by Bella Knight
“I came in early all this week,” she said, “I have an appointment.”
Mark looked up at her with flat, black eyes. His springy hair was coming unsprung, his tie was loose, and his voice was hoarse as he talked into a phone about life insurance. Jason ignored her completely, squeezing a squeeze ball and bouncing it off a wall with nearly noiseless plops as he talked about umbrella insurance. Jazmin, the temp admin/receptionist, waved at her as she asked a caller to, “Hold just one more minute.” She snorted on her way out to her car. Getting anyone off the phone there involved surgery.
The sun was like a punch to the eyes. She put on her shades even before she stepped off the curb. Her piece-of-shit-does-it-still-run white car was still there. She wondered why she bothered locking the door; if someone stole it, the insurance company would at least give her a few hundred towards another car. She turned it on and rolled down the window —by hand, to feel the air on her face.
She made it to the Denny’s far faster than she thought she could that time of day. She was stunned to find a police officer talking to her bloody brother.
“See, there she is!” he said, loudly, through puffy lips.
He was bleeding from two wounds, one on his face, one on his shoulder. Blood had dried in both spots despite attempts to wipe it away. He had a black eye, and he was cradling his stomach. Lily reached under the passenger seat for the first aid kit, opened it, and snapped on gloves.
“Hey!” she said to Devlin. She looked into his bloodshot eyes and was rewarded with a face, full of whiskey breath.
“You his sister?” asked the officer, a short woman with dark brown hair and hazel eyes; set a little too wide apart over a too-small nose.
“I’m Lily Vance. This is Devlin, my brother,” she said, pointing at him with one hand while she reached into the first aid kit with the other.
She bandaged the cut over his eye and made it down to his shoulder. She knew moving his hand to check his stomach wouldn’t happen with the cop there.
“Officer Lieto,” the woman said, pulling out her notebook, “this individual, refuses medical treatment. Are you some sort of medical professional?”
Lily nearly snorted, but stopped herself, not wanting to annoy the cop, “Devlin here had six concussions by age six,” she said, “over the handlebars, trying to skateboard, that sort of thing.” She didn’t mention Dad. Neither one of them ever did.
“Daredevil, huh?” said the cop, “can I see some ID?”
“No need,” said the very large black man coming up behind Officer Lieto, “their noses are the same.”
“Hard to tell, Sir,” said Officer Lieto, “his has been broken more than once.”
Lily did snort at that one, “True,” said Lily, “but can you think of anyone else that would come to get him during working hours?”
The large officer smiled, “Sergeant Roundtree. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Lily,” she said, bandaging her brother’s shoulder, “I’ll get Knucklehead here to the nearest urgent care. Where is the closest one?”
“You don’t want the closest one,” said Roundtree, “two-hour waiting time, sometimes three. Try Angels Care. It’s up to the road a bit, about seven blocks on the other side of the Strip.”
That made sense to Lily because there was nothing but warehouses, a few fast food places, and a truck stop on this side of Tropicana close to the strip.
“Thanks,” said Lily, closing the lid of the first aid kit with her toe and lifting it, and grabbing her brother’s arm with the other hand.
She stood, dragging her brother to his feet. He tried to suppress a moan and failed, “I’ll call them and tell them you’re coming,” said Roundtree.
“Good idea,” said Lily.
Any moment less than eternity spent in yet another urgent care was one more moment she could use for something productive, like killing her brother herself.
Sergeant Roundtree moved much more quickly than his bulk suggested. One minute she was half-dragging, half-carrying her brother the few steps to the car, and the next he had the door open and was helping Devlin sit with one hand and protecting his head with the other. She ran around, threw the first aid kit in the back seat, and helped the officer plug in the seatbelt.
“Here’s my card,” he said, handing it over to her, “call me later on. My son John runs a car dealership up north, near the airbase. He can get you something a little more… reliable.”
“Thank you,” said Lily, surprised at the sincerity in her own voice. She took the card and popped it in her back pocket.
“Drive carefully now,” said Roundtree, and he shut the door.
