Rock, the hard red earth beneath my feet. The brownness of the desert was speckled with bits of green, and I couldn’t wait until the flowers bloomed bright against their plain backdrop, spectacular for such a short time.
Being from New Jersey, I suppose I could say I missed the change of seasons, but we had it here, too, only in a different way. And I totally did not miss scraping ice and snow off my car. While I’m not that spiritual a person, despite Sister Mary Eucharista’s best efforts, when I first saw Red Rock, I felt as if I’d come home in a way. I knew I probably would never go back east.
Tim felt the same way. Our sister, Cathleen, had moved to Southern California years before. Only my parents clung to the East, now in Florida in their retirement community, having cocktail parties and suffering the occasional hurricane.
The light changed, and I turned right onto the Strip. During the day it wasn’t as glitzy, but the tall gold towers of Mandalay Bay, the Eiffel Tower at Paris, the dancing fountains at Bellagio, and the Roman columns at Caesars were proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.
I passed the Venetian, wishing now that I’d gone to work instead of indulging Jeff Coleman’s little adventure.The replica of the Doge’s Palace might be realistic if there weren’t valets out front and St. Mark’s Square wasn’t trapped inside its walls instead of being spread out in front.
Farther up, I went by Steve Wynn’s newest behemoth: Encore. The economy really wasn’t supporting these places, but Vegas is optimistic by nature; otherwise people wouldn’t keep coming here and tossing their money on the tables.
Me, I didn’t gamble. Well, I did once and won a nice bit of cash. But that was a fluke. No one really won in Vegas, despite their hopes. It would be healthier for everyone if they came here with no expectations; then if they won a little, they’d be happier, and if they lost, they could chalk it up to the fact that the house always wins. Almost always.
I was getting into a seedier part of town. The farther away from the Strip, the less glamour. Fremont Street, where Vegas started, sprouted up to my left, and I glanced over at the pedestrian mall and the Four Queens Casino.
Murder Ink was just north, tucked next door to Goodfellas Bail Bonds and across the street from the Bright Lights Motel. The “B” was out on the sign, and it was flashing RIGHT LIGHTS, its neon barely discernible in the blast of sunlight that hit it.
I parked in the motel parking lot—I’d done that before, and no one ever said anything—and crossed the street to Murder Ink.
The door was locked, and the sign said it was closed.
I cupped my eyes and peered through the glass.
Suddenly, a figure moved in front of me, and I jumped back.
The door swung open, and Jeff Coleman grinned. “You wouldn’t make a very good spy, Kavanaugh.”
I stepped inside the shop. “I don’t want to be a spy.”
Jeff closed the door behind me and locked it again. When I turned to face him, he was looking me up and down.
“What?” I asked.
“You couldn’t find something else to wear? I mean, it is your wedding day.” He was teasing me, but I wasn’t in the mood.
I was wearing a cotton skirt that touched my knees, a black T-shirt, and my usual Tevas. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked.
“Well, it’s more like you’re heading off to work at the local homeless shelter. You’d fit right in in that outfit.” The edges of his mouth twitched with amusement.
“I didn’t think I should show off too much of my tattoos,” I said.
“Oh, so it’s a disguise,” he said thoughtfully. “You don’t really wear that outfit in public normally, do you?”
I wore this outfit every week or so, but the way he was trying not to laugh meant I was so not going to tell him that.
“You could’ve worn a pair of jeans,” he added as he went toward the back of the shop and through a curtain of sixties beads into his
Being from New Jersey, I suppose I could say I missed the change of seasons, but we had it here, too, only in a different way. And I totally did not miss scraping ice and snow off my car. While I’m not that spiritual a person, despite Sister Mary Eucharista’s best efforts, when I first saw Red Rock, I felt as if I’d come home in a way. I knew I probably would never go back east.
Tim felt the same way. Our sister, Cathleen, had moved to Southern California years before. Only my parents clung to the East, now in Florida in their retirement community, having cocktail parties and suffering the occasional hurricane.
The light changed, and I turned right onto the Strip. During the day it wasn’t as glitzy, but the tall gold towers of Mandalay Bay, the Eiffel Tower at Paris, the dancing fountains at Bellagio, and the Roman columns at Caesars were proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.
I passed the Venetian, wishing now that I’d gone to work instead of indulging Jeff Coleman’s little adventure.The replica of the Doge’s Palace might be realistic if there weren’t valets out front and St. Mark’s Square wasn’t trapped inside its walls instead of being spread out in front.
Farther up, I went by Steve Wynn’s newest behemoth: Encore. The economy really wasn’t supporting these places, but Vegas is optimistic by nature; otherwise people wouldn’t keep coming here and tossing their money on the tables.
Me, I didn’t gamble. Well, I did once and won a nice bit of cash. But that was a fluke. No one really won in Vegas, despite their hopes. It would be healthier for everyone if they came here with no expectations; then if they won a little, they’d be happier, and if they lost, they could chalk it up to the fact that the house always wins. Almost always.
I was getting into a seedier part of town. The farther away from the Strip, the less glamour. Fremont Street, where Vegas started, sprouted up to my left, and I glanced over at the pedestrian mall and the Four Queens Casino.
Murder Ink was just north, tucked next door to Goodfellas Bail Bonds and across the street from the Bright Lights Motel. The “B” was out on the sign, and it was flashing RIGHT LIGHTS, its neon barely discernible in the blast of sunlight that hit it.
I parked in the motel parking lot—I’d done that before, and no one ever said anything—and crossed the street to Murder Ink.
The door was locked, and the sign said it was closed.
I cupped my eyes and peered through the glass.
Suddenly, a figure moved in front of me, and I jumped back.
The door swung open, and Jeff Coleman grinned. “You wouldn’t make a very good spy, Kavanaugh.”
I stepped inside the shop. “I don’t want to be a spy.”
Jeff closed the door behind me and locked it again. When I turned to face him, he was looking me up and down.
“What?” I asked.
“You couldn’t find something else to wear? I mean, it is your wedding day.” He was teasing me, but I wasn’t in the mood.
I was wearing a cotton skirt that touched my knees, a black T-shirt, and my usual Tevas. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked.
“Well, it’s more like you’re heading off to work at the local homeless shelter. You’d fit right in in that outfit.” The edges of his mouth twitched with amusement.
“I didn’t think I should show off too much of my tattoos,” I said.
“Oh, so it’s a disguise,” he said thoughtfully. “You don’t really wear that outfit in public normally, do you?”
I wore this outfit every week or so, but the way he was trying not to laugh meant I was so not going to tell him that.
“You could’ve worn a pair of jeans,” he added as he went toward the back of the shop and through a curtain of sixties beads into his
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