, which gave me some freedom, too. I didn't have to stick to the Riviera, though I always showed up there once a week out of loyalty to Rick.

  I learned to play poker and craps, roulette and even baccarat, which was where the truly enormous amounts of money were spent. I watched and learned—watched the men to see how they played their games and what they most wanted while they were playing. I also watched their wives and girlfriends, particularly those who sat, bored and smoking, discreetly sipping far too many martinis, while their husbands and lovers played the big games. The women played slot machines, mostly, their coiffed hair and sleek legs going unappreciated by the men burning with another sort of lust around the tables.

  I copied them, those women. Learned how to dress elegantly and with a sense of style, learned how to walk and talk and do my hair. I'm sure I didn't fool any of the women, but the veneer was enough to please the men.

  In time, I had created a niche for myself in Las Vegas. There is no proper word for it in the world today, although if you read historical novels as much as I do, you'll know there've always been women who were mistresses to men of power. I learned how they did it, and I saw how much higher a position I occupied in the world by refusing to be a wife. I had my freedom, money all I could desire.

  Since there was no one to teach me the rules, I made up my own. I settled on a patron, one at a time, and he would pay my bills. He would not be a local, and he would be married, and my only promise to him was that I would be available for him when he came to Las Vegas, or if he wished to vacation without his wife somewhere else.

  On my own time, I was free, though I never came right out and said it. In actual experience, I did not often have more than one man in my life at a time, and I never was one to sleep casually with men passing through. It always seemed to take too much of a piece of me to have one-night stands, casual encounters. If I was going to make love to a man, I wanted to know him a little.

  One of the other rules was that I stayed away from men I found too compelling. No one too young, too handsome, too alluring to me for whatever reason. If I felt that zing, I left him alone. I preferred older men, usually at least forty, most in their fifties or thereabouts. I'm not sure what it is about that age for men, but they get scared and lonely and need sometimes to have a young woman's legs around them.

  There was one exception, and I only let him through because he was an honest-to-God prince, a young Arabian with eyes like Omar Sharif who loved my red hair and long legs. I loved his low laugh and his clever word play and his virility. He bought me rubies of all sorts, saying they suited me. We traveled to lovely places, once all the way to Hawaii. He loved champagne and loathed bacon and I was lucky to find him. He was my lover, off and on, for most of the time I was in Las Vegas.

  Until I met the man I fell in love with. The man who would be my downfall.

  I didn't tell India that part. Not then.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  India

  It takes my mother some time to tell her story and I can see it's made her depressed. Something has, anyway. There's that vulnerability around her eyes, a little shake to
her fingers as she lights her cigarette. Trying to cheer her up, I say “So that's where all those dresses came from.”

  “Yeah.” She smokes thoughtfully. “I bought them all myself, you understand—most of them, anyway—but I had to have pretty things, you know?”

  “Of course.” I think about the Thunderbird, about how exciting it must have been in those days in Las Vegas. “A prince, huh?” I smile at her.

  Dark and snow have settled around the hotel, along with a blustery wind that piles the fat flakes into miniature mountain ranges across the sidewalk. The yellow glow of a lamp touches the sheen of my mother's hair, and gives her blue eyes the lure of topazes as she looks at me. “It was all pretty empty in the long run.” She gives a little shift of her shoulders. “All those men running from their lives. Their wives.”

  “Were they all married?”

  “A man who isn't married doesn't need a mistress.” She inhales from her Salem, wiggles her nose. “In those days, India, everybody was married. It was just what people did.”

  “Including you, eventually.”

  She doesn't meet my eyes. “Eventually.”

  “How old were you when you first got to Vegas?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “And when you met my dad?”

  There's the slightest hesitation as she plucks an imaginary hair off her skirt. “Twenty-three when I got married.” She grins. “I thought I was so old, too. My mama was fifteen when she married.”

  And here I am forty and pregnant for the first time, never married at all. “Times do change.”

  “You're not bothered by all of this?”

  Because she's asked so directly, I take some time to consider. I probe around in my belly and chest for resentments or little bits of betrayal over the lies she made up about her past. “No,” I say after a minute. “Things never quite made sense.”

  “I swear I wasn't a prostitute.” She holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor.”

  “I believe you. But—” I take a breathe. “It frankly doesn't look that different to me.”

  “It is, though,” she says, strongly. “A mistress makes her own rules. A prostitute is at the mercy of men.”

  “And you weren't?”

  “No. I won't argue that I had to use them—there wasn't much else available to a woman of my background and education, you know? At the time, it was just about the only way for a woman like me to turn the tables.”

  “Like the Indians and their casinos?” I smile.

  “Exactly.”

  Silence flutters down like the snowfall. In the fireplace, a log snaps and sends a spray of orange sparks into the air. The smell reminds me of summer camp and bunk beds and s'mores. “Fires make me think of Gypsy telling ghost stories,” I say.

  “She was always so good at it.”

  I fold my hands between my legs, stare out at the snow. “God, please let her be okay.”

  “Amen.”

  Back in my room, I try Jack at home again and reach his answering machine. There is no e-mail from him, but I'd told him that my access was quite patchy on this trip. Rare for him to be so completely out of touch, but then maybe he's feeling as conflicted as I am.

  I had really been looking forward to talking to him, however, and after the disappointments and struggles of the day, it's enough to make me feel genuinely weepy. I call his cell phone, which ordinarily I would not do, and leave a short message. “Hi, Jack. It's me, India. I'm in Gallup tonight, at the El Rancho Hotel. It's been a long day of driving and disappointments with my sister.” I hesitate. “I would purely love to hear your voice tonight, so if you're not too late, give me a call.”

