Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City (16 page)

“No! And it wasn’t me you talked to. I have no idea what the tip was or where they went, but I promise to pay you, okay?”

He’s quiet a second, then says, “
Why
are you workin’ with these people?”

I let out a big sigh. “It’s too long and complicated to explain. Can you just tell me what you told them? And then tell me where I can meet up with you to pay you?”

“Well, here’s the deal. That tip I got a few hours ago was for Mandalay Bay.”

“The big place across from the airport?”

“Exactly! She was spotted on the first floor, going into the House of Blues.”

I didn’t really know what the House of Blues was, but it didn’t seem to matter. “She’s gotta be long gone by now.”

“You could check out the casino. People get caught up gamblin’, you know.”

“But … she’s not here to gamble, she’s here to get married!”

“Hmmm,” he says.

That’s all.

Just “Hmmm.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve seen a lot of brides, Sammy. She’s not acting like one. She’s not dressed like one. You sure that’s why she’s here?”

“Yes! And what do you mean, she’s not acting like one and she’s not dressed like one?”

I can practically see him shrug. “Brides go to the spa. Have a manicure. Get their hair done. Shop.”

“She
was
shopping!”

“But she didn’t
buy
. She’s not carrying bags in either picture.”

“Wait. What pictures?”

“You think I’m gonna hand out fifties with no proof? I got two picture texts—both are her.”

“Can I see them?” Then I add, “I have to square up with you anyway, right?”

“That’d be nice, sure.” He thinks a minute. “How about I meet you at the House of Blues.”

“Uh … I go to Mandalay Bay and go inside?”

“Yeah. It’s on the first floor. Let’s meet at the box office. I’m at the Excalibur right now, so it’s not too far for me, and you’ll be headin’ there anyway, right?”

“Got nowhere better to go.”

“So where are you right now?”

“Uh … inside a liquor store somewhere between that big Paris balloon and the MGM.”

“You’re … Sammy, get the hell out of there. What are you doing in that dive?”

“It’s the only pay phone I could find!”

“Well, hang it up and get out!” Then he adds, “It’ll take you a while to get to Mandalay Bay, so I’m going to work the streets a little, okay? But I’ll be there, all right?”

“So will I, promise.”

Then I head out, glad that I found at least one person to talk to.

Even if it’s an Elvis impersonator.

And I owe him a hundred bucks.

So much about Las Vegas feels like an illusion. Or maybe it’s just a real-life study in perspective. Whatever. I rode and I rode and I rode and was really relieved to
finally
get past the big pyramid. But then it was another forever of riding to get to the Mandalay Bay walkway, and then
another
endless ride past huge waterfalls and little lakes and palm trees galore to get to the actual entrance.

Anyway, what I find inside is a resort like the MGM Grand, only grander. And
golder
. Definitely not meant for a ragamuffin girl and her skateboard.

Still, I try to walk like I
do
belong and know exactly where I’m going as I make my way through the Hundred-Acre Lobby. And I figure if this place is anything like the MGM, the thing to do is get to the casino, where there’ll be handy-dandy signs hanging overhead telling me which way to go to get to the House of Blues.

The trouble with acting like you know where you’re going is that it requires speed. You don’t meander if you know where you’re going. You don’t wander or saunter or, you know,
dawdle
. But walking like you know where you’re going when you
don’t
can be really embarrassing if
you wind up at a dead end and have to make a U-turn. I mean, you still have to
act
like you went that way on purpose, when anyone watching knows you’re completely lost in a maze of slot machines and poker tables.

But part of the reason I keep having to make U-turns is that there are no signs for the House of Blues. Anywhere! Plus I don’t know what the House of Blues looks like. I’d heard it’s a music place. And I
figure
it’s in the shape of a house and that there’ll be, you know,
blueness
involved. So when I finally find it, I’m like, Really? I mean, the only way I can tell it’s the House of Blues is that there’s a flaming red heart above the entrance with H
OUSE OF
B
LUES
over it. Which, trust me, should say H
OUSE OF
M
UD
instead.

