by Billie Letts
“Listen to yourself, Lutie. We don’t have enough money for an order of fries, and the car is out of gas, we can’t even make a long-distance phone call, and you’re going to buy a pair of shoes.”
“Thongs, stupid, not shoes. Besides, I didn’t say I was going to buy them, did I?”
“Oh, I get it. You’re not going shopping, you’re going shoplifting.”
“No, I’m going window shopping. Just looking, that’s all. But when Daddy sends us some money—”
“If he sends us money.”
“Well, I can’t find out about him until late this afternoon. That’s what the woman at Harrah’s said. So let’s go back to the Strip and—”
“And do what? See the volcano explode again, watch the white tigers sleep?”
“Let’s go to that wedding chapel where Britney Spears got married. I’d like to see that. And we could go to the Elvis-A-Rama and the wax museum and the Hard Rock Cafe. Someone told me that—”
“And we can take our ‘grandmother’ with us. That’s all she’s talked about this whole vacation, eating at the Hard Rock Cafe.”
“I got you fed, though, didn’t I? And Granny, too.”
“Yeah,” Fate said grudgingly. “You did.”
When they reached the Pontiac and got shed of their dirty clothes, Lutie began to search for her lip liner. “So are you gonna go with me?” she asked.
“No. I think I’ll try to find that library.”
“Well, guess that’s why millions flock to Vegas every year. To spend days in the damned library.”
“Lutie, I’m not trying to be a hard case, but we did that tourist stuff yesterday and I don’t want to—”
“You meet me at six o’clock. And don’t be late because I won’t wait for you. If you’re here one minute past six, I’m gone.”
The Clark County Library didn’t open until nine, but Fate wasn’t the first there. The steps leading to the entrance were peppered with readers waiting to get in.
A Hispanic woman with a girl who looked to be seven or eight sat on the top step, flipping through pages of The Lorax. Two fair-skinned, redheaded teenagers, a boy and girl, each wearing a backpack, chatted in a language Fate didn’t recognize. An older man, dressed in baggy cargo pants, flip-flops, and a T-shirt with a faded peace sign, read a newspaper a couple of steps below where Fate was sitting.
A black woman in her thirties—obviously pregnant, hot, and tired—tried to corral a laughing toddler who was eating dirt as he ran circles around a palm tree growing near the stairs. An elderly white woman with a trickle of dried blood on her cheek sat on the bottom step beside a child’s wagon filled with paper sacks, a deflated basketball, a man’s worn work boot, a painted glass vase, and a small box of crumpled soda cans, glancing nervously about, guarding her possessions as if a thief might lurk nearby.
Fate studied the people around him from the oldest to the youngest, examined them as if he might be memorizing their images, wondering if one of them had left the note on Floy’s Pontiac last night. But he saw nothing in their eyes or demeanor that suggested any interest in him, nothing that gave away an intent to either harm or help him.
The library, a three-story building the color of rose rock, looked as if it had been constructed of giant concrete blocks stacked one upon another. But Fate was much less aware of the structure than of the people and the parking lot, wide and deep, fourteen rows stretching two football fields before him, the back row already parked with several vehicles that, he surmised, belonged to the librarians and staff.
Then, the sound of metal against metal—bolts sliding at the front door—signaled the opening of the library, prompting all those waiting to head for the entrance.
Fate was third in line at the front desk, standing just behind the teenagers, both of whom pulled books from their backpacks and pushed them across the counter to the librarian.
“So, Sena, what did you think of our Mr. Steinbeck?”
“I love this book,” the girl said with a strong European accent. “Now I will see the movie.”
“Uh-oh. Another James Dean fan in the making, huh? Do you know who he is?”
“Yes. Everyone in the world know James Dean, a beautiful boy.”
“And you, Josef? Did you read the book?”
“I tried,” he said, “but many idioms.”
When the teens’ business ended, Fate stepped up to the counter.
“What can I do for you, young man?”
“I’d like to get a library card,” he said.
“You have to be fourteen to get a card unless you have a parent or guardian sign our consent card. You’re not fourteen, are you?”
