Read Online Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City by Wendelin Van Draanen - Free Book Online
Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen
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the right. You’ll run into it. Everywhere else is super expensive.”
Mrs. McKenze is holding the door, waiting. “Marissa, let’s go!”
“Coming!” Marissa calls over to her mom, then whispers, “Good luck!”
“You too!” I whisper back. “And thank you!” And really, I can’t believe how helpful and
nice
Marissa’s been. Especially considering her dad’s in
jail
.
And then they’re gone.
And it’s really quiet.
And for some reason I just sit there, alone in that big hotel room with green glowing lights outside and complete silence inside. And the longer I sit there, the smaller I feel.
The
stupider
I feel.
What was I thinking?
Then fear starts creeping in. It’s a panicky, spidery feeling that tells me I’m trapped.
Helpless
.
And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s feeling helpless.
So I grab the pen and pad by the phone, put the phone book in my lap, and start trying to track down my mother.
Now, during the first few calls I was nervous and kinda stuttery. For one thing, the fact that they even answered the phone surprised me. I was
glad
they did, but it was late and the idea that you could get married at this hour still seemed … bizarre.
So was having the phone answered by Elvis. I mean, it’s really hard to get out what you need to ask when the person on the other end is going, “Viva Las Vegas, baby!”and making stupid Elvis jokes like “Will you be hitchin’ up your hound dog t’night?”
But after about the tenth wedding chapel, I got the hang of it and just said the same thing, over and over: “Hi, I’m wondering if this is the chapel where Lana Keyes and Warren Acosta will be getting married—it’s either tomorrow or Sunday. I flew in last minute and forgot my invitation.”
And at every single one I got the same basic answer—sorry, not here.
After almost an hour of this I still had miles of numbers to call. And since it
had
been a lousy sandwich and I
was
hungry, and there was no way I was going to get through the whole list of chapels before Marissa’s mom got back anyway, I was just talking myself into going down to the food court when I got an idea.
It was a stupid idea, but at that point any idea seemed better than calling another chapel. So I went with the stupid idea.
I dialed 411 and answered the recorded voice with “Las Vegas … Peter Decker.”
A live person came on and said, “I have two. A ‘Peter L.’ and an ‘Elvis Enterprises.’ ”
My heart started pounding. “The Elvis one.”
“Here it is,” she said, and clicked over to a computerized voice.
I scribbled down the number, then hung up and just sat there holding my breath, wondering if it was crazy to call, especially since it was late and I had no idea what I wanted to ask or how he could help me.
But I felt at a total dead end, and the thought of calling the rest of the chapels seemed worse than making one senseless phone call to Elvis.
So I dialed.
And on the fourth ring I heard, “You’ve reached the King. Leave me your name and number and I’ll get back atcha as soon as I’m havin’ a little less conversation. Or if you want to do the Jailhouse Rock, my cell number is—”
I scribbled down the digits he rattled off and before I could talk myself out of it, I dialed his cell.
After the second ring a husky voice says, “You’ve reached the King.”
I go, “Pete?” but it sort of sticks in my throat, so I try again, louder. “Pete Decker? It’s Sammy.”
I can hear a bunch of noise in the background. Cars. People. Horns. Music.
And then the King says, “From Santa Martina?”
“Yes!” And all of a sudden I’m stupidly happy.
“Hey, little mama!” he says, and he sounds stupidly happy, too. “Are you in Vegas?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. “Are you callin’ for tickets? ’Cause I don’t have a show yet—I’m just workin’ the Strip.”
“Actually, no, I’m looking for somebody, and I’m wondering if maybe you have
Mrs. McKenze is holding the door, waiting. “Marissa, let’s go!”
“Coming!” Marissa calls over to her mom, then whispers, “Good luck!”
“You too!” I whisper back. “And thank you!” And really, I can’t believe how helpful and
nice
Marissa’s been. Especially considering her dad’s in
jail
.
And then they’re gone.
And it’s really quiet.
And for some reason I just sit there, alone in that big hotel room with green glowing lights outside and complete silence inside. And the longer I sit there, the smaller I feel.
The
stupider
I feel.
What was I thinking?
Then fear starts creeping in. It’s a panicky, spidery feeling that tells me I’m trapped.
Helpless
.
And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s feeling helpless.
So I grab the pen and pad by the phone, put the phone book in my lap, and start trying to track down my mother.
Now, during the first few calls I was nervous and kinda stuttery. For one thing, the fact that they even answered the phone surprised me. I was
glad
they did, but it was late and the idea that you could get married at this hour still seemed … bizarre.
So was having the phone answered by Elvis. I mean, it’s really hard to get out what you need to ask when the person on the other end is going, “Viva Las Vegas, baby!”and making stupid Elvis jokes like “Will you be hitchin’ up your hound dog t’night?”
But after about the tenth wedding chapel, I got the hang of it and just said the same thing, over and over: “Hi, I’m wondering if this is the chapel where Lana Keyes and Warren Acosta will be getting married—it’s either tomorrow or Sunday. I flew in last minute and forgot my invitation.”
And at every single one I got the same basic answer—sorry, not here.
After almost an hour of this I still had miles of numbers to call. And since it
had
been a lousy sandwich and I
was
hungry, and there was no way I was going to get through the whole list of chapels before Marissa’s mom got back anyway, I was just talking myself into going down to the food court when I got an idea.
It was a stupid idea, but at that point any idea seemed better than calling another chapel. So I went with the stupid idea.
I dialed 411 and answered the recorded voice with “Las Vegas … Peter Decker.”
A live person came on and said, “I have two. A ‘Peter L.’ and an ‘Elvis Enterprises.’ ”
My heart started pounding. “The Elvis one.”
“Here it is,” she said, and clicked over to a computerized voice.
I scribbled down the number, then hung up and just sat there holding my breath, wondering if it was crazy to call, especially since it was late and I had no idea what I wanted to ask or how he could help me.
But I felt at a total dead end, and the thought of calling the rest of the chapels seemed worse than making one senseless phone call to Elvis.
So I dialed.
And on the fourth ring I heard, “You’ve reached the King. Leave me your name and number and I’ll get back atcha as soon as I’m havin’ a little less conversation. Or if you want to do the Jailhouse Rock, my cell number is—”
I scribbled down the digits he rattled off and before I could talk myself out of it, I dialed his cell.
After the second ring a husky voice says, “You’ve reached the King.”
I go, “Pete?” but it sort of sticks in my throat, so I try again, louder. “Pete Decker? It’s Sammy.”
I can hear a bunch of noise in the background. Cars. People. Horns. Music.
And then the King says, “From Santa Martina?”
“Yes!” And all of a sudden I’m stupidly happy.
“Hey, little mama!” he says, and he sounds stupidly happy, too. “Are you in Vegas?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. “Are you callin’ for tickets? ’Cause I don’t have a show yet—I’m just workin’ the Strip.”
“Actually, no, I’m looking for somebody, and I’m wondering if maybe you have
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