Seriously, the place looks like a big mud cave with a gazillion chunks of … 
stuff
embedded in the walls. Colored glass, pieces of metal, smooth stones, little
masks
 … It’s the weirdest place I’ve ever seen, and there’s absolutely nothing blue about it.

Anyway, I guess I’m gawking because a guy with gauges in his ears and full-sleeve tattoos grins at me as he heads inside. “Cool, huh?”

What’s funny is, I’m actually relieved to see a scary-looking guy with gauges and tattoos ’cause he’s the first person I’ve seen in the resort who looks like he doesn’t belong there, either. So I nod and say, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Outsider art,” he tells me, then gives me one of those cool-guy head jerks that means “See ya” and cruises inside.

I step forward a few feet, but what I see is not a music
place, it’s a restaurant. One that looks like it’s been plucked out of a bayou. It’s got a huge tree in the middle of the room, lots of strings of lights, and a whole swampy vibe.

So if the House of Blues is a swampy restaurant inside a mud cave … why would there be a box office?

A waitress with an empty drink tray sees me gawking and calls over, “May I help you?”

“Is there a box office?” I ask her.

She points back out and to my left. “Just around the corner.”

“So you’re a restaurant and … what?”

“A concert hall?” she says, like she’s not sure I could really be asking such an obvious question. Then she adds, “We’re also a gift shop.”

“Oh.” Then real quick I say, “Uh, have you maybe seen”—I dig up my mom’s picture—“this person?”

She comes over and checks out the picture. “No,” she says, shaking her head.

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“When did your shift start?”

“At three.”

So since I can’t think of anything else to ask, I just tell her thanks and head around the corner the way she’d pointed.

I don’t see any box office, but I do see the gift shop. It’s another big cave entrance with weird art all over it, and when I go inside, I see it’s full of House of Blues T-shirts and rock ’n’ roll groupie stuff.

Well, Lady Lana wouldn’t be caught dead in here, but the guy behind the register isn’t busy, so I go up and show him her pictures anyway.

“Don’t remember her,” he says.

So I ask him, “Where’s the box office?” and he points back out the door and says, “Just around the corner.”

So I go back out and keep going, and sure enough, there’s a box office.

The first thing I notice is that there’s no Elvis hanging around.

The second thing I notice is the marquee. It lists six dates, and next to February 14 is D
ARREN
C
OLE—SOLD OUT
.

Just like that, I feel miserable. I mean, talk about whiplash karma. I’m standing at the place where Darren Cole—the guy who wrote Casey’s and my song—is playing on Valentine’s Day?

And like someone going, Tisk-tisk-tisk! right in front of me is a picture of ol’ Darren with his arms crossed, looking tough in front of his band of Troublemakers.

Suddenly all I want to do is call Casey. So I go up to the box office and ask the guy inside, “Is there a pay phone nearby?”

“Right around the corner,” he says, pointing.

So I continue going “right around the corner” but all I see are escalators next to a mini food court. So I
keep
going and what I find as I enter the mini food court is
not
a pay phone.

It’s also not Elvis.

It’s the Queen of the Ditch.

The Mama Witch.

The one and only Candi Acosta.

Now, back in Santa Martina I’d have thrown myself in reverse and gotten out of there quick. But here all I can think about is how I’ve been ditched in Sin City by this woman, and for some reason that thought changes everything.

She’s not scary anymore.

She’s pathetic.

Well, she’s also a liar and a sneak and a thief and a coward, but what that adds up to is pathetic. Plus, she’s not
looking
very scary. She’s sitting in a bistro chair with her shoes off, her hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup, and her eyes closed.

I look around for Heather, and when I don’t see her anywhere, I sneak up to Candi’s table, slip into the chair across from her, lean forward so my face is pretty close to hers, and thump my skateboard on the ground hard to wake her up.

Her eyes fly open, her cup knocks over, and all of a sudden she’s face to face with me. “Aaaah!” she cries, and practically falls backward trying to get away from me.

“You must be so proud,” I tell her, “ditching a thirteen-year-old.”