Fate shook his head.
“Do you have a school ID?”
“I just moved here.”
“Then . . .”
“Can I take the consent form with me? My dad’s not . . . well, he’s not in Las Vegas right now.”
“No, I’m sorry. You’ll need to have him or your mother with you so I can witness their signature.”
“How about my sister? Can she sign for me?”
“Yes, if she’s twenty-one.”
“Oh.” Unable to hide his disappointment, Fate turned away as if he intended to leave, but the librarian stopped him.
“You don’t need a card to read here. Stay all day if you want to.”
“Okay.” Grinning, he said, “Thanks, thanks a lot.”
He found the young people’s library on the third floor, and inside the circle of a round counter was a woman wearing a construction paper crown with “jewels” cut from bright reds, blues, and greens.
“Hi,” she said, flashing a smile. “Need any help?”
Fate would probably have said no, would probably have been content to wander around silently, running his fingers over the spines of books, reading their titles, loving the book smell that was, for him, sweeter than the smell of Floy’s hot apple pies just out of the oven.
But by then, he’d spotted the computers. Six of them. Two taken by the redheaded teenagers, leaving four free.
“Yes. I’d like to use a computer.”
“Great. Got plenty of room for you. If you’ll let me swipe your card, I’ll—”
“Oh, I don’t have a card. Yet.”
“No problem. I can give you a one-day pass. That okay?”
“Great. That’s great.”
“Here you go, but remember, it’s only temporary.”
“One day,” he said. “Yes, I know.”
As soon as he was settled, he Googled “newspapers” and pulled up the Rapid City Journal. In the archives, he started with the day after the night Floy had died. He found the story on the front page, all the details including his and Lutie’s names.
He found Floy’s obituary printed in the next day’s paper as well as a story about his and Lutie’s “disappearance.” The article said the police “did not believe the children had been victims of a crime, but admitted that they were missing, as was the automobile belonging to Ms. Satterfield.”
And there, just above the article, were last year’s school pictures of Lutie and Fate McFee.
By the time Lutie reached the Strip, any feelings of guilt she had about leaving Fate had disappeared. He was, she figured, old enough to take care of himself in a library.
Besides, she was relieved he wasn’t following her around, glad she didn’t have to worry about finding him food. But most of all, she was happy not to hear his constant rattling on with his knowledge of trivia.
She had the day free. Las Vegas. All to herself.
As she headed for the Strip, she walked streets unlike those she and Fate had marveled at yesterday. Here she passed ratty little motels and rough-looking casinos with names like Easy Money and Finders-Keepers; liquor stores—Vegas Village Spirits and the Celebration Bottle Shack; adult bookstores and movie houses—Hard Reads, Tickle Your Fancy, Stroke Your Curiosity, and Sizzle Films.
She brushed by people pushing grocery carts, luggage pu
lls, rolling suitcases, a bicycle missing rubber on both tires—anything with wheels—all piled with plastic bags, filthy pillows and blankets, bottles of water, and toilet tissue, their detritus bound with belts, rope, neckties, chains and padlocks, bungee cords—whatever they could find to imply ownership.
One toothless man with a gray ponytail pushed a baby stroller filled with just about everything except a baby. A mutt, looking just a little less mangy than the man, was tethered to the handle of the buggy by a pink rhinestone–studded dog leash.
“Girlie,” he said as Lutie passed, “can you spare some change? God will bless you if you can.”
“Sorry, but I’m broke myself.”
“Cunt!” he yelled over and over as she hurried away. “Only a cunt would refuse a man ’nuff money to feed his dog, ain’t that right, Princess?” The dog, hearing her name, barked—seemingly in agreement.
Lutie passed all kinds of businesses for the down-and-out: Pay Day Liquor, Vegas on the Vine; AA Acceptance & Loan, Quick Cash; Big Al’s Bail Bonds; pawnshops, their windows displaying jewelry, electronics, furs, musical instruments, guns, baby shoes, handcuffs, and Western boots of alligator and rattlesnake.