  There's nothing to do but turn on the television. I flip through the desultory offerings, bored with all of it, wishing for my own house, my big computer, a deep hot bath, maybe a nice DVD from Blockbuster. It's funny to me that I imagine the apartment in Colorado Springs, not the one in Capitol Hill. I'm not going to stay in an apartment if I stay in the Springs, but somehow I've lost my longing to live in the high-intensity, high-traffic, high-stress world of Denver.

  The recognition arrives with a solid certainty. I'm not going back to the big city and my fast-paced life and my arty friends. Something in me, in my life or heart or soul, has shifted. I imagine a house on the west side of Colorado Springs, maybe Manitou or Old Colorado City, an agreeable Victorian or Craftsman-style house. Maybe a big Victorian with room for me and my mother, Gypsy, and a baby. We could all take care of each other. Gypsy would never miss her meds. My mother wouldn't drink herself under the table at night. My baby would have love and kisses from morning till night.

  It doesn't seem so bad.

  “God, India, you are losing it,” I say aloud, and flip the channel button. Finally, here is the weather channel, showing the small scattering of pink storm over the northern and western sections of New Mexico. It seems to have moved beyond Gallup, and in surprise, I get up to peek outside my windows. The snow has stopped entirely, leaving feathers of powdery snow scattered over the grassy areas. The sidewalks and streets are clean.

  Close to the glass, however, I can feel the cold, and I think of Gypsy. Tomorrow, I'll ask my mother to brainstorm with me on our language. Maybe she has a clue.

  A knock on the door jolts me, and I glance at my watch. It's nearly ten-thirty. “Who is it?”

  “Just me.”

  I open the door to find my mother looking the slightest bit disheveled, a water glass of bourbon and Coke in her hand. “Is everything all right?”

  “Feeling a little lonely is all. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

  “Yeah, sure. What's wrong, Mom?”

  She sighs, settles on the chair. “It's just harder some days than others, that's all. Do you remember what happened to your daddy's ex-wife? Bea?”

  “She died when we were kids.”

  “Yeah. While we were gone. Ripped your dad's heart out. He felt so guilty about her.”

  I nod, unsure how far I want to go with her down memory lane once she's started drinking.

  She rubs her forehead, hard, the ice in her glass clinking. “I've been thinking a lot about how awful I was on that trip, India. I don't know what came over me, honestly. I'd been fine, and all at once, it just seemed like everything was a trap, and I didn't know what to do.” She sips her drink, a very, very tiny sip indeed. “Sometimes I wonder if you'd have been better off if I'd just left you two with your daddy.”

  Her smile is so sad I can't stand it. “Oh, Mom, don't say that.”

  “No,” she says with a sigh. “I'm not gonna get all maudlin on you, honey, I swear. I'm just feeling them all tonight, all the choices. All the turns I took.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “It's just … what does it all add up to, in the end?”

  What can I possibly offer her? “Mom, those are pretty big questions for anyone, any time. They're probably too big for a night when it's snowy and cold and you're depressed and so am I. Let's see how things look in the morning, huh?”

  She wrinkles her nose, stands up. “You're awfully good to me, India. Thank you.” She kisses my head and makes her way to the door.

  “Mom, I love you, you know.”

  “I know,” she says quietly. “Love you, too.”

  As the door snicks closed behind her, my phone rings and I feel a surge of purest hope, a white shaft through the gray layer of depression. “Hello?”

  “Hello, India,” says Jack, and the sound of his green voice on this wintery night is one of the finest things I've ever heard.

  Maybe I'll have to give him up. Maybe it won't work out in the long run. Maybe my heart will be broken in the end, but tonight, this minute, he is on the other end of the phone.

  “I am so happy to hear your voice, Jack Shea.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Me, too.”

  I hear the squish of a can opening and the sound is as comforting as a lullaby. “Tell me about your day,” he says. “Where are you?
”

  I settle on the bed, tucking my feet beneath me, and close my eyes. “Gallup,” I begin.

  Chapter Thirty

  Eldora, 1973

  When I'm alone in my room, I have to ask myself some hard questions. I had not really intended to tell India everything, only the parts that concerned her.

  Now she's pregnant, and I guess I'm going to have to let it all come out. It hurts my heart, and it will hurt hers. More than I could wish.

  The weather outside is bitter and punishing—snow, wind, all the sharpness of winter. My thoughts are with Gypsy, now and back then, and with my own regrets, which are long enough to keep a priest going for quite some time. I've made peace with a lot of my choices, being as I didn't have so many as you might think.

  But there are others that still taste like bitter apples in my throat, some that rise like the furies to torment me late at night. Gallup, New Mexico, houses one of the most bitter of them all.

  Don't ask me what happened in my head back in Santa Fe. I had fully intended to go home to Don from there after saying good-bye to Glenn.

  I didn't. Not even when I got back to the room and found India asleep at the foot of her bed and Gypsy sound asleep in the bathtub.

  Not even then. When it was plain my daughters had been frightened and lonely without me. When I knew they were missing their daddy and their home and their things. When—

  God.

  There are things you look back on and you just don't know why. I don't know, that's the truth. I regret it. I regret everything that happened through that stretch of days. I don't know what was wrong with me to make me go so crazy. A friend of mine, who has heard the story says I ought to go get some counseling, let it all out and forgive myself. But I'm not about to forgive myself for such bad behavior. I don't go around slicing little marks in my skin from morning till night, either, but there are some things you're just required to carry. I'm ashamed of myself and I have reason to be.