“I will,” said Lily, and waved. She backed out slowly and headed toward the exit to flip around at the light.
“You getting chummy with cops now?” asked Devlin.
“Shut up,” said Lily, “Now! How are you going to pay for urgent care?”
“Can’t,” he said, looking at nothing out the window.
“I thought not,” said Lily, “at least you didn’t make me pick you up at the truck stop. So, I know I’m wasting my breath, but what the hell happened to you?”
He ignored her, clutching his side. At the light, Lily grabbed his hand and pulled up. He cried out. She pulled up his shirt and found exactly what she expected to find —some bruises moving from purple to black.
“You’ve got broken ribs, you dumbass. You need to be flat on your back in an ambulance. You move wrong, you can pierce a lung.”
She ignored his protests as she took her hand back and made the U-turn at the light, “Fucking bitch!” he said.
“Excuse me?” said Lily, her voice flat, “would you like to walk to the urgent care?”
“Sorry,” Devlin mumbled.
“Who did this to you?” asked Lily, “Max, June, or both of them?”
“Little Mike,” said Devlin, “not him, Leticia did it.”
Leticia was Little Mike’s older sister (by about four minutes). She shared his rock-solid build and fast feet and hands. They worked West Tropicana until the warehouses and fast food joints ended and became shops and, eventually, became row after row of apartment houses. Lily didn’t know exactly what they did, but she could guess. Guns were legal here, and so was pot. Not necessarily a good combination, she mused. Prostitution was legal out in the mountains in trailers somewhere in the desert. But some things weren’t legal in the city. Not a lot, but some things.
She crossed another light after the long wait at Tropicana and the Strip, using the silence to her advantage.
Two blocks later she said, in a low but rock-hard voice, “Idiot little brother, what did you get yourself into? And how are you planning on getting out of it?” She knew perfectly well he wouldn’t answer her. Yet.
Roundtree did call ahead, and a nurse met them with a wheelchair. Lily parked and came in to sign the paperwork. She was going to have to use the credit card, the little one, right after she had paid that mother off. She seriously considered going into the exam room —he was already being seen? That was fast. She really, seriously considered going into the exam room and breaking a few more of his ribs. But that, she sighed inwardly, would lead to even more bills. And her brother already couldn’t pay from the odd jobs he scraped up and, what she was beginning to realize, the drug dealing. If she damaged him in public like this, Sergeant Roundtree would pop over to arrest her instead of helpfully handing out cards.
Devlin had x-rays, and soon a tiny person wearing a white lab coat came out to talk to her, “I’m Dr. Banerjee. Your brother has two cracked ribs. I’ve taped him up, and he’s had two stitches over his right eye. He needs rest in a dark room.”
Lily listened and felt relieved.
The Dr. sighed, “I would offer pain medication other than the injections I gave him, but your brother is rather thoroughly medicated already with alcohol and, I think, opioids. We have a program for your brother’s addictions. It’s a spin dry facility, I think you call it. It is a locked fac
ility, so your brother would be in for the full thirty days.”
“Sounds wonderful,” said Lily, “did you ask him if he wanted to go?”
“He said no way,” said Dr. Banerjee, “only not using those particular words.”
Lily winced, “Give me the information. If cracked skulls and ribs don’t get his attention. Not sure what will.”
Dr. Banerjee handed over two cards, her own and that of the Sandy Hills Treatment Facility for Drug and Alcohol Disorders.
“Thank you,” said Lily.
She turned and went to the counter to pay the wince-worthy bill. The same nurse, a tiny black-haired woman with arms like iron, helped get the puddle that was Devlin into the tiny car. Lily thanked the woman and went home.
The apartment was the size of a postage stamp, a second-floor with climb-up concrete steps with metal railings, fatal for Devlin if he took a fall. It took a lot of sweating, shaking, and cursing on both their parts, but she leaned him inside the door and then reached back and closed it. She kicked off her dress shoes and hurried to get sheets and pillowcases. She threw the sheet over the couch and then dragged and carried her cursing brother over to the couch and leaned him onto it. He laid down, and she took off his shoes and put them by the door. She turned back, and he was asleep.