At a shop called Sexual Pleasures, Lutie went inside, partly because she was curious and partly because of the black lace thongs in the window. The clerk, a heavyset woman with purple hair, looked up when Lutie walked in, then went back to a book she was reading. Lutie walked the aisles, examining sex toys, hard-core DVDs, exotic lubricants, leather whips, wrist constraints of fake fur, flavored condoms, garter belts, and a black lace thong like the one in the window. But the minute she reached for the thong, the clerk was at her back.
“Twelve ninety-five,” the purple-haired woman said, “and we don’t bargain.”
“I’m just looking.” Lutie returned the underwear to the shelf.
“Yeah? Show me someone who’s not.”
As she left the shop, Lutie came to the conclusion that shoplifting in Vegas was going to be a bit harder than it was at the Wal-Mart back home.
When she reached the Strip with its flash and glitter, bright neon and sparkling waterfalls, dazzling buildings, thick tropical gardens, and gorgeous boys with bronze tans, she knew this was going to be a golden, unforgettable day in her life.
At a tattoo parlor called OUCH! she went in. A man at the counter with a split tongue, rings in his nose and lips, heavy earlobes hanging halfway to his shoulders with liquid glass tusks embedded in them, smiled when she stepped up to the counter.
“Hi,” he said. “My name’s Eddie. Can I help you?”
“Is it okay if I just look around?”
“Absolutely. Take your time.”
The shop was, for Lutie, a complete surprise. In Spearfish, she’d had her ears pierced by a classmate in the girls’ bathroom. Here she’d expected a dingy, sour-smelling room with crudely drawn biker tattoos taped to the walls, a trashy place where germs hid in bloody gauze and moist needles.
But this “studio of body maintenance,” according to Eddie, glistened with bright blue tile floors, freshly painted walls hung with Asian art, pots of live plants, soothing sitar music, and the intoxicating aroma of hazelwood incense.
The body art room was furnished with a doctor’s examination table covered with clean white paper, a tray with hand sanitizer, gauze, cotton balls, and swabs, and a table with herbal teas and bottles of distilled water.
“Are you interested in body art?” Eddie asked. “Tattoos?”
“Well, yes.”
“Would you like to see some of our flash cards?”
“What are those?”
“Here.” Eddie led her to a shelf containing books with laminated pages of lovely designs.
Lutie flipped through pages, then said, “What I’ve always wanted is a pair of kissing lips right here.” She pointed to a spot at the fleshy part of her neck, two inches above her collarbone.
“Like this?” he said, turning to a page of sketches, one exactly as she had described.
“Yes! That’s it. In red. No, coral. How much would that cost?”
“I could do that for seventy-five dollars.”
“I’ll have to wait until payday.”
“Here. Take one of my cards.”
“And what do you charge for piercing, up here?” She ran her finger under the rounded loop at the top of her ear.
“Oh, the helix. We call that a cartilage piercing of the outer helix. I charge sixty dollars a pair.”
“That’s what I want, but . . .”
“I know.” He grinned. “You have to wait until payday. But tell you what, I’ll do your body art and the helix piercing for a hundred and twenty-five dollars. That sound about right?”
“Great. I’ll be here.”
“Look forward to it,” he said, shaking her hand.
At the next corner, while she waited for the light to change, she saw an Elvis impersonator, more makeup than sweat rolling down his face as he signed autographs, posed for pictures, and took the tourists’ money.
In an outdoor courtyard where vendors were set up selling T-shirts, maps of Las Vegas, ices, purses, beer, knockoff cologne, cheap jewelry, pretzels, and sunglasses, Lutie saw the pair she wanted: silver with black moons and stars on the earpieces.
The booth was crowded with teenagers, all pulling glasses from racks, pushing for space at two small mirrors . . . and being watched by only one clerk, a small Indian woman dressed in a gold-and-green sari, with a bindi on her forehead. She was having a difficult time watching her stock and was yelling at a boy, apparently her son, who was more interested in a girl with gigantic breasts bouncing beneath a sheer tank top than he was in helping his mother.