If this had been Heather, she would have called me a name and made some snide remark. Or jabbed me with a pin. And since Candi seems like she’s just a grown-up version of Heather, I’m expecting her to do something similar.

So I about fall out of
my
chair when her face crinkles up and she says, “Oh, Sammy! I’m so relieved to see you! I’ve
been feeling terrible! I can’t believe … I can’t believe any of this!”

I just sit there sort of mentally shaking out my ears, and finally I squint and say, “She
would
have killed me, you know.”

“She knew you would move!” Even to her this sounds totally lame, so right away she covers her face and says, “I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.” She drops her hands. “And then I just left you behind! How could I do that? Why do I listen to her?” She shakes her head hard and fast. “I can’t control her anymore! She’s … she’s … I don’t know what to do!”

I lean back a little and snort. “Boy. I know how you feel.”

Then she surprises me again by saying, “I want to know the story of the pin. All I can get out of her is that you’re a liar.” She searches my face. “But if you’re lying, her reaction doesn’t make sense!” She shakes her head. “But her jabbing you doesn’t make sense, either! Why would she do that?”

I study her a minute, then say, “I think it had to do with Marissa and me interrupting a conversation she was having with an eighth-grade boy named Taylor.”

“She jabbed you for interrupting a conversation?”

“It was the first day of seventh grade and Marissa and I were lost, so we went up and asked them where our homeroom was. Heather snubbed us, but Taylor was friendly and helped us out.”

She frowns a little. “Damsels in distress.”

“We didn’t think so, but I think
she
did, because later
in homeroom she started sneering at me and making fun of me, and the teacher embarrassed her in front of the class … which she probably blamed on me. So she came up to Marissa and me at lunch and asked for lunch money—”

“But she has her own lunch money!”

“I’m just telling you what happened. You don’t have to believe it if you don’t want to, but you asked. And she probably only asked for money because Marissa’s family used to be rich and—”

“Used to be?”

I shake my head. “Long story. But bottom line, Heather asked for money, and when we turned her down, she jabbed me with a pin—which really hurt, by the way—so I punched her in the nose.” I let out a puffy-cheeked sigh. “And that’s how it all started.”

She takes a super deep breath, then shakes her head, saying, “Cute, rich damsels in distress.”

“I’m not rich!”

Her eyebrows go flying. “You’ll pay fifty dollars for a tip without blinking an eye?”

“No! I—”

“It’s okay,” she says, putting up a hand. “It’s just that it’s been a struggle for us, you know? Heather’s very … resentful of people who are in a better position than we are.”

“But I—”

“She’s also very style-conscious, which is expensive, but I think it’s important for a girl to … to develop confidence.” She eyes me. “Obviously you already have that.”

My eyes go a little buggy. “Because of how I dress?”

She gives me a sort of sad smile. “Everything about you says confidence.” She looks at me eye to eye for the longest time until finally she says, “But you’re not at all what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” I tell her, and at that moment it’s true—never in a million years did I think I’d have a conversation like this with Candi Acosta. Then I look around and ask, “Where is Heather, anyway?”

She tosses a hand in the air. “Searching for her father. I just let her go.” She sighs. “You’ve got to be able to admit when it’s over.”

I study her. “But it’s not over. What I said before about you and him is true, isn’t it?”

She looks at me. Looks down. Looks at me. Looks down.

“Why can’t you admit it?”

Her face crinkles up and she blurts out, “Yes, I still love him.” Then right away she covers her face. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“So he doesn’t know?”

“He thinks I hate him. And I thought I did! I don’t know … everything just … escalated.”

“Into a divorce?”

“Yes!”

“But you don’t want to be divorced?”

“No! I wish we could just … erase all the hurt. I wish we could find a way.…”

She just trails off, so I finally ask, “Is there any chance
he
still loves
you
?”

“With your mother in the picture?” Her eyes spring full of tears. “I don’t have a chance.”

“But he did love you at some point. And you have two kids together?”

She blots away a tear and shakes her head like there’s no way things could ever go back to that.

“Look,” I tell her. “You probably think I’m talking about this because I don’t want him to marry my mom, but …”