Tricks. Part 26

The sign could say: DADDY DIED.

PLEASE HELP ME FEED MY FAMILY.

So far, we're still eating. But Mom's bank account is definitely dwindling. She's out right now, looking for a job. I should be doing that too, instead of combing through Jack's clothing, hunting spare bills, or at least change. One little bet could make it all right.

Food. Bills. Insurance. Oh yeah, and bud. I've pretty much had to go cold turkey on that, and a good d.a.m.n buzz would make everything easier.

I've Scrounged Four dollars, give or take, when Mom comes slamming through the garage door. Better exit her closet!

I tuck the cash into a pocket, head toward the kitchen. She's at the sink, faucet running, and over the top of the water splash against stainless steel, I can hear her crying. I don't want to scare her, so I make a lot of noise, stomping across the floor.

Her shoulders droop, so I know she's heard me. "What's wrong?"

She keeps her back toward me, keeps on scrubbing her hands.

Only when I touch her does she speak. I don't know what I was thinking. How can someone like me find work in Las Vegas?

The only places that will hire a person my age are Wal-Mart and McDonald's, and even then I have to compete with young people. It's like once you turn fifty, you become disposable.

I reach around her, turn off the faucet. Then I spin her gently around to face me. "You are not disposable. Don't ever say that again. Cory and I need you more than ever... ." Especially Cory, who needs an intact parent to turn him around before there's no more turning. But I can't say that. She's got more than enough on her mind.

What I say, despite Mom's tears, is, "Please try not to worry."

Don't worry? We're going to lose the house! The foreclosure notice will arrive any day. We'll be out on the street.... Her body shudders, and she slumps into my arms.

I carry her to the sofa. She's light as weathered bones, and her skin looks like old paper. "Mom? Mom!"

At my voice, she comes out of her trance.

I'm okay, she mumbles. Jack's pension will come through. We can always rent a little place. We'll be just fine.

That Phrase Again More and more, I'm starting to believe we won't be "just fine" after all. But I can't let Mom know I feel that way.

"Yes, we will. You rest now."

She closes her eyes, and I sit beside her for a few minutes, holding her hand and brus.h.i.+ng obstinate wisps of hair back off her face. Foreclosure. The word has been in the news a lot lately, especially here in Vegas. But I had no idea it would ever threaten us directly. Mom sinks into troubled sleep. I have to do something. But what? A job like GameStop won't pay the mortgage.

Neither will Wal-Mart. So what?

Quick cash-shortage fixes are plentiful in Vegas. Payday loans won't work, since I'm currently not getting paid.

Credit card advances are out, considering every card in the household is currently maxed.

(Thanks mostly to me.) One solution remains. I go into my room, look around. Not the computer. Not yet.

TV? Check. Stereo? Check.

And in the corner sits one more dream I'll never attain anyway- my guitar. I carry TV, tunes, and instrument to my car, head toward the far end of the strip, where p.a.w.nshops are plentiful. I choose the one that claims, "We Pay Top Dollar."

The little puke behind the counter is not impressed by my twenty- inch flat panel television, nor my pricey Bose Wave Music System. Fifty bucks for both.

Neither will he give me much for my amazing Martin guitar.

Forty. But beggars have no power to negotiate. The dude thinks this stuff is hot, anyway.

As I'm filling out the paperwork, he spies the ten-dollar gold piece (a gift from Jack), hanging on a gold rope chain (a gift from Mom) around my neck. You interested in a loan against those?

He eyes them covetously as I run my fingers over the chain.

f.u.c.k it. They're just things, right? Still, I can picture Jack, three Christmases ago, when he handed me the little present, wrapped in s.h.i.+ny purple foil.

He was so proud! I haven't taken it off since that day.

But now I ask, "How much?"

The p.i.s.sant wants to see them closer, and after a quick inspection offers one-fifty. "Two hundred,"

I counter, not expecting him to say okay. But he does. I walk out of Superduper p.a.w.n not quite three hundred dollars richer.

It weights my conscience heavily.

Now the question becomes, what do I do with the money?

It Won't Cover Even a quarter of the mortgage payment. It might pay last month's power bill, but that's about it.

I can't forget Ronnie's birthday.

Twenty will cover supermarket flowers and a card. Wait.

My insurance is due. Can't let that lapse, or the state of Nevada will slap me with a hefty fine.

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. Three hundred bucks is nothing! Maybe I should turn around, go back for my stuff.

It's evening, thank G.o.d, a desert breeze lifting to fight the almost unbearable summer heat. As I go to my car, the streetlights pop on.

They like to keep the sidewalks lit here in Sin City, especially in the seamier parts of town, where crimes are nightly events. Some are serious-robberies, gang shootings. Others don't bother me much. Prost.i.tution, for instance.