Lutie waited until the Indian woman was making change for a sale before she slipped the glasses into her purse, then turned and strolled away.
After a short walk to the Imperial Palace, she went into the ladies’ room, where she let down her hair, freshened her makeup, and put on her new glasses.
They looked so fabulous. She felt so cool. And for one of the few times in her life, she believed she was pretty.
She hurried into a stall to pee, anxious to be back on the street, where one of the bronze boys might notice her, but while fumbling with a paper seat cover, she discovered a laptop sitting on a shelf above rolls of toilet paper.
She froze, waiting to hear some woman’s desperate cry of loss or a frenzied pounding on the door or the face of a policeman peering at her over the wall of the next stall. But when she realized that the toilet was empty and quiet, she slipped the laptop into the front of her drawstring pants and pulled them up, yanked down her turtleneck, stepped out of the stall to check herself in the mirror, and then scooted from the bathroom and out of the casino, hardly able to keep from running.
At Diamond Jim’s Pawn, she slid the laptop across a counter to a man with a beard and a crossed eye. He skipped any kind of greeting as he examined the case. He opened the laptop, checked it out in less than three minutes, then said, “Two hundred dollars. Final offer.”
Lutie felt her knees turn to rubber, imagined her face drain of color, and said in a weak voice, “I’ll take it.”
“You have sixty days to redeem it. After that, it’s mine.”
Lutie signed the card he handed her, using the name Norma Neal, the girl who had pierced her ears in the school bathroom. She took the receipt and the money in twenty-dollar bills, which she crammed in her purse as she left quickly, without looking back.
In exactly nine minutes, she entered OUCH! And grinned at Eddie, saying, “Payday came earlier than I expected.”
Even though the Clark County Library was three times the size of the public library back in Spearfish, Fate had, by eleven o’clock, learned the layout of the place and spent time in every section from the children’s collection to government publications. He’d seen black, white, and brown patrons, had heard people speaking Chinese, Spanish, Italian, French, Polish, Japanese, and two other languages not even th
e librarians could identify for him.
He’d listened to a dark woman wearing an old-fashioned nurse’s bonnet and cloak reading a story about Florence Nightingale to a quiet huddle of children sitting on the floor. In the basement, he’d watched a blind man reading Braille; on the main floor, tucked into a corner, he’d seen the author of a novel signing copies of her books. And a young man wearing a uniform embroidered with Nature Preserve smiled at him as he led a group of young people into the special collections room.
Shortly before one-thirty, Fate had, as far as he could tell, outlasted everyone who’d been waiting with him that morning for the library to open.
He’d seen the woman with the wagon leave the browsing area first, followed not long after by the peace-shirted man, who had checked out several books on water management.
The Hispanic woman and her child had spent almost two hours in the young people’s library before they left with three more Dr. Seuss books, which the child carried like found treasures.
When Fate went searching for the redheaded teens, he’d found them in curriculum materials where he’d handed the boy, Josef, a copy of The Dictionary of Idioms he’d discovered in the reference department. He learned that the brother and sister, from Poland, had been in the states for only three months, brought to Las Vegas by their parents, who were both structural engineers.
Josef, delighted by Fate’s kindness, hugged him tightly, using every form of “thank you” at his command.
By three, Fate had amassed a stack of books at the table, where he’d remained for most of the day, books titled One-Letter Words; This Is Your Brain on Music; The Selfish Gene; Why People Believe Weird Things; Parallel Worlds; The Little Book of Scientific Principles, Theories & Things;and The Book of Maps.
He was just getting into Mind Wide Open when the rumbling of his empty belly sent him to the water fountain again, believing liquid could quiet the growl in his gut. Minutes later, he made a trip to the bathroom, where he peed and washed his hands.
Back at his table, “his place” for the day, he found in addition to the books he’d been reading a brown paper sack folded over neatly at the top, a sight that caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise. He looked around, the note left on Floy’s car last night very much on his mind. But he saw no one nearby except for the library patrons at other tables, all of whom he’d noticed before his trip to the men’s room.