Groaning, Lily took off her own shoes then went to the bathroom and stripped, getting into yoga pants and a sporty camisole. She got herself a Lean Cuisine and zapped it in the microwave. She took it straight with a lime-water chaser. She read a book on her cell phone while mechanically eating and then stood. She threw away the trash and took out another bottle of water to leave next to her brother’s head. She left her small change in a tin can where her brother could see it. He would raid it whenever he woke up; she had no alcohol in the house. She did have an emergency stash of cash, but she kept it on her body at all times. Sports bras and camis did have their uses.
She sighed, opening her pitiful tablet, so old that Devlin hadn’t bothered to steal it. She got on the net and started looking for night work. Dumbass would stay with her, eating her food and stealing her small change for booze, until she kicked him out. She needed to pay off the small credit card promptly, and she knew just how to do it.
The ad was small, easily overlooked. She knew that address, some sort of round bar. Romantic, a floor with a fireplace. They sold large frou-frou drinks meant to be shared by two and grilled appetizers. Asshole Milo had taken here there, got her hooked on the ambiance, and gotten her into bed. She had fallen in love. They’d gone back several times to share the magic. That magic came to a grinding halt when she found out his wife thought he was out of town on those romantic evenings.
The woman had accosted her, baby in a papoose pack on her stomach. The wife, Mindy, explained that her husband liked telling women he was single. She was divorcing him, but she didn’t want him spending the money she needs for diapers on other women until the divorce went through in a few weeks. “After that, have at ‘em,” said the woman. The baby was amazingly gorgeous.
Lily didn’t want to get Asshole Milo fired or jailed, because then, there’d be no money for the kids. She did tell every friend or acquaintance his full name and his penchant for sleeping with other people when he had a new baby at home. He got kicked out of his church, she heard, and moved away from Las Vegas soon after.
She knew the competition for this job would be fierce. They were actually paying an okay base wage, plus tips. She went back to her mirrored closet, right next to the mirrored wall that held her Murphy bed.
She pulled out her cocktail-server clothes. She put on black jeans and a lovely, black, faux-silk shirt with a slight shimmer that showed a hint of her assets. She put product in her hair to give it a high gloss, glammed her makeup with blue eye shadow covered by gold, added navy eyeliner and glossy plum-gold shade of lip gloss. She took out and put on her black Capezio dance shoes. The heels were low, and they had the strength and hidden padding, great for serving cocktails. She checked inside a drawer; her TAM and Health card were both still valid. A quick glance in the mirror, then she grabbed her purse and car keys and was out the door like a rocket.
The bar was round, as she had remembered. And —very, very different. The pink sign was gone, and the place was now called Dirty Rock. Singers screamed and guitarists wailed on the windows on etched panels. Well, she thought, let’s see how they tip.
She went around back and parked. A beer truck was being unloaded; Sam Adams, it looked like. She hopped out, and the bike she saw took her breath away. It was a Harley-Davidson Softail, late-model. She walked towards it, stopped, and just stared. There was a picture of a low-rider Harley taped in her closet. She smiled a little and snorted as she realized she had been reaching out to touch it. She took back her hand and turned to find herself face to face with a man with short, curly, whiskey-brown hair, and brassy blue eyes like the color of the bike she wanted. She could see muscled rock-hard abs because he was wearing a mesh top that didn’t hide his assets, and black, low-rider, boot-cut jeans, and motorcycle boots, the kind with the steel toes.
She smiled, “She yours?”
“Name’s Lydia.”
“She looks like a Lydia,” said Lily, “I want to get a blue Harley and name him Storm. Part of why I’m here, actually. I need a job to be able to afford him.”
“Low rider would be great for you,” he said, with a flash of a smile, “I’m with the Nighthawks. Most of the ladies prefer them.”
“Nighthawks. Riding club?”
“Just took a trip to Red Rock today.”
“Nice,” she said, “so, about the job…”
“We…” he thought quickly.