A quick glance reveals five or six working girls, a transgender and a straight-up guy. Okay, maybe not so straight. The driver of the car that stops to make a deal with him is definitely a dude.

Hey, whatever dings their dongs.

As for the girls, one is kind of cute. She's young. Doesn't look all used up, like the other ones.

Actually, the he/she might be the prettiest one of all. Funny what the right outfit and makeup can do for a guy. The next car to pull over, looking for tail, chooses him/her. Wonder if the guy knows for sure what kind of tail lurks under those Frederick's of Hollywood panties! Suuurprise!

Speaking of Frederick's, maybe I'll forget about the flowers, get Ronnie something pretty from there. Something I can appreciate too. d.a.m.n, now look what I've done.

I need Ronnie to ding my dong.

Frederick Has a Secret Too And that is, his lingerie sure ain't cheap. I dropped fifty without even trying. Oh well. Ronnie will be happy, and so will I. That leaves me two forty, minus sales tax on a red velvet panty/bra set and the price of a power drink. Insurance. Gas, at four bucks a gallon. f.u.c.k it! I'm broke again. Think, Cody, think.

Okay. If I fill the tank halfway, I'll probably have twenty left for a small bet somewhere. But where?

Sports haven't been real good to me lately. Casino betting has always been better. If I could parlay the twenty into fifty, I could play poker at Vince's tomorrow night. I always walk away from there with serious cash. Well, more often than not.

Now if I could just figure out a way to score, I'd be sitting pretty, or at least not quite so ugly. Wonder how long the grace period is for my car insurance. Better look into that.

First Things First No need to worry about poker if I don't have a stake, and twenty won't cut it. Vince's games have become so popular, he made it a fifty-dollar buy-in.

I pump eight gallons into my tank, head on home. I check the mail on my way past the box. No foreclosure notices, but plenty of other bills, including American Express and B of A Visa. I'll worry about how to pay those another day. Inside, Mom has moved into her bedroom. The door is closed, and behind it, it's coma quiet. Cory's door is also closed.

I poke my head in, but he isn't here. Didn't think he would be.

Not sure how he spends his time.

Pretty sure I don't want to know.

Even Mom doesn't really question why he's out so late every night, what time he makes it home.

What he's doing when he's gone.

I go into my room, turn on the 'puter, navigate to one of my favorite sites. The account is empty. But I happen to have one last card from Jack's wallet.

It's his ATM card, which draws from Mom's bank account.

I've hesitated to use it because I had no way to replace any cash I took out of it. Now, a few bucks in my pocket, I'll make a deposit first thing in the morning.

A hundred should be plenty.

Ten-dollar blackjack bets are pretty safe, and wins can add up quickly. Hand number one: draw. Nothing lost anyway.

Hand number two: I bust. s.h.i.+t!

But I win the next two hands, ka-ching, ka-ching. I knew my luck would turn around eventually. Ka-ching! So okay, maybe a little larger bet. Let's go twenty this time. Dealer holds on sixteen. I've got fourteen. All I need is seven or less. Come on!

No! Not nine! d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n.

It's okay. The Lady is still with me.

I can feel her, smiling. Big bet?

Small bet? Big bet? You bet!

I lay down thirty. It's my hand and I know it. Deal to me: nineteen.

I hold. Hold my breath. Just as the dealer draws twenty-f.u.c.k!- the telephone rings. Who the h.e.l.l could it be, this time of night?

Caller ID Informs me it's the "Las Vegas Police Department." My throat goes dry and my heart drops into my gut. Cory! Little f.u.c.ker better not be dead. "H-h.e.l.lo?

Uh, no, this is his brother.

Hang on. I'll get my mother."

I start to call her, but she materializes at my side, almost as if she expected this call.

She takes the phone from my hand, listens to Sergeant Givens without saying more than a few words. When she hangs up, she looks at me with watery eyes, shakes her head. They arrested Cory. He a.s.saulted a woman during a robbery attempt.

A Poem by Eden Streit

a.s.saulted

By a glimpse of light, I am reminded how precious is freedom.

Swallowed by darkness, emptied of tears, the song of the desert calls to me and I know to find a way beyond these plywood walls, I must become someone I don't want to know.

I hope the real me will follow.

And I pray the Lord understands my reasons.

Forgives.

Eden

Escape from Tears of Zion

Does not come easy. Jerome is, in fact, maneuverable, and the key to the lock.

He comes to me late at night, tells me to do things I've never even imagined.

Things I should have saved for Andrew.

The first time will stay with me, a scar on my heart. The door opened and though I knew what that meant, I couldn't believe that this supposed man of G.o.d would draw back the sheet, pull up my s.h.i.+ft and stand, staring. Forgive me, he whispered, and he meant that, even as he stripped, lowered his ghostly white nakedness over me. I swallowed the building scream.