so far, in spite of everything, that was the choice she’d made.
And continued to make…
3
The imprint of four-by-eight-inch bricks against her back was a more familiar sensation than the mattress on her bed at the Lucky Seven. In the past seventy-two hours, Francesca had spent most of her time leaning against that brick wall behind what had to be the least used phone booth in all of Las Vegas. The second day on this corner she’d stood with one foot crossed over the other, dressed in a short, tight denim skirt with four-inch black heels and a skimpy spaghetti-strapped black tank top. The next, she’d planted her shoulder blades against that wall, her rump on the ground and her head lolling back, dressed in rags she’d scavenged in trash Dumpsters. She’d washed them until they were almost too threadbare to wear and then dirtied them up again.
And on Tuesday evening she was there again, leaning one shoulder, her butt and the sole of one thick-soled black boot against the now-familiar wall. This time she was in jeans shorts, a T-shirt that left her belly bare and some black leather wristbands. Looking, she hoped, the way Autumn might have looked when she’d been there.
In the sweltering one-hundred-plus summer temperatures, her feet were sweating profusely in the ankle-length boots.
But she’d garnered nothing in her disguise as a prostitute—except a couple of offers that had insulted her with their low amounts. As a homeless woman, she’d been spit at once and had a couple of dollars thrown her way.
Both characters had attracted more attention than the photographer she’d pretended to be the first few hours she’d staked out the corner her little sister had visited less than two weeks before. Of course, if she’d bothered to take the lens cap off her camera, she might’ve drawn some interest. As a general rule people liked to have their picture taken.
As a nonnegotiable rule, Francesca was through with taking pictures.
A couple of businessmen, dressed all in black from their shiny wing-tip shoes to the suit jackets on their backs, passed by, their sunglasses a bit suspect in the gray evening dusk. But then, this was Las Vegas. It hadn’t taken her a day to figure out that it took one hell of a lot of street smarts to live in this town.
For once, Francesca let the passersby go without question or comment. They couldn’t have any knowledge of her little sister. They just couldn’t.
Derek, call me. Bobbee loves Tom. For a good time call… She stared at the graffiti scribbled in pen, black marker, even pencil on the metal sides of the phone booth. There was much more scribbled inside, bits and pieces of which she randomly recited during her sleep—and to her mother when she called, just so she’d have something to say. After the third day, she’d managed to convince Kay that those calls were doing neither of them any good and she’d phone her as soon as she had news to report. Francesca hoped she wouldn’t hear from her again for at least a few days.
Cars sped around the corner. Others slowed, stopped as the light changed, and still she stood there, leaning nonchalantly, as though she had nowhere to be, nor a care in the world.
She could play this role relatively well. The first part of it was completely true.
A small group of teenagers walked by, young men decked out in black leather and boots, with spiked hair of varying colors and body rings. A couple of them eyed her up, down and back up again. Her stomach tensed but this was what she’d hoped for. Attention from the young crowd.
“Hey, you guys from around here?”
They stopped. Glanced at her with hooded eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”
“You ever seen this girl?” She passed over a two-year-old photo of her sister. It had been taken right before Autumn left home. Francesca had been shocked when she’d first seen it. The pink hair, the piercing at the corner of her sister’s lip, the leather choker were all completely foreign to her.
“Nah, but I wouldn’t mind meeting her,” the tallest guy said.
“Yeah,” echoed the shorter fat one. “You know where she hangs?”
They were nothing but a bunch of tough-acting little kids. Francesca turned away without another word.
Talking in short spurts, the group passed. Five minutes later, a homeless woman shuffled by.
She shook her head silently when Francesca showed her the picture. Francesca gave the woman a five dollar bill. Her reward was another sad shake of the head.
And then a couple of men walked by, their hands full of the cards picturing naked women, phone numbers scrolled across them, that were passed out on the Strip every night of the week in this bizarre and twisted town.
It was one of those times she was thankful not to have Autumn recognized.
“Wonder how much they’re paid,” she muttered as they headed toward the Strip. The colorful glittering lights that made that part of town look like day even in the dead of night were beginning to pop on.
A minute later the streetlight changed. A mother hurried across the street with two little children hanging on to the frayed edge of her shorts, a bag of groceries under one arm. The youngest child, a boy, was crying. Judging by the dual streams of grime running down his face, he’d been at it a while. Francesca watched them turn into the rock-strewn drive of the rent-by-the-month apartment building next to where she was standing. The little girl turned back to look at her. Francesca feigned sudden attention to the massage parlor across the street. It was either that or the pawn shop on the opposite corner, and she’d already read their colorful though roughly painted windows more times than she could count.
Or she could cry.
And then, from out of nowhere, a young girl was inside the phone booth. Francesca had no idea where she’d come from. She’d had her head turned for less than a moment.
The girl was maybe seventeen, but probably younger. She dialed a number she appeared to know by heart. She was little, blond, though she had on an oversize T-shirt and shorts that were longer than most girls her age in this town were wearing. Francesca couldn’t see her shoes inside the phone booth. Nor could she see her face.
Every nerve in her body stiffened as she waited for the girl to finish. She moved forward slowly, as though waiting to make a call, taking deep breaths to calm the tension in her chest. She was a journalist, albeit usually one who hid behind a lens. Still, on more than one occasion, she’d collected some pretty hard-to-come-by information to complete a story.
Francesca was right there at the door of the phone booth just as the girl emerged.
“I’m sorry, were you waiting to make a call?” the girl asked. Her smile was sweet. The look in her eyes made her seem older than Francesca’s mother. And she was at least six months pregnant.
With no ring on her finger.
Choking back the animal wail that rose to her throat as she stared at the girl’s belly, Francesca detached herself. She was a professional—and nothing but. It was a trick that had become habit years ago.
For the first time since…well, for the first time in many weeks, Francesca almost wished she had a camera. This girl was a story that needed to be told.
Just a story. Not a person.