Ivy would say “yes,” a definite “yes” to that face. The hair was too short, but true. Most cocktail servers had high ponytails, even if they had to buy fake ones. Her blue-black hair framed her face. Her face was wide, with high cheekbones, blue-green hazel eyes, and a slight dimple in her chin. She sported three, small, silver moons in each ear. She was wearing what he called the “Las Vegas Standard Cocktail Server Uniform” —all in black. Perfect.
“We need to go talk to Ivy. I hire, but she signs off on it ‘cos she’s the owner.”
“Lily Vance,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Ace Donal,” he said, shaking it.
He looked into her eyes a little too long, and then turned as Mary slammed the door on the beer truck. She waved. He waved back.
“My TAM and Health cards are current,” said Lily, taking back her hand.
“Can you start tonight?” he asked with a wide smile.
Ivy Hires Lily
Ace laughed as Lily tried to help him with the beer, “After you’re hired, sweet face,” said Ace, “go through that door that metal door that says ‘Employees Only.’ Go on in and follow the curve of the wall back to Ivy’s office.”
Lily found the door unlocked. It opened easily and closed behind her. She followed the wall past the Employee Break Room —it had two small tables, a refrigerator, a microwave, and a low counter —and the Employee Locker Room, which was closed but, presumably, sported lockers. She knocked on the Manager’s Office. This one had shades down over a wall of glass.
“What?” said the voice inside, “Ace… handle the damn deliveries yourself.”
“It’s not Ace,” said Lily.
She opened the door a crack. The woman inside was sitting at her desk, staring at a computer screen as if it would bite her. She had platinum blonde hair in twists down past her shoulder blades, and she looked up with very-annoyed blue eyes. Her skin was bronzed from the sun.
“I’m Lily, and Ace told me to come back. I hope that’s all right. I’m here to sling booze.”
Ivy laughed, “Ivy,” she handed over a clipboard, “fill this stupid thing out. Sit here.”
She pointed to a wide black couch with shimmery gold pillows. Lily sank into it gratefully.
“While you’re doing that, I’ll be pecking at these keys and asking q
uestions.”
“Sounds good,” said Lily, writing in her name and social security number, then her address.
“You ever been a cocktail server before?”
“Since I was twenty-one. Two off-Strip bars, one in a casino, mostly swing shift with the occasional graveyard. Been working at an insurance company for the past year. Figured it’s good for a night job.”
“So, you’d start work at five-thirty at night?”
“It won’t take me long to get here,” said Lily, “if you feed me something in between tables, it might be five twenty. It takes me five minutes to change.”
“You fast?” asked Ivy, entering a string of numbers into a spreadsheet program.
“Have to in summer,” said Lily, “nobody tips anyone who brings them a warm beer or cold food. More tables turned, more tips.”
Ivy turned around in her black, curving throne of an office chair, “You’re wearing Capezios. Good. If you’re wearing heels, dance shoes are the only way to go. We’re dark Monday, mostly need you Thursday through Sunday. We serve mostly beer and the occasional ale, and whiskey. Memorize the bottles in the bar. If we’ve got it, they can order it, but once they’re gone, they’re not getting replaced except for the Johnnie Walker Black or Blue. No frou-frou drinks. We don’t even serve margaritas. We have standard bar food, sliders, fries, loaded fries, chicken strips, cheese sticks, poppers, potato skins, and nachos. We have baskets for all of it except the nachos and potato skins, which are plated. We serve salsa, ketchup, mustard, and sour cream. Only the sour cream and salsa are in the kitchen. Bring the beer, bring the food, hustle, keep the tables clean. We got really loud rock, speakers and live. People dance. Can you dance?”
“Yeah,” said Lily, “regular dancing, salsa, a little hip-hop.”
“Good,” said Ivy, “too late for you to take a nap, you’re already dressed.”
“Okay.”
She accepted the clipboard and looked it over, “If you worked Mango Tango you’re good enough for me. Now, go get some food.”
“Sure.”
Ivy took a card out of a drawer on a clip, swiped it into a reader on the side of her computer, and tapped in a few numbers